#if you don’t know the context of this image im not telling you

[orphetoon]

watch cartoons online forever

og image and one without the play button:

[silkscream]

creation myth

ੈ✩ caleb (xia yizhou) x reader

ੈ✩ tags: based on caleb's myth and set a little after they escape the lab, lads spoilers? i guess?, afab gender neutral reader, unprotected sex, virginity loss, fingering, oral sex, handjobs, they are icky gooey romantic, religious imagery duh

ੈ✩ wc: 3.2k

ੈ✩ a/n: xia yizhou im sooooo drunk. xia yizhouuuuuuuuuu

divider by omi-resources

When Eve was born, she was close to Adam’s heart. Under the aorta, surrounded by pumping blood. Cut out of his rib – a part of him.

Similarly, you are a part of Caleb. Sometimes, it feels like you only exist within his context. 

Seeing him again had evoked the memory of soft grass and violet skies, the juices of summer fruit dripping down your chin. You say his name in your head and think of it. It feels like your first memory. The first thing beyond clinical white walls and the harsh rubble of a battlefield. 

When Caleb saves you and teaches you what it means to lie with another human being, you drown yourself in all of it. All the affection, all the dopamine. You feel the sun on your skin and it feels like being kissed a thousand times over.

Caleb teaches you about affection very slowly. There’s hand-holding, his thumb caressing your palm. Forehead kisses.

For people who share a close bond, a kiss on any part of their body can be seen as a sign of affection.

It takes him almost two months to kiss you on the mouth. It’s not like he hadn’t thought about it. He dreamt of your mouth often, but that was something he kept to himself. It’d be humiliating to tell you how much he thought about the image of you biting into a ripe fruit. The pink pout of your mouth. How much that vision would haunt him even before the two of you had escaped the lab. 

You’re so eager about kissing him that it genuinely disorients him. Your small hands always grip some part of him – his shirt, his hair. Your kisses over the past few months have gotten longer. 

Your touch is the only thing that reminds him he’s not a cold, mechanical weapon. Blood flows through his veins, hard. It feels so good with you. Too good.

He can’t help the rush of blood that floods downward when he thinks about you. Can’t help the feeling when you linger a little too long near his neck. He’s had to scold you for biting the skin next to his jugular, your hands pawing too eagerly at his body like an overexcited puppy.

Caleb likes to calm you down with other indulgences. Swimming is one of them, but you insist on being naked. Cutting pieces of fruit has been good, as long as he doesn’t watch the way your mouth moves as you eat it.

You learn easily. You’re too observant in a way that infuriates him. It’s been months and you’ve memorized all the reactions he has to your touch. You know that the two of you share a close bond because of what he lets you get away with. Kisses on the mouth have gotten to be so much that he has to hold himself back. You notice this. So you play with him. 

You’ve been camping out at your current cabin for over a month. It’s the longest you and Caleb have stayed somewhere. Both of you have come to the unspoken conclusion that you might stay there long term, considering it was an open cabin and there hadn’t been any threats to you both since you first found it.

It’s summer again. Not like it was when you had first remembered it. You and Caleb have traveled far since your escape, far enough that the climate has changed to something more barren. Dryer. Gone are the nights with fireflies and long grass. The two of you are lucky that the cabin you found is near a river. Despite this, the environment isn’t the same. 

It’s fucking hot. Which is why you wear less clothing, opting for nakedness around the house if there’s not much to do. Caleb doesn’t protest, even though he knows damn well that the sight of you has his blood pumping harder towards his dick. The look in your eyes is too innocent. You don’t know any better, he presumes, and he can live with that. Anything to make you feel comfortable in the first year of your life outside of the labs.

It’s an afternoon in July and you’ve gone for a swim. Caleb hates to leave you alone but decides to do it that morning after you stubbornly refuse to wake up early. 

Going into town for some supplies. Be good.

And you are. You prepare some food for later and go for a swim in the river. You’re draped in linens by the time he comes back. 

When he sits up on the bed you share, you settle in his lap without asking. He stiffens, but his hands still automatically go to your waist, circling your sides softly. 

You lean in to give him a wet kiss, more passionate and practiced than before. You’ve gotten better – you were much shyer, more naive a few months ago. Now, you’re more deliberate with your affection. Kisses on the mouth for reassurance. Teeth on his neck when you want something. 

When you nip him, he huffs. 

“What is it? Are you still angry that I didn't take you with me?” He raises a brow.

You shrug, mumble something unintelligible. 

“Can’t I just kiss you? I’m showing affection. Because I like you.”

“I know you like me,” he chuckles, “you don’t have to keep doing it.”

You frown slightly. “But it feels like —”

He raises a brow. “Feels like what?”

“Like you’re not… getting it,” you mutter petulantly. “Like something’s missing.”

It’s Caleb’s turn to frown this time. He caresses your cheek softly with callused fingertips. 

“What do you mean? I kiss you back. Love kissing you back.”

But I want more, you want to scream. You don’t know what more is, though. There are times you get too caught up together, when his tongue prods between the seam of your lips. You always remember the faint flame that seems to ignite whenever things go a little too far. It’s tantalizing warmth, wetness in between your legs.

Your yearning turns to desperation. Your eyes are big and wide as you plead with him silently, unable to form words. 

“Caleb…”

“Yeah, honey?”

“Call me something else.”

“Like what? Your name?”

“No. Like in the pictures we watch.”

The movies. Caleb smiles softly. He supposes he spoils you too much by taking you to see them once a week, but he can’t help it. Each time, he loves to see your face from the side, the way your eyes glow in awe at the lives of humans on screen. They’re ancient fairy tales to the both of you. Despite his cynicism, he can’t take that away from you.

“What? Like baby?”

“Y-Yeah,” you mumble.

“You want me to call you that?”

“It sounds nice,” you huff. “But if it’s weird, you don’t have to –”

“Okay,” he sighs. “Okay, baby.”

He rubs his thumb over your jaw and you preen to his touch immediately, like an eager cat. 

“Kiss,” you mumble.

You’ve been saying this a lot lately. Less as a question, more of a demand. Caleb can never deny you.

He slots his mouth with yours and you respond in kind. It’s soft, like the waves kissing the tide, until it’s not. He feels your tongue tease his mouth with an unexpected aggression and he jolts in surprise. 

Where the hell did you learn that?

“Baby–” he mumbles, but he cuts himself off with a strangled noise. Your tongue is in his mouth again. Naively, bravely. Full of intent.

He can’t help but groan. He can feel blood rushing to his cock already.

He should stop you. He really should. But he doesn’t. It’s not like he’s felt this kind of affection with anyone else, either. He’d been less sheltered than you, for sure, but he doesn’t have the experience to withdraw. He’s too selfish. He’s been waiting for you for so fucking long.

So, he mirrors your intensity. Pulls lightly at your clothes out of eagerness. You tug your sleeves off until your robe drapes halfway down your back. His eyes widen as he pulls back to see the curve of your breasts.

Desire consumes the both of you. While he’s frozen, you attempt to take matters in your own hands by grinding against his clothed cock.

“H-Hey –”

“That feels good, right?” you breathe. “F-Feels good for me…”

“Baby,” he pants, “we should probably – hah – stop…”

“Why?” you pout. Your mouth glistens with sweat. Or is it spit? “Want to feel good. Want you to feel… good…”

Caleb groans. He can’t push you away, not when you’re in his lap like this. He attempts to satiate you by kissing the corner of your mouth. You whine when he pulls away. 

“Where are you going?”

“Nowhere, I just —”

“Don’t wanna kiss me anymore?” You look up at him with wide, wet eyes. Seeing the curve of your mouth makes his skin burn hot. 

“Of.. of course I do. But–”

“You said kissing is a sign of affection,” you mumble. “Anywhere, if \we’re close. And we’re super close, I think, soooo…”

His breath hitches when your hand grazes his clothed cock. Your eyes lower as you bite your bottom lip. Almost instinctively, you palm him with a little more pressure. Enough to make him gasp.

He whispers your name shakily and you take it as encouragement. You free his cock from his shorts and lick the tip, kissing it down to his shaft gently as you revel in the way he shudders.

“Fuck,” he gasps, “you gotta stop–”

You whimper. Your breath on his bare cock makes him shiver. You want to kiss him all over. 

The way he responds makes heat rise in your body. It’s unfamiliar but it feels good. You want more of it. When you sit up to look at him, he captures your mouth in a feverish kiss. You can’t help but fall forward, bracing yourself with your hands on his shoulders while your core is slotted right above his aching cock. 

You rub against him and he moans. It’s like nothing you’ve ever heard from him before.

“That feel good?” you whisper.

“Y-Yeah– oh, shit,” he gasps. 

You mewl, grinding against him as you kiss him once more. Every touch point with Caleb feels electric. He bites down on your bottom lip and you make a small noise of surprise. He finally pulls away to look down at you, pupils swollen at his eyes settle on your chest.

His mouth descends to lick around your nipples, making you gasp and moan like he’s never heard before. The air around you feels so hot that you could melt into a puddle. 

“Nnn – Caleb,” you whine. “More…”

“Mm, more what, honey?”

“Dunno,” you huff, your eyes wet. “More… it hurts…”

You’re referring to the throbbing in between your legs. He knows this. When his fingers brush over your swollen clit, you hiss.

“Hah–”

“Yeah,” he sighs, “Feels nice, hm? Right here?” 

He continues his ministrations on your bud. Watches you moan until you let out a choked gasp from his fingers prodding the inside of your pussy. You’re flooded by fullness, all around you. 

“Oh, Caleb,” you gasp, “that’s –”

“Too much?”

“Nnn – feels good –”

You blush at the sound of squelching from below you. You’re so wet – wetter than when you’ve ever prodded yourself late at night out of curiosity while he sleeps beside you. 

“Hey,” his voice snaps you out of your fever dream desires, “Lay back for me, sweetheart.”

You obey, whining when he pulls his fingers out of you. He pries your legs apart and nips at your supple thighs. When he lowers his head to lick at your slit, your kitten-soft mewl has his cock throbbing against the mattress.

He fills you with his digits again, groaning as your walls welcome him easily. You’re silky and wet inside, smooth like a river bed. The way he eats your pussy is fucking obscene. You grasp the locks of his dark hair to stay grounded to Earth.

“Caleb,” you whimper, pulling his hair. His violet eyes flicker with something darker, something you’ve only seen when he’s competitive. His expression as he sucks on your clit is something else entirely, a version of him slowly unfurling with precedent desire. Something new blooms in your core. Pink-slippered, kissed by the paradise of his mouth.

The sensation in combination with his fingers pumping inside of you is so much that you don’t even register the build up. Your orgasm hits you like an exploding star. It feels as destructive as it is beautiful. You feel rebirthed, almost.

Your hips are still stuttering as he slides up to caress your jaw and kiss you all over your face. Without thinking, your hand extends to brush over the bulge in his slacks, making him groan in surprise.

“What are you doing?” he husks.

“Does it feel good? Your face is warm like mine…”

“Y-Yeah..” His breathing picks up rapidly as he watches you shyly unzip him. His cock is heavy in your hands. You thumb over his leaking tip and your breath hitches when he involuntarily bucks into your hand.

You’re mesmerized by his reactions. You’ve never seen him want so much in the time you’ve been with him. Your stomach churns knowing that all of it is directed at you. 

His hand helps your smaller one pump his shaft. When he feels you grind against his thigh, he moans.

“Please,” you whine pathetically. You could cry from how much you ache for him, your cunt fluttering around nothing. “Need –”

“Need me to fuck you?” he mumbles. He thinks of covering your eyes when you watch movies together. How he taught you how to kiss properly.

Caleb has thought about this exact moment ever since. He’s afraid to take from you when everything else has been taken from you, too. But your eyes are wet and wide, begging for him. As touch-starved as both of you were since childhood, perhaps you both deserve this.

He rolls you over and undresses himself entirely, slotting in between your legs. He bites back a groan when his cock presses against your wet heat. Ever since he took you with him, he’s wanted to be good and selfless. Didn’t want to ruin you just because he wanted you for himself.

This is the first time he decides to be selfish.

He eyes you warily as if to ask permission. You nod, legs tightening around his waist.

When he pushes into you, his mind goes blank. He’s never felt anything so warm in his life. It feels like sinking into the unknown – bliss flooding his insides once he bottoms out. 

“Shit,” he mutters.

“I’m –” you gasp, overwhelmed, “Do I feel good?”

He chuckles. Kisses both your cheeks, then your forehead. “Yeah. Amazing. You’re so tight.”

His voice makes you blush even more. Your core stings with an unfamiliar sensation but it’s a pain you don’t entirely mind. Like pressing down a bruise. He cradles you in his arms as he moves slowly and the pain turns to pleasure.

Caleb can’t help but fuck you in earnest. There are tears in your eyes but your moans are turning him on even more. Fuck, he really can’t help it. You’re all he’s ever wanted.

He gets rougher as he kisses you, tongue heavy in your mouth. Biting at your lower lip hungrily. His forbidden fruit. Your body welcomes him like a flower opening up to the sun.

“Caleb,” you moan. The first name you’ve ever known, even before your own. “Caleb –”

He mumbles into your shoulder in between thrusts. Pants your name and I love you in different breaths like a mantra.

Your back arches as he reaches somewhere deep inside you that you’ve never touched yourself. Your thighs are shaking and it almost alarms him until he lifts his head from the crook of your neck.

He wishes he could take a picture of your face right now.

“Keep doing that, mmnn –” you breathe. “Feels good… I…”

“You like it?” he rasps.

“Yes, yes –”

“Tell me, baby.”

“Love it,” you moan, “Love you. Love you so much –”

God, he could cum right now. His cock twitches as you clench around him.

“You’re perfect, shit. It’s you and me. Always, okay?”

“You and me –”

You cum so hard that the world around saturates with vibrance. Your eyes are screwed shut, phosphenes like shooting stars in your lids. Flung into space with his wings enveloping you with love.

“Oh, God, you look –” he pants, his eyes blown wide. “I love you, fuck!”

You feel his warmth flood your insides like syrup. You sigh into each other’s mouths. Unspoken love letters.

Caleb collapses beside you, chest heaving, one arm draped protectively across your middle. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin as your breathing gradually slows. The afternoon light filters through threadbare curtains, casting golden stripes across your intertwined bodies.

"You okay?" he whispers, pressing his lips to your temple.

You nod, unable to form words yet. Everything feels different now—your body, the air between you, the very cabin itself. The universe has shifted on its axis.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" His voice carries a hint of worry.

You turn to face him, your nose brushing against his. "No. It was... perfect." The word feels inadequate for what just happened, but language fails you.

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, violet eyes searching yours. "You're perfect," he murmurs. His thumb traces the curve of your bottom lip, and you can't help but catch it gently between your teeth.

"Careful," he warns playfully, but his eyes darken again.

“We should do it again.”

He laughs, the sound warm against your skin.  “Already? You’re insatiable.”

“Maybe.”

"Give me a minute to recover, honey."

You hum contentedly, stretching like a cat in sunlight. Every nerve ending in your body feels alive, sensitized. The places where his hands touched you still tingle with phantom sensation.

"I didn't know it could be like that," you whisper, tracing the line of his collarbone with your finger. "All this time, I felt something was missing. I mean, it was you. Obviously. But this feels like… more."

Caleb's fingers trace the notches of your spine, counting each vertebra like precious stones. You shiver under his touch, still sensitive from before.

"I used to dream about your skin," he confesses, voice barely above a whisper. "Back in the lab. What it’d be like to touch you. How it felt to touch you the one time I held your hand in the field when we escaped the first time.”

“And now you have me.”

“Mhm.”

“Took you so long to kiss me though. I’m sure Caleb from a year ago would have a heart attack if he saw us now.”

Caleb's expression softens, vulnerability painting his features in a way you've rarely seen. "I wanted to give you time. Let you discover the world first."

"You are my world," you say simply. It’s so easy for you to say that it pains him. It sounds naive. He’d warn you of it if he didn’t feel the exact same.

“So are you. This is our little galaxy.” 

“Our little galaxy," you repeat, rolling the words over your tongue like a prayer.

You nestle against him, fitting perfectly in the curve of his body. The cabin creaks around you, a protective shell against the barren landscape outside. In here, you've created something lush and verdant—an Eden of your own making.

[carmenized-onions]

Zero Pulse. | Oven Hotfix

logline; It's Friday.

[!!!] series history, this is the tenth; You're gonna need to check to make sure you're caught up babe because there's a LOT of context behind this one.

Spotify Playlist, if you like to listen while you read. I listen to it when I write :) Constantly gettin’ added to. Wish you could sort by emotions, on playlists, but this is really a very good playlist i think.

portion; 12.5k Jesus Christ, new record.

possible allergies; Incredibly excessive hateful self-image, very frivolous way of talking about mental illness/death/Mikey, I'd say just like ? stress? BLOOD ALSO !! minor cut dw

pairing; Carmen ‘Carmy’ Berzatto & Fem Reader (gets she/her'd into oblivion this round, mb)

said it before i'll say it again, this is the new best and longest chapter i've written-- of all time now. and im being so fr if i don't get actually like harassed in my inbox with the amount of people chattering about this i will WALK INTO THE PIER BITCH

It’s Friday morning, and today is the first day in possibly years that Carmen has actually snoozed his alarm. Opting to sleep in for an extra hour, despite how uncomfortable his whole body is where it lays. He’s trying to avoid waking up today— Because he knows, he can tell: Today is just not going to be his day, today. Woke up on the wrong side of the bed, today— Not even—

He fell asleep on his couch, last night. His TV is still on and when he turns it off, it sizzles from being on the stupid Cooking Channel for so long. He’s covered in crumbs, hands coated in chip dust— Chin and neck sticky with spilled Diet Coke. Just don’t wake up and you won’t have to clean it. The day can’t get him, if it never starts.

But then his alarm rings again, for maybe the hundredth time, and there’s no real reason as to why this time is different from the other times, but he suddenly remembers why he fell asleep on his couch, last night. Why he had such a difficult time crawling just fifteen feet further when he got home last night. His face grows hot and red with shame and embarrassment, like a child.

A plate was sent back. A plate he made, was sent back.

Most would find it too dramatic, but he really did almost throw up. Syd gave him an antacid— From a pocket pack that you gave her. Did it help all that much? No. But at least he kept everything down. He just heaved a lot, in the walk-in. Probably good that he didn’t eat much of anything, yesterday.

He’d been thinking far too much. Spent way too long thinking about what to make for you, tonight— Which is fine, you’re inspiring— But he should’ve been keeping those thoughts to pen and paper. But he was making the stupid fucking roux for the stupid fucking order and his autopilot system got all mixed up and suddenly he was making a fantastic Montmorency, but an awful roux. Fucking brain dead, Berzatto. Talentless. Can you not handle this?

How is it possible, to fuck up that bad? You’re terrible at this. His instinct— Everyone’s instinct was to tell the patron to get off their fucking high horse. There’s always that one guest, that thinks they own the goddamn place. But then the dish came back to the kitchen, and everyone just stared. Silent. He was mortified. Is it too much for you? Practically unrecognizable, from what was ordered. It was entirely his fault. Dumb fuck. So fucking slow.

What happened to him? Seriously, what the fuck happened, to him? How could he possibly forget what’s important here? What’s at stake? He can’t look himself in the eyes when he brushes his teeth. Why are you so fucking slow? You are bullshit.

Regrettably, you happened to him; in a good and bad way.

He sighs, washing your conditioner out of his hair in the shower. Scrunching it, as you’d directed. He listens, he does. He takes direction well. Go faster, motherfucker. And he likes you, Carmen does. You are not tough. And he doesn’t fault you for being a good person, no, he faults himself.

He’s not meant to be a good person, he’s meant to be a good chef.

He’s not meant to be a good work partner, with Syd— That doesn’t get results. Everyone thinks they’re happier when he’s happier, sure, but they’re in the red. They’re not gonna be so fucking happy when their cheques start bouncing. It doesn’t matter how good a person he is— What matters is what he’s actually capable of providing— And it’s not amusement or enjoyment— It’s fucking talent. But he sought out your affections, your approval, in a key moment, in every moment— In place of who he should’ve— A Michelin Inspector.

He's let himself forget, what it meant, what it takes, to get a star.

And that made him fuck up a dish— A simple fucking dish. Again, not your fault, his. But God, he wants both. Carmen needs both. He can have both. You should be dead. He just needs to lock it in, keep it tight, push it down, comb it back, you should be dead—

He needs to spray his hair with rosemary, it’s looking thin. The basil on his balcony is coming in nicely, though.

It’s just hit four o’clock when you’re mostly finished getting ready— Well, you are ready, but, y’know, final checks and all that. You smooth out your palazzo pants. Gotta look presentable. Or at the very least, normal.

The Bear is high-class, you’re not going there as a repairman, tonight, for once. Plus, Richie wears suits twenty-four fucking seven now— So you need to dress accordingly, or he and every other guest there are going to look at you like you’re some broke freak. Which, like, not inaccurate, but still hurtful. You’ve broken out the good but not too good jewelry. Money talks, wealth whispers, or some shit. Black turtleneck, blue pants— To match the stupid fucking Executive Chef’s eyes, or whatever, shut up! The pants are not actually that bright, but you think they’d still pair well with Carmen. And even if they didn’t, they match The Bear’s aesthetic, and you like to remain on theme, even when there isn’t really at all a required theme.

Not like you’re going to be seeing much of Carmen tonight, anyway. As much as you’d like to see him, he didn’t send you his Connections, this morning, not even after you sent yours, and you’re taking that as a sign that today is probably rough. And not in the way that can be helped by talking to a person, either, in fact, probably the exact opposite.

You debate whether or not to wear Carmen’s jean jacket. This is a thin turtleneck, and it’d go really well with the whole outfit, and like, Sydney already caught on— It’s only a matter of time before the whole kitchen clocks it.

Yeah, fuck it, hard launch this situationship. You toss it over your shoulders. Okay, okay, one last last final fit check. Hm. Yeah, you’ve definitely gotta put the necklace away. You kiss the plastic pendant for good luck, before tucking it under your shirt. Not ready for that story, just yet. You will be, eventually. But you certainly don’t want Carmen to notice and ask about it. Soon, though. You will, soon.

You grab your purse, your keys, your finished art piece— Wrapped, neatly, in brown paper, with a little card taped to it. Okay, that’s everything. One last last last final review. Makeup? Great. Hair? Perfect. Outfit? Stunning— Fuck, what shoes are you going to wear? Fuck fuck fuck—

Alright, you know it’s not the shoes you’re worried about. Just get out the door, Chip. It’s gonna be fine, Chip. Dinner’s gonna be good, and normal, actually, because two people having their first real one-on-one conversation after their mutual best friend killed himself just under a year ago is historically always super calm and chill and normal, actually. That’s how that works. It’s not gonna be tense, at all.

This is immediately so tense. “Hey. Good to— Good to see you.”

You go in for the hug, so does Richie, only then do you both realize how full your hands are. And then it becomes a weird side hug from you combined with a full hug from him. It’s terrible, this is terrible, this is so tense. Maybe you can still run and have it not be weird, somehow.

“You— Too.” Richie clears his throat, “Cousin.”

It’s not like this is the first time you’ve seen each other since, no, you’ve seen each other thrice now, but it was different all those times. You were helping Carmen escape a freezer, or having an episode over a broken toilet, or delivering a baby— It wasn’t awkward all those times because it couldn’t be. You didn’t have time to be awkward, they were always emergencies.

“So uh, Fak’s gonna be our, our server?”

“Yessir.”

“He any good?”

“No-sir.”

But this meet up is intentional, booked. It’s got a point to it, and both of you know what it is. You’re just anxiously waiting for the other person to be brave enough to bring it up. Thankfully, neither of you have to, just yet, as Fak sidles up to the host stand.

He’s pushing so many buttons on the P.O.S. before even speaking to either of you that you’re starting to believe he doesn’t know what the fuck the buttons he’s pushing are doing. Based on the way Richie starts to lean over the stand to see what he’s doing, you’re pretty sure you’re right.

“I— I got it, man.” Fak puts a hand up, defensive. Richie backs up, then gestures for Fak to get the fuckin’ show on the road. He does.

“Table for, for uh, how many are you?”

“Oh wow.” It comes out of you instantly, in a true state of shock, at how bad this is already going. You cover your mouth, uh oh, inside thought became outside thought. “Sorry!”

Richie loses it, next to you. You slap his shoulder with your free arm, but you’re laughing too. “Don’t be mean!”

“You’re the one bein’ mean, Chip!”

“I didn’t— He’s trying.” You turn your head back to Fak. “I— Table for two, darling. M’sorry.”

Fak is quick to fold and forgive you, you’ve just called him darling— If a siren ever called to him, he would be dead. “Right, right this way— My name is Neil, I’ll be your server, tonight.”

You follow him to a table that lets you see pretty well into the kitchen. It’s a decent trade-off for not getting a cozy little booth. You look into the window, everyone’s far too focused to know you’re here, right now, but that’s okay— It’s not rushed right now, though, so that is a little… weird.

Richie pulls out your chair, fake Italian chivalry, and what not. When you’re half way through sitting down, a few things are realized instantly, and all three of you speak simultaneously.

“Oh, I should drop this off in the back, first.” Your art piece, you mean.

“Is that Carmy’s?” Your jacket, Fak means.

“You’re fucking Carmen?” What the fuck else could Richie possibly mean.

“I—” You pause, pointing to Fak, first. “Yes, it is.” Then pivot to Richie, “No, I’m not. It’s more like a reservation—”

“Don’t talk about your sex life like it’s a restaurant.” He waves his hand in the air, immediately regretting asking. Listen, it was just the first metaphor on the brain.

“You fuckin’ asked! And we haven’t done shit yet— Not even a fuckin’ date, a’right? Technically not even dating.” It takes maybe, two seconds, in the presence of Richie, for you to go full Chicago accent. It’s unhinged. You have to stand up. “I’m gonna drop this off, in the back.” You lift up the wrapped piece. “I’ll be back, don’t be weird.”

As you walk off, you do your best to pretend you don’t hear Fak mumbling, “Bet it’s one of those sex paintings.”

But it’s very hard to do so when Richie all but booms out a resounding and genuinely baffled, “...What?”

As much as you’d like to continue to hear that insane conversation, you swing through the door, and it’s thankfully a pretty soundproof divider, considering all the yelling you know happens in here.

“Chefs, table twenty-four, two people.” “Yes, Chef.”

Or… Maybe… It’s instead, weirdly subdued? In a tense way, not a calm way. Like when a knife falls off a table, and you’re not sure if it’s going to stab you in the foot and there’s no time to pull back.

“Twenty-one, four people.” “Yes, Chef.”

That kind of quiet. The calm before the storm, maybe. The fall before the blood, you think may be more accurate. God, Syd looks exhausted and it’s only half past four. The rush hasn’t even started yet. Why are they pushing so hard, right now?

Carmen’s on expo. Which, based on the night terrors he told you about, seems like a recipe for fucking disaster. Again, he’s not yelling. His voice is monotone, it sounds dead, frankly, and you’re wondering if you would prefer him screaming, actually.

There’s a mantra, amongst first responders, that it’s better to hear screaming than silence, because then you know they have a pulse, they’re drawing breath, they’re able to feel. You can’t honestly tell, with Carmen.

Syd hands off a plate to expo, to Carmen. He calmly, quickly— And like, really quickly, barely more than a two second glance is given, to the dish, before he says, “Refire, Chef.”

Oh, Jesus Christ. Not your business, not your restaurant, don’t overstep. But God, it hurts to watch the order hit Syd in the face, like a splash of cold water. She repeats, in disbelief. “Refire?” The dish looks fine to her— And it sure as fuck looks fine to you.

“Yes, Chef.”

“Why, exactly? Chef?”

Carmen does not look up from his system, he does not watch what is practically heartbreak, mortification, tempered anger, play out on Syd’s face. “Not perfect. Fire twenty, twenty-five— Two waiting on twenty, Chefs.”

“Heard!”

“Not perfect?”

He looks up, finally, at her. You can only see the back of his head, so you can’t tell the look. “Sauce is broken.” It’s definitely not. Well, at least to your untrained eye, it’s not. “We don’t serve what’s not perfect. Do we, Chef?” He slides the plate aside, deading it.

“Do you want your star, or not?” You don’t think he means to be antagonistic, or at least hope he doesn’t, but it really comes off that way. He rubs his chest, but his tone lack empathy.

Syd closes her eyes, taking a breath. She has so many words, for this man, but she holds her tongue. She does not rub her chest in return, she just restarts the dish. “Yes, Chef.”

“Thank you, Chef.”

There’s a lull in orders, for the moment, so you very gently place your hand on Carmen’s back, to make him aware of your presence. As gentle as you try to be, he still flinches. Anyone over his shoulder would make him flinch right now, but it’s you. “Oh—!”

Now, do you let out a small yelp, inadvertently, when he turns to look at you, and you see him as he is right now? Yeah, yeah you do.

“—Good to— Did you just scream, at the sight of me?”

Syd puts a hand over her mouth, heavy exhale of laughter still escaping through her nose. Schadenfreude.

Your mouth hangs open, for a second, squinting, goddammit, inside thought got outside, “…No?”

“What— What, I look bad?” He’s immediately looking over himself, trying to find the culprit. And though the emotion he’s feeling right now is insecurity, you feel relief that at the very least, the glow of anything is shining through him, right now.

Doesn’t make you a fan of the slicked-back hair look, though. That’s what made you yell— Like when a dog or a baby doesn’t recognize their parent. Like when Mikey shaved for the first time after you met him, and you considered him completely unrecognizable. You practically ignored him until some stubble came in. What did he expect?

You also just don’t like it. Clean-Shaved Mikey nor Hair-Gel Carmen. The pomade is overpowering your shampoo, and now he doesn’t smell like you. Doesn’t smell like him. His curls are all gone— Man, his pattern was just starting to revive, too. He looks just too clean, too cookie-cutter, too… Someone else. He just doesn’t look like— “No, Bear, you look good— I just— You look— Don’t look like the Carmy I’m used to, is all.”

Who are you to tell him what he looks like? You don’t know why, but the energy today is just making you feel like… You’re intruding, you’re stepping in on a space that has nothing to do with you, but that couldn’t be further from the truth, right?

He nods, compartmentalizing, only acknowledging that you’ve said he looks good. “You look nice.”

“I clean up.” You shrug, it gets a nearly imperceptible smile out of him. Hm. Where’d your Carmen go? He’s really making you work for it, tonight. You gesture to your painting, holding it by your knees. “Not here to disrupt, M’just gonna put this in your office, for later.”

“Painting?”

“Incredible guess.” Again, that smile and that exhale of laughter, thin. “Yes, it’s the piece— Wait ‘til close, to open it, please.”

He nods, when you start to walk off, he grabs your arm. “Ah, uh—” He lets go. “Can I, uh— I planned— I planned an off-menu main, for you, is that, that okay—”

“It would always be okay, yeah.” You nod, reassuring. It would be more than okay, if Carmen decided and designed every meal you ever had for the rest of your life, you think. “Trust you— With, with my taste buds.”

You’re not sure if it’s the right move, but you awkwardly step forward and kiss Carmen’s temple anyways— In his hairline. He seems to care a lot about appearances, right now, so you don’t want to get lip gloss on his forehead. Despite your quickness, there is still a very childish ‘ooooh’ reverberating throughout the kitchen. But he’s ignoring it, so you ignore it too. Carmen, more than anything, would like to reciprocate, but he’s running a kitchen, and he cannot let himself nor the crew get distracted. He nods, smile small, and turns back to his station.

“Waiting on twenty, Chefs.”

You don’t take it personally; the guy is busy, what can you do? You drop the painting off in his office, leaning it against the table for Carmen’s perusal after close— It’s not the kind of piece he should look at during his break— Who are you kidding, you saw him, he’s not taking a break tonight. God, he might hate this piece. What if he hates this piece? It’s a risk you have to take, it’s art. Hopefully the card will help smooth any questions over. You’re clearer over text, you think.

On your way out of the kitchen, you nod to Marcus and Tina. A sign of ‘Hey, I’m here, I know we can’t talk, but I’m here.’ They nod back. When you pass Sydney, you take a moment to squeeze her shoulder. That star thing was rough, but you don’t know enough about cooking to intervene— It’s not your place. Still feel for your girl, though. Awe, you’ve only just noticed, she’s wearing your collar pins. She puts her free hand over yours, squeezing it in return, just for a second. She doesn’t turn to face you, but the silent encouragement and sympathy is exchanged. She gets back to work, and you get back out to the front.

If there was time for it, you’d be her designated coach and cheerleader, find a motivational bookshelf to carry somewhere again and give a speech, but there’s not. So, this will have to do, for now.

Fak is absolutely bombing every step of this introduction, when you sit back down. The second-hand embarrassment is truly eating you alive, as he stumbles through today’s specials, which, you’re pretty sure is not the order these things happen in—

“Hey, uh, Neil, wasssit?” Richie scratches his nose, attempting to play the part of blind customer. “How ‘bout drinks first, bud?” He’s trying to keep a sympathetic attitude, which is making all of his pointers come off as extremely passive aggressive.

“Yeah, for sure, right, yeah— What’uh— What can— Drinks? Hey, hey you want? Drink?”

You cup a hand over your mouth, to block your mortified expression. “Yeah, yeah, Neil, I’ll just have a water.”

“Water!” Fak yells back, way too fucking emphatically, “I— I love water, that’s so crazy.”

“Jesus Christ.” Richie holds his face in his hands, elbows on the table. “I’ll get a fuckin’…” He lifts a hand to wave in the air, willy-nilly, still not looking up. “Chippy, name a wine.”

“Red?” Richie usually doesn’t have wine. It’s the rich man’s beer. But when he does, it’s red.

“Mhm.”

He’s probably gonna get steak, just go with a safe bet, “Cab Sav, for the gentleman, please.”

Fak writes it down, but seems bewildered and confused, staring at it. “You want a taxi?”

“Oh my god.” You and Richie are in unison. Two very different tones, though. You sound baffled, he sounds like he’s two seconds from lunging.

Which, isn’t an entirely unfair reaction, Fak has been training for this moment for a month. Rich thought he’d at least be ready to start with you. You’re the least intimidating person he knows, you wouldn’t hurt a fly. Maybe that’s what makes it so difficult? That you’re too nice? Even still, Fak should at least know this, not choke as hard as he is, right now. It’s embarrassing for Richie, when his staff are flailing this bad, especially in front of the people he loves and admires.

Rich wrings his hands together, looking back up to you. “I fucking taught him this, just so y’know.”

You nod, looking to Fak. You’ve just gotta get him out of here, honestly. “Cabernet Sauvignon, baby— Just a glass, not a bottle. We’ll look over our menus, in the meantime, maybe?”

The sleeper agent line has been spoken, and the server autopilot in Fak’s brain finally turns on. “Right. I’ll just give you lovely two a second to look over your menus, alright, haha, be safe— Be back with your drinks, folks.”

The delivery may need a little work. Though you think his edits should probably start with the way he walks backwards, eye-contact unyielding, and almost trips as he pushes backwards into the kitchen door. That might be considered bad, to some.

“Trainwreck.” Richie presses his palms into his eyes. “M’fuckin’ sorry, Chippy, Jesus Christ.”

You shrug, leaning back in your seat. “I don’t see a problem, it’s dinner and a show, baby.”

Richie laughs, at that, after a few seconds of silence, he adds. “He’s not gonna fuckin’ last.”

“Probably not.” You shrug. “But it was worth a shot. N’ he’ll do in a pinch, if you’re ever short-staffed.”

“We are always short-staffed.” Richie grumbles. “Do fuckin’ servers ever actually stage? Need the free labour.”

“What the fuck is stage?”

“I honestly still don’t know.” You both laugh. “I fuckin’ did it and I still don’t know.”

“What have you been up to, besides uh, staging?” You finally open Pandora’s box.

Well, it’ll stay small talk for a little bit, to be fair, gotta warm up to the real stuff—

“Tif’s getting remarried.”

“—Oh, holy shit.”

He nods, looking aimlessly nowhere, certainly not your eyes. “Engaged, at least— Haven’t gotten a fuckin’ invite, or anythin’.”

“You think she’ll invite you?”

“She asked.” He closes his eyes, for a second. This has been hanging over his head, all day. “Called, this uh, this morning, cause of Cousin Vinnie n’ Mira—”

“She comin’ to that?” You’ve never actually met Tif. They were on the rocks when you’d come to The Beef, so it was mostly just waves through car windows, if anything. It might be better if it stays that way, you think.

He shakes his head, “Someone’s gotta take care of Eva, n’ she’s got work. But the invite made her think of my invite, and uh, if I’d want one, come when it may.”

These are the moments you wish you had a glass of water, so you could sip and do something with your mouth and hands, as you think of what to say. He continues, because he knows you’re going to ask, “Said I’d think about it.”

“I think it’s okay, if you don’t want to.” You lean forward, as a show of sympathy. “That’d be a fuckin’ lot, for anyone.”

“Yeah. Yeah, but it’s uh, it’s— I’m good, Chip.” Richie leans back in his seat, swiping at his nose. He’ll talk about it when he’s ready, and you know that. He makes eye-contact, again, finally. “How’ve you been holdin’ up?”

You bite at your lip, alright, its fucking game time, this is what you’ve been prepping for, time to tell him everything you’ve been thinking about, for the past year, time to tell someone other than your former therapist what the fuck is in your head. “I—”

“Drinks! Hyah!” Fak busts through the door, far too boisterous. It scares a few patrons, and honestly you, a little bit. He returns to your table, pitcher and bottle of wine on a tray— Hey, it actually is a Cab Sav, he did it! Gotta celebrate the victories, here.

You can’t help but notice, as Fak pours your glass of water and attempts small talk, that he seems a bit more distressed than he did before he went in the kitchen. You crane your neck to peek through the window. Hm. Syd and Carmy are not where they were before. They’re talking. It doesn’t look like a fight, though. Let it lie. You’ve really got to let it lie, because Fak is in front of you, staring straight forward like he’s in a catatonic liminal state, not acknowledging either you or Richie with his gaze. A touch disconcerting, possibly.

“So, hey, you guys, you guys like food?”

Your lips form a line. “Fak, are you okay?”

“I’m great—” His voice cracks, oh dear. “Am I doing great?”

“You’re certainly trying—” “You’re fucking this up tremendously.” At least Richie is honest, and usually you are too, but, when it comes to a trainwreck, you’ve gotta tell the train they’re doing a great job. You just can’t bear to let it know it’s on fire.

When your glass of water starts to overflow, you take the pitcher from Fak’s hand so he can’t keep overpouring it in his fugue state. Jesus Christ, what happened in the kitchen? Who died? Actually, probably don’t joke about that.

It’s in within this moment that you learn a lot of things very quickly. First thing you learn, Sweeps is a server now, you guess. He’s in the suit, coming out of the kitchen, terrified, serving tray in hand, two champagne flutes wobble upon it. Second thing you learn, Sweeps is not a good server, or at the very least, isn’t right now, he’s too shell-shocked to keep any level of awareness of where he’s going. He bumps into Fak’s back. Third thing you learn, Richie has great reflexes, he catches the wine bottle from Fak’s tray. You have decent reflexes, managing to reach an arm out in time to keep Sweeps from entirely falling over and eating shit.  

You were however, not able to keep the champagne flutes from elegantly flying off of Sweep’s tray, and falling to the ground, shattering. Sonofabitch.

There’s a silence, then an overlapping chorus from the two distressed servers, “I’ve got it, I’ve got it, I’ve got it—” That’s the fourth and last thing you’re able to clock immediately. These two know serving is not for them. They do best sweeping or fixing, not fucking talking to people. Breaking something and needing to clean it up is like a gift from God, to them, they’re genuinely fighting to be the one to clean it up. They end up tag-teaming it, as they feel Richie’s quiet glare burn into them. He’s gotten very good at silently laying down the law. They apologize, scramble to clean, hastily apologize, and rush back into the kitchen as soon as possible.

Fuck. It’s like Richie texted, Fak has shit the bed, and that almost certainly means your dinner is gonna get cut short. You’re not going to get the chance to tell him everything— Let alone anything you wanted to get out. You won’t get to apologize properly, and then he’ll head right back on his shift, and you’ll just be the kitchen’s friend that’s taking up a table. Fuck, you’ve got to try to stumble something of note out.

“I missed you, Rich.”

The man in question turns his head from looking through the kitchen window, back to you, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I was here.” Could’ve visited.

“I know.” No, I couldn’t.

He nods. The unexchanged words are still understood between the both of you, somehow. You fiddle with your fingers, gearing up to just say your big speech, you practiced it in the car ride here, if you just cut it down to the key bullet points, you can probably get it all out.

“Richie, I’m sor—”

Once again, Fak interrupts, door swinging open, he looks extremely panicked this time, tripping over nothing, sweating like it’s a million degrees, looking to both of you, alright the kitchen situation seems to have escalated. It seems like he’s about to scream to you— But then remembers that there are guests other than you and Richie, in the front of house, and so he speed walks to your table.

Richie is the one to ask this time, “Are you fuckin’ good—?”

“Uh-uh.” Fak shakes his head, in repetitive, tight small swivels. His posture militantly straight, taught, eyes darting everywhere, like there’s spies lurking in the booths, watching him. He speaks through tight teeth, to hide his words from onlookers. “Bad. Bad bad.”

“Bad bad?” You repeat after him, waiting for him to lend any explanation to the subject, he doesn’t really.

“Need you.” He nods to Richie. Then nods to you. He looks… Disdainful? Remorseful, maybe. To be doing so. “You too. Bad.”

Richie looks to you, letting you make the call, here. You look at him and sigh, your plan has been utterly ruined, your speech— Dashed. He adds. “Intermission?”

There’s no way this is just going to be an intermission. “Intermission.”

You both stand, he takes his wine glass, then takes the bottle, a bit more realistic. You take your water. Cheers, and into the cesspool you go, abandoning your table, for what Richie hopes is for an interim, for what you both know is for the night.

The first thing you notice, Carmen’s not at expo. No one’s on expo, actually. Which feels like a problem. The second thing you notice is where Carmen actually is— In the walk-in— Not locked in, no, not this time. No, you notice he’s there because he’s yelling, better than zero pulse, but you still wince. All yelling makes you wince.

“Who was on veggie prep today?! What is this dice, Chefs!?” He storms out, large deli container of onions in his hand— He’s bringing it to his station— Which was Syd’s station, but he’s now co-opted it, seemingly, as she’s not there. However, in her stead, are five more containers of pre-diced veggies— You imagine Carmen brought those out, too. “We are not serving fucking sandwiches, anymore, Chefs—”

Carmen stops short of his aggression, when he sees you. You can’t tell if you like that. You’re pretty sure you don’t. What’s that stupid idiom? Mean to the world, good to your girl? Don’t like that. Don’t like two faces. Don’t like the shade on the old sandwiches— Mikey’s sandwiches, either.

Carmen doesn’t move to you, or anything like that though, no, he’s busy— With what exactly, you’re not sure. No fucking way he’s redoing all the prep right now, right? That would be insane. The dices are fine, and they can’t just waste food right now with their budget nor their time— Fucking Christ, he is actually redoing the prep and making Tina use the old for broth— Oh dear God.

The third thing you notice is where Syd really is, in lieu of her station. She’s having what looks like a panic attack with Sweeps by the ovens. Your legs move to her before your brain really registers anything else, and you can hear behind you that Richie has gone to Carmen and is handling expo. Fak did not need to tell either of you what your jobs needed to be back here, you just know.

“This is, this is just fucking great—” Syd heaves, holding onto the handle of the oven. Next to her, Sweeps is still in his hosting attire, but he’s mopping up water by Syd’s feet. There’s a tipped over mop bucket on the ground. He looks significantly more comfortable now, but still equally as distressed as the rest of the kitchen seems to be.

You put a hand on Syd’s shoulder, leaning down to her level. “Bubs, what’s going on? M’here.”

“Fucking everything is going on.” She starts to catch her breath; she brushes your hand away. You know it’s because she has sensory overload, it still kind of hurts, though. “Carmen’s fucking freaking…”

“No shit.” You step aside and lift your left foot, when Sweeps needs to mop by your feet. “Why, though?”

“On our opening night, he had a fuckin’— Episode, I dunno.” She’s still keeled over, hands on her knees, but she’s breathing. “N’ he had this like— Like saw this guy, who wasn’t actually there. Out—” She nods her head to the window to the front of house. She stands up, again. “Out there.”

“His, his old Executive— Chef.”

“Oh.”

The night terrors. The oven. The fire. The wanting it to happen, even just a little bit. The man who’s in his head, talking to Carmen, every night. The man he saw on his opening night, apparently. Your poor Carmen.

“Yeah, yeah he was like— Apparently kind of a dick—” Understatement of the century. “But like, so is he.” Syd nods to Carmen. You can’t completely deny that. You wish you could. “Anyways, he called.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I fucking know.” She nods, emphatic. She then realizes that this story is going to take a second, and gestures to the oven behind her. “This won’t turn on, spilt water on it.”

“Oh.” You take a beat, then remember this is what your job is, “Oh!” You feel around the pockets of your pants. Should’ve expected to bring a screwdriver, at the very least, it’s The Bear. Get with the program. The tools are in your car, to be fair, but for a quick simple check-up—

You call out, “Yo, Fak—” “Yes?”

You jump, he’s standing a mere inch behind and adjacent from you. You hold your heart, stepping back from him, just a touch. “…Do you… Have a screwdriver?”

Neil leans back, like he’s tough, like he’s sizing you up. “Something broken?”

“Tryin’ to figure that out.”

“Cause you’re a repairman.”

“Cause I’m a repairman, yeah.”

“You got a degree?”

“Just give her the fucking screwdriver!” Syd yells before you can answer. Fak begrudgingly and with a lethargic show, hands you the screwdriver from his chest pocket.

Jealous, is he? Oh, that’s cute. That’s very cute. He’s the one that said he wanted to host— Whatever, no time to tease or bicker, you’re pulling the oven out, trying to lift as much as possible with Syd’s help, to keep from scrapping tile, but it’s inevitable.

You kneel down, taking the screws out the back, “So Exec dude, he called?”

“Uh-huh.” Syd focuses on her pan on the oven next to you— Thankfully that one did not get fucked in the crossfire— so they’re short but not fucked, just yet, at least. “Called Carmen, said he’d heard about the opening— That he wants to come try the place.”

“Right, but he’s from New York, isn’t he, you’ve got time—”

“He already took a flight here; he’ll be here in thirty.”

“Oh, my fucking God.”

“I fucking know.” Everything is going on. It’s all starting to make a lot more sense now. The kitchen’s general distress, Fak and Sweeps dropping shit from anxiety but also an inadvertent way to guarantee Richie does not table them with the fucking guy, Carmen’s sudden paranoia over someone noticing a decimal less than perfect dice— Because he would, he will.

The man in Carmen’s head that’s been torturing him has at the very least been confined to his head. And now he will be materializing, before his family, to dress him down at any opportunity, in thirty fucking minutes. Oh, your poor Carmen…

“And this guy—He’s like, like fucking big, if he likes the food— Likes The Bear— We might end up getting an inspector, in here.”

You lean out from the back of the oven, practically being swallowed by it. Confused. “Getting an inspector is a good thing?” To your knowledge, inspectors are what shuts down restaurants.

“A Michelin Guide Inspector.” Oh, fuck.

“Oh, fuck.”

“Yeah, I fucking know!” Syd replies, emphatic, Richie calls out an order to her, from expo. She clears her throat. “Heard, Chef.”

A Michelin Guide Inspector. What’s that mean? Well, if you’re thinking correctly, it means a star. It means accolades. It means recognition. It means money. It means 800k. It means not going under. It means clawing their way back out of the woods. It means everything. Oh, fuck.

“So, anyways—” Syd sautés, violently. “Carmen fuckin’ finishes that call, storms out the office, and like demands shit to be perfect— Which like— Like it should be, I know, but like— Tellin’ me to fuckin’ mop already perfectly clean floors, is like, like fucking stupid— Especially when I’m fucking cooking here, like what?”

It’s amid this retelling, as you stand, that you notice Syd’s hand— The left one, the one on the pan’s handle, is bleeding, two of her fingers, cut. “And I— I fucked up, like, like I know I did. I dropped the mop bucket, n’— n’ now my fucking oven won’t turn on.”

You take her hand, she tries to rip it away, you don’t let her. “I cut it on the edge of the bucket, stupid sharp plastic, I’m good—”

“Lemme just bandage it.” You’re already fishing through your pocket, with your free hand.

She’s quick to shake her head. “You need to figure out how I fucked up the oven.”

“I already know what’s wrong with the oven.” You pull out your wallet, flitting through the bill fold with your fingers— You keep band-aids there, in case of emergency, because of course you do. Syd tries to tug her hand away, again. Her blood is rubbing onto your fingers. It’s not a big cut, but it’s enough. You can’t help remember the ye old days of you as teens, hearing about the concept of blood brothers for the first time, and genuinely considering going through with it. Funny what time does. Funny who it brings back.

“Then fix the oven.”

You mumble, tearing the paper open with your teeth. “This first.”

“I’m fucking good, Tony.”

“Don’t bark at me.”

She grimaces when she notices they’re children’s band-aids, with goofy little cartoon heroes on them. “I don’t fucking need—”

“Sydney, I love you.” There is no subtext, behind it. You look her in the eyes, stern. Tone inarguable. It catches the words in her throat, and keeps them there.

“Will you let me?”

She shuts her eyes, tight, for a second, and just looks away, hand going limp in your grip. Which means okay, I love you, too. She does not need to say it. You wrap two band-aids, one around each finger that got cut, and let her go.

Syd takes a second, to look at it. She looks at you.

“The Miles Morales feels racially targeted.”

“I fuckin’ hate you.” You point at her, you both break into laughter. Richie barks out another slew of numbers and orders, and it’s like getting caught talking in class. She goes back to her cast-iron, you start walking off to Rich. From behind you she mumbles.

“Love you, Inky.” Oh my God. Chippy’s a flashback, Inky is like a history textbook.

“Love ya, Squid.”

At expo, Richie’s sweating, he turns to you, and you speak at once.

“Carmy give you the run down?” — “Syd tell you the bullshit?”

You both nod. You’re first to ask, “Fuck dinner?”

“Raincheck. Let’s say.” He shrugs. “M’sorry.”

“Don’t need to be.” You nod to the oven. “Thermocouple in your oven’s broke. I have backups in my car.”

“You have backups in your fucking car?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Of the one hyper-specific part we need?”

“Yeah, the timing is crazy—” “Ey, when’d you get a fucking car, Cousin?” Richie realizes a discrepancy he simply always forgot to ask about for the past few weeks.

“Early this year. It’s a piece of shit. It works.”

He nods. “Hands!” Fak, swings by you, grabbing the plate from Richie, “Got this!”

Richie nods, smiling, very clearly fake, turning his head to watch Fak walk all the way out and have the door swing shut behind him. When he’s sure Fak can’t hear him, his head snaps right back to you. “We cannot let any of my fuckin’ staff near the fuckin’ big shot.”

It’s honestly nice that dinner is over, despite how bad you wanted to talk because now it’s this. Now it’s nostalgic. Now it’s comfortable— Distressing— But it’s you two, again. You nod. “So you’re gonna run expo and serve him at the same time?”

“What, you think I can’t?”

No, you don’t. “Of course you can, you’re Richie Jero—Uh, whatever the fuck.” You’re already walking to the back door to grab your tools.

“Jerimovich, Chippy! Not that fuckin’ hard!”

You should put oven expert on your business cards, when you eventually get to making new business cards. This is like, the third oven fix you’ve done in two weeks? And you just changed a thermocouple a few days ago! It takes you maybe five minutes tops, to switch the old wire for the good one.

When you push the stove back against the wall and test the burners— It works, thank God. You might’ve hyped yourself up a little too much before even checking that. Once you do, though, before even saying it’s fixed, Syd violently shakes your left shoulder, as a point of approval. Tina, on your right, slaps you on the back several times as her vow of praise, too. This is like riding a roller-coaster, and not in a good way.  

But it ends soon, as they’ve got to get right back to work, since Richie calls out—

“Guys fuckin’ here!” That’s like, ten minutes early, bullshit— “He brought a party of five—” Are you fucking kidding— “Booth Twelve— When I say booth twelve, don’t fuck up booth twelve, a’right, Chefs?”

“Heard!”

Where’s Carmen, right now? You look around— He’s at his station, on the final part of the line. He’s simultaneously making a dish completely on his own and doing the final touches on plates before they get sent out. Alright, okay, so maybe it’s best expo doesn’t get foisted on him, right now. But fuck, how is Richie gonna serve five and run this fucking kitchen?

Tina claps your back again, bringing you out of your state of worry. “Baby.”

“Yeah, T?” She turns your attention to a big pot of stock, on the burners that now work, thanks to you.

“Can you just stir this, f’me, for just a minute? Make sure the—”

“I’ll get the brown off the bottom yeah.”

She slaps your cheek, approving, “That’s my baby.”

And so, you stir. It’s an easy job, it just takes time— Time this kitchen doesn’t have, time you’re happy to give. Tina rushes over and takes over expo, while Richie moves out to take in stupid fucking booth twelve.

This kitchen is dysfunctional, the constant switches of expo require everyone to find a new rhythm, every time, and T needs to play catch up. Tina, Carmen, and Richie run expo just a touch differently from each other, since it’s a pretty cookie cutter job— But those minute differences change a lot. The tempo and tonal switches throw everyone off just slightly. They’re small mistakes, like a poor aesthetic sauce splatter, like Syd cutting her hand, like Marcus fucking up his saffron placement like five times in a row— It takes seconds off, it takes time. Time you do not have.

But what can you do? It’s all hands-on deck. Except for Fak’s hands. Get that man a water and a corner to sit in. He needs a second. So does the rest of this kitchen.

When Richie comes back in, it’s with a whine, he’s already so tired of this stupid fucking Michelin Exec. “—Wants to see a fuckin’ wine menu, do we have a fuckin’ wine menu?”

“No, Chef!” Syd and Carmen both chant out from other sides of the kitchen. Your ears perk up. They could’ve just asked you to make one, you would’ve. But, guess you don’t work here, technically.

Richie grimaces, “I know fuck all, bout wine.” He takes a swig of the red wine he left sitting on the expo podium. “Tastes fuckin’— Red, I dunno.”

Finally, something you can actually help with, in a critical way— Well, you just fixed an oven, but that doesn’t count, in your head. Most things you do don’t count, in your head. “T! Switch!” You whistle to her, and though she doesn’t love being ordered around, you’re already walking away from the pot, so you don’t really give her a choice.

“Rich, let me take it.”

Richie looks at you like you’ve grown two heads, but also, he finds those two heads very amusing. “Chippy...”

“I fucking know wine. I tend. I’m personable, I—”

“You don’t know how to kiss ass.”

“But I could.” You’re already peeling off Carmen’s jacket— Hey, thank God you dressed on theme, right? This could absolutely be a server’s fit. “Under duress.”

If it were up to Richie, you would already be out there. But his name is not on The Bear, as much as he’d like it to be. He looks to Carmen, who’s been staring at the both of you this entire interaction. Which is kind of concerning, he should probably be focusing on his three-quarter dice or he might to chop his fucking fingers off. No, he’s wouldn’t. He could probably do it with his eyes closed.

Carmen looks from Richie, who’s silently asking him for permission, to you. “Y’sure?”

“Yeah.” You nod, tucking his jacket under the expo podium. You don’t catch the way his face hardens, just a bit— Because you turn your gaze to Richie. “I’ll just do the drinks part, like an actual somme— Warm him up, f’you, when he’s ready to order. Let you stay on expo, longer.”

Richie rocks his head back and forth, considering it. You tack on, “I’m stage— What the fuck did you call it?”

“Staging.” Carmen answers.

“That one.”

Carmen stares at his cutting board, thinking and working, working and thinking. He does not look up at you, when he makes his decision. He just nods, “Okay.”

You nod back, happy. You don’t wait for him to change his mind. You take one quick overview of their wine rack, noting what they do and don’t have, and then you’re off, out the door, to the front of house, to a warzone.

The motherfucker at Booth Twelve sticks out like a sore thumb. There’s something about the aura he radiates, that tells you immediately that it’s him, despite not knowing his face or name. Bet it’s fucking Tony, somehow.

He’s doing his best to peer into the kitchen window without being obvious about it, which, he’s currently failing at that. Richie sat his party in a good booth, it’s just the worst booth for a good view of the kitchen. Smart. This guy is an asshole, and it’s clear from his stupid equally punchable looking friends, that he’s doing all of this on purpose.

The big party, unexpected. The him, unexpected. The asking for a wine menu. He wants you all off guard, he wants Carmen off-guard, he wants Carmen’s breath to hitch, he wants Carmen to sweat, and most importantly, he wants to watch.

You stand in front of his view, on purpose. “Hi, pleasure to serve you lovely people tonight, I’m—” No shot you’re giving this guy your real name. “—Jack, I’m your sommelier. I heard you wanted to look over a wine menu?”

“Yes,” His voice is just as stupid as you expected it to be. This is the fucking voice Carmen hears? God, lock it in, bite your tongue. “And I see you are not holding one.”

“Well, actually, we don’t carry a wine menu because we at The Bear believe in a personally curated dining experience.” You don’t miss a beat, you don’t hitch, he hates this and you can tell. “I like to think that I’m your wine menu, flip through me at your leisure.”

Your eyes crinkle, as you do an expert customer service smile. This stupid fucking table laughs at the lukewarm joke, he just smirks, because rich men don’t have time for laughter. So, their cronies do it for them.

“Well then,” He gestures his hand, giving you the floor. “What’s the menu?”

“Ah, well, was there anything on the main menu that caught your eye, so I can best pair you?”

“Hmm…” There’s a glint in his eye, and you know you’ve just expertly set him up to say ‘No.’ And then you’ll have no fucking comeback. You’ll probably throw up on the table, fuck fuck fuck— “Yes, actually.”

Oh, thank God. “The Wagyu steak with wild mushrooms and hazelnut-gruyere croquettes?”

Oh, that’s the one Carmen made for you, weeks back, you know that one. “Ah, one of my personal favourites. I’d recommend a young Pinot Grigio, maybe a 2006 Gravner?” How the fuck did you remember that? Doesn’t matter. What matters is this motherfucker is not getting under your skin.

“And what about the braised oxtail wellington?” The hot pocket, he means. You’ve had that, too.

“We have a fantastic Barolo Brunate to pair with that, Giuseppe Rinaldi 2019.” You have no idea if it’s fantastic. Who fucking cares. It’s expensive, you know that much. You only bothered to review the top rack.

“Lot of Italian vineyards.” A woman next to him comments.

“Well, we are Italian owned, so.”

It does not end there. No, why would it? No, he and his compatriots go about naming every single fucking thing on the menu, asking you to pair it. And not to toot your own horn too much, but this is, really, the one job you feel the most trained to do. All those games with Syd, all those men at Eden’s, all the parts and tools and forty different types of wrenches you have to keep track of and memorized as a repairman— Your brain is trained for this. This isn’t easy for you, sure— But you are maybe more equipped for this than any other person you could possibly think of. Good think you don’t have to think of people, you have to think of wines.

Once you survive the gauntlet, his ‘friends’ order their actual wines— Each by the bottle. Alcoholism in the food world is crazy. Also, how are you going to carry four to five full bottles here? Dear God. Whatever, you’ll live, and make insane bank— Or, The Bear, will, rather. That’s like a thousand on wine alone. When you get to Him, he puts his menu down and sighs, it’s very clearly fake.

“Can I be honest with you?”

“I’d want for nothing more.” You’d want for a lot more; actually, you’d want for him to shut the fuck up. But this is kind of a good thing. They’ve wasted a solid ten minutes just talking wine— Giving the kitchen ample time to catch up. This guy just shot himself in the foot with the sweat plan.

“This is a fine menu, but as you said, The Bear believes in a personally curated experience.” Fuck. “I don’t know if you know this, but I have a very personal relationship with the owner.” Fuck. “Would you hate me, if I asked for you to… Surprise me?”

He doesn’t need to ask for a surprise for you to hate him, is what you want to say, but instead you just smile, appeasing, kissing ass. You hate yourself just a bit for it. “I’ll see what we can do, sir. And so, you’d like a surprise wine, as well then?”

He does a customer service smile right back. You’re both passively cursing the other. “If that’s no trouble. Oh—” He tilts his head, cocky attitude really coming to a head now, “And budget isn’t a problem. Just the best.”

“I couldn’t imagine giving anything less, sir.” Another coy smile from you, before bowing and leaving their table. Your tight shoulders fall as soon as you walk back into the kitchen.

“I want him dead.”

“Agreed. Temp check?” Richie hums flitting through his notes, “We’ve got five steaks all day, Chefs, kill two. Fire now, Chefs.”

“Yes, Chef!”

You sidle up next to Rich, “They’re trying to make us sweat with quizzes. Just know your shit and they won’t be able to touch you.”

“Heard.”

“They ordered like five fucking bottles of wine.”

“Christ.” He turns to you, at that. “You upsell?”

“Didn’t have to. Named the most expensive bottles and they didn’t give it a second thought.”

He daps you up, it is difficult to hide your pride. “That’s my fuckin’ Chippy!”

You quell your smirk to the best of your abilities, especially since it isn’t all good news, “I think they’re ready to order, one problem, though.”

“Problem?” That’s when Carmen tunes in. He hands a finished plate to Richie, who hands it off to Sweeps, who begrudgingly heads out to deliver. “What’s the problem?”

“He says he wants to be surprised.”

“Like fucking Ratatouille?”

Carmen squints at Richie, for this, incredulous. You cannot back up your man, in this case, fully on Richie’s side. “Don’t act like you didn’t fuck with Ratatouille.”

“I didn’t see it.”

“You didn’t see it?!” Carmen’s always liked it, when the two of you speak in unison. Carmen hates it, when you and Richie speak in unison. “You’d love it, Carm.”

Any other time, he’d love to entertain you, on this, but he can’t. It makes you both feel very cold, when he brushes past the idea. “I’ll think’ve something.”

You nod, already moving to the wine cooler, sorting out bottles. “You have time, I’ll stretch out serving them—Richie, help me bring out bottles? Take their orders? Two birds, one stone?”

“It’s bullet.” “It’s not.”

The wine pouring is nothing to write home about.

“Don’t mind us tag-teaming, didn’t want anyone to feel left out for a minute!”

But is definitely a weird vibe, when you and Richie serve this table. You’re both equally personable— Though, going as fast as you can without making them feel rushed. Richie needs to get back on expo A-S-A-P.

Despite the fact that both of you are just as nice as the other… This fucking guy is absolutely giving Richie more attitude, in comparison to you. You have a feeling the only reason he didn’t shut you down earlier with the menu is because you’re a hostess. Yeuch. Gross man senses are tingling, but maybe it’s just you.

Richie whispers to you, when you’re walking back to the kitchen, “He’s a fuckin’ creep, eh?”

Okay, not just you. You know it’s bad when another man notices it. “Yep.”

Whatever. Use it to your advantage, in this case, if possible. Not like you have anything to worry about, just about everyone in the kitchen would jump him for you, upon request.

Would Carmen?

It’s a weird thought to have, but it’s a thought you can’t seem to stop yourself from having. Would Carmen choose your safety and comfort, over the chance to get a chance to get a star? …He would, right? He’d choose you, right?

“M’sorry for derailin’ dinner with our bullshit, Chip.”

The door swings open, Richie lets you in first. “You kidding? No where I’d rather be, than in your bullshit.”

Maybe this is better, than any apology you were planning to give. Better that you show with your actions, that you’re both actually back. That it’s you two, again. That you’re not going anywhere, this time. That even if you did leave, Richie’s gotta know, with a certainty, you’d rather be here.

Richie smiles, and you think you’re right. While he’s shouting out Booth Twelve’s orders, Carmen hands a plate to expo. You tilt your head, curious. He slides a folded-up card, with it. You don’t recognize the plate at all from the menu.

“S’yours.” Is his simple answer, already getting to work on Booth Twelve. He’s scribbling down notes and quick sketches of what surprise dish to make for the Exec. On the front of the card, it says ‘won’t have time to do it myself’, alongside a smiley face, for levity.

You open the card, flitting vision between the dish, the note, and Carmen. Digesting the recipe he’s written for you and your eyes, only. He knew he wouldn’t have time to explain it verbally, so he wrote it down for you. You could throw up, honestly.

This is, the sweetest, most thoughtful, most complex thing, anyone has ever made for you.

You have done your damndest, to almost never be the one to instigate a kiss, not a real one, with Carmen, because he asked for distance, so you try to give it. But right now, more than anything, you’d like to assail this man to the floor right now with your affections.

But you can’t. Because he’s busy, and he needs this, not you. Carmen needs this to go well. He needs this guy to like the food, he needs the inspector to like the food, he needs a star. Fuck, even without the prospect of an inspector looming over him— He needs to prove the man in his head wrong. There is no time for any of the love you have to give.

…Did you just think love?

Gotta table this, for now…

“Thank you, Carmy.” His movements relax, when you say it. He doesn’t stop, he doesn’t slow down, he doesn’t pivot to you and confess some long-standing prose of love, but he nods, and his shoulders untense. That’s practically the same thing.

His phone, laying on the expo podium, rings. Sug. You furrow your brows. “Carmen.”

“Hm?” He’s tense, and still not himself, but he sounds so sweet, when he hums.

“Nat’s calling.”

“Let it go to voicemail.”

“She’d know you’re working, right now.”

“She’s got mom brain.”

“Mom brains’ aren’t dumb.” You frown, a touch worried. Always doting, aren’t you. “Could be an emergency.”

Carmen wants to say it’s not a big deal. That there’s bigger fish to fry. That if he fucks this dinner up, it could mean Nat won’t have a job to come back to. That with all the love in the world, he does not have time for this, right now. And then he thinks of his brother, and suddenly he has time for this, right now. He picks up his notepad and pen, he can work anywhere, it doesn’t need to be at his station. “Give me.”

He takes the phone, shouting to his crew, “Taking two minutes, Chefs!”

There’s a half-second of complaints before a resounding, “Heard!”

Carmy points to you, as he walks to his office, “Eat.”

“I will.” You nod, and lie.

You won’t be eating the most perfect, most complex, most personal, most thoughtful thing anyone has ever made for you.

You already made your decision, when you saw the plate. When you read the note. When you saw the frantic scribbles at Carmen’s station, loose pieces of paper everywhere, all crumpled. He can’t come up with shit for the man in his head. You already made your decision, when the four other plates showed up on expo for his table, and all that’s left is the surprise dish, for The Man.

You will not be eating the most perfect, most complex, most personal, most thoughtful thing anyone has ever made for you. The man out front, the man in Carmen’s head, will.

Carmen needs this.

Your heart just short of breaks, when you put it on the serving tray, handing it off to Richie. “What’s this one?” He asks, not knowing, not having paid attention. He would’ve refused, if he did.

Syd was, though. She looks like a puppy watching another puppy get kicked. You swallow the feeling down, ignoring her stare. You don’t need to reread the card, it’ll stick in your head, for the rest of your life.

“Lamb saddle, roasted, pink. Aigre-doux eggplant, means sour sweet sauce, with lamb confit, fresh spring garlic, Montmorency sauce— It’s a dark red cherry sauce, topped with cherries and baby basil.”

You wouldn’t know any of the French terms, if they weren’t defined for you in the margins. There’s a parenthetical, next to the lamb— Mentioning that it’s roasted, explaining why saddle is a superior cut of lamb, noting why it’s best served pink— Mentioning that it’s similar to pork. Your favourite. There’re exclamation points next to the cherry additions, because it’s your favourite Italian ice flavour. They need to be emphasized, in the recipe. There’s another parenthetical, next to baby basil, ‘(yours)’. It’s your basil, from your balcony to his, now to his kitchen, now to your plate.

In spades, this is the best gift anyone has ever made you, and you watch it leave, through the swinging door. You can’t stop your expression from twitching, falling into a frown. Your heart sits heavy in your throat. When Syd silently stands next to you, taking over for Richie on expo, she returns your tiny container of Tums. You take one, eyes distant, looking at the kitchen, Carmen’s kitchen, biting down on the antacid.

Cherry.

This isn’t sad. It’s just a plate. It’s literally just a plate. Carmen can make it again. Carmen can make it a million times over again. So why does it sting like this? Why does it carve its way into the pit of your stomach? That was yours. Carmen— Carmen’s plate was yours, and you had to give it up. You want nothing more than to rip the dish from the stupid fucking Exec’s greedy fucking hands, take it for yourself, eat it whole, in one bite— Decree that he can’t fuck with Carmen anymore, that he holds no ownership anymore, that he is not the be all end all, that he is not the gavel and the sound block.

But he is. It hurts, because he is. Carmen is still under him, and so, you, being by his side, are under him too. You know you made the right call, giving the plate up, but the meaning behind it all hurts insurmountably.

Syd takes your hand; the wrinkles of her band-aids are a nice texture to return to. You appreciate that she’s comforting you, but you can’t help but notice, “Uh, uhm, let’s fire table twenty-five, twenty-eight, and— And fuck, twelve, Chefs.” She’s not great at the whole expo thing. She’s fast as a cook, she’s slow as a speaker.

You take a look over the book on the table, and bump her aside with your hip.

“Chefs, I’m gonna need ‘ya to fire six fish all day— ‘kay?”

“Heard, Chef?” The crowd is confused but they’re not gonna stop you.

“Good, good.” You note the dead plate by you, “This asparagus is fuckin’ dead can I get hands on flashing it, please, Chefs?”

“Yes, Chef!”

Syd eyes you, on the sidelines, perplexed. You shrug, “You and Carmen are not the first people that tried to get this fuckin’ kitchen in order, check yourself.”

You didn’t do all the French bullshit, but some days at The Beef definitely ran better when they had a former Lead EMT barking at them— With love, though. Always with love. Syd just laughs, shaking her head. It’s a delight, to always be learning new things about you. How overarching your handful of talents are. You really are a Jack of All Trades.

You run things a little differently than a typical actual expo would. But sometimes, that’s kind of a good thing.

“Baby, where are we at with table twenty?!”

“T,” You say names, instead of Chef, more often than not, “If you yell at me like that, I will, what—?” Your call and responses, are a bit different. “Start crying, yes, thank you, Chef. Table twenty’s plated, we’re just waiting on placement from Syd, take your time but not too much, babe.”

“Heard!”

Levity, temperature, ease. It’s what you bring to the table, in everything you do. And sometimes, yeah, that’s not what you need. But right now, that’s everything this kitchen needs.

When Richie eventually comes back, handling front of house almost entirely by himself, he’s relieved to see you on expo, and the kitchen functioning, but he seems a little thrown. Off his rhythm.

You put a hand on his shoulder, as he stands next to you. “You good, Cousin?”

He sighs, he’s not good. “M’good, Chip.”

“Can I get an all-day on pasta, Chef?” Marcus’ voice doesn’t really occur to you, in the background, right now. You’re all about Richie.

“What happened?”

“It’s nothin…” He kisses his teeth, “S’just, man’s a real piece of work— N’ I can’t— Can’t give it back to him.”

“What’d he say?”

“Just, just kinda… Made fun ‘a—” Richie pauses, clearing his throat. “He made fun of my voice. To his fuckin’ friends. Called me unprofessional, said the suit’s prol— Probably a knock-off— Which, it is, but—”

“Chef, pasta?”

“One second, Marcus!” You call out, quick, not taking your eyes off Richie. You hate to hear him attempting to switch, all the syllables fit uncomfortably in his mouth. You frown. “He’s an asshole. Don’t listen to ‘em. You should bite back a little, I think.”

Richie hums, arms crossing, guarding himself. He sighs, finally voicing the worry. Son of a bitch, this guy’s in Richie’s head now, too. “…D’you take me serious, Cousin?”

You soften, while simultaneously growing so angry, at how quickly Richie’s become demoralized, “Richie— Cousin, of course I take you seriously.”

The moment is cut short, however, by a reasonably frustrated Marcus, at his limit. “Tony, all-day pasta, shit, c’mon!”

About a minute or two earlier, Carmen went into his office to take a call. He’s still jotting down notes, trying to come up with a recipe, not knowing the effort is meaningless now.

“Everything alright, Sug?”

“Hm? Yeah, everything’s good, I just wanted to call ‘stead of text ‘cause my hands are full of baby.” He told you so, not an emergency. “You guys busy?”

“Yeah, actually, s’maybe I’ll call you back, after?”

“Sure, sure, yeah, I just wanted to let you know I didn’t get Tony’s invoice.”

He pauses, no longer writing. “What’d’you mean you didn’t get her invoice?”

“She said you took care of it.”

“She told me you took care of it.”

“Oh.” There’s a pause, as Natalie thinks, trying to recount. “Well, maybe I’ve just got mom brain, but I swear she told me you covered it, thought I wrote it down…”

“Yeah, you did.” Carmen flits through the folder he was looking at yesterday, finding her sticky note. “You wrote down to ask me for her invoice.”

“Yeah, so I could get a copy for our records. Maybe I just got mixed up and left it somewhere— Just double check before you ask her for it again, I like her, Carmy, I don’t want her to think we’re unprofessional.”

“We are unprofessional.” And you like them anyways. He pops open the desk drawer, flitting through folders, most of them labeled ‘stuff’ ‘shit’ ‘bullshit’ ‘bullshit stuff’. Carmen loves his brother but sometimes he curses the fucking sky. There’s every chance Sug slipped your invoice into one of these by mistake.

“Yeah, but I don’t want her to know that.” Carmen can hear little baby Michaela murmuring on the other end of the phone. “Tell her to come see the baby, by the way.”

“I will. I’m plannin’ on it.” After dinner. Maybe when he opens up your painting and he forces you to tell him ad nauseum what you thought of the cherry and lamb dish. Your dish. That shit is never getting put on the menu, no. It’s a lot easier to think of plates when they’re for you, it’s fucking impossible to come up with a dish for his old Head Chef— He really needs to get back out there, actually, he’s out of thinking time, he just has to throw shit at the wall.

But then he sees a folder he’d never paid attention to, before. ‘ICE Chip’s’. Another one of Mikey’s extremely confusingly titles. Carmen always figured it’d been a weird way of naming a folder meant for bulk orders of ice for drinks or for the walk in— But now, Carmen knows better, Carmen knows you. No harm in looking, right? He’ll take a quick peak, see it’s actually for ice, and then he’ll go back out there, rip his hair out, and put it on a plate for the fucking man out front that talked to him during his entire morning routine, today.

Except there’s not invoices for ice, in this folder.

“I’ve been reading her Frog and Toad, almost every night, by the way, Mickey loves it.”

No, it’s you, in this folder. Carmen wants to throw up. He’s being dramatic, he needs to relax, the blood in his veins is freezing and boiling at the same time.

And maybe if Carmen's day had started off a bit better, if he was acting like himself today, and not the man in his head, in his restaurant— Maybe he'd be a little more reasonable, right now. Maybe if he ate family earlier, instead of skipping it to re-tape all the containers in the walk-in, he'd feel a little more forgiving. If he wasn't so tired, if he wasn't so hungry, if he wasn't shaking off a minute cold he got from walking to your house past midnight, a few days ago, he'd be a bit less inclined to spiral.

But there’s a handful of film photos with the two of you— Just the two of you— Richie’s in one or two, but it’s mostly just you and Michael. His arm, over your shoulder, in again, most of them. Mikey looks non-plussed in half of them. You’re always holding some sort of cupcake or cake, in all of them, and there’s always a numbered candle, being blown out. There’re a couple different times there’s a One candle, a few Twos, only one Three.

You knew Mikey for two to three years, didn’t you? Anniversary photos?

Carmen is going to fucking throw up. Why are there multiple ones? One week-iversary? One month-iversary? He has never imagined his brother to be some fucking sap sentimentalist, and it’s making his skin crawl. You dated his fucking brother? He is just a fucking gap filler, he is.

There has got to be another reasonable explanation, for this. You wouldn’t do this to him— Someone would’ve said something to him— Richie would’ve at the very least made some sort of stupid fucking derogatory comment about him getting sloppy seconds— There is no fucking way you dated his fucking brother—

‘I’m with you Bear!!’

‘Just one more, Mikey’

‘love you’

Sticky notes. Your handwriting. There are sticky notes with your handwriting in this forsaken fucking folder. Telling Mikey you love him, and to keep going— You called him Bear. That makes sense, everyone calls all three of the kids Bear— But that was— You— He needs to throw up. It cannot stay in his throat; he cannot let this stay in his throat— ‘We go under together’ — And yet he cannot stop reading them. ‘Same team.’

Same team. You’re on the same team. With his brother. Isn’t that fucking sweet. Isn’t that just adorable. Isn’t the fucking photo booth strip of you two, clearly taken after seeing a movie, fucking precious?

The last thing in this folder is the nail in the coffin, the knife in the hand. Paperwork. Not an invoice, no. Not the fucking thing he was looking for. No. An old agreement form.

A joint bank account. Wells Fargo. Signed by both of you. Photo IDs photocopied, side by side on a black and white piece of paper, stapled onto the end. This feels more intimate than any piece of paperwork that has ever existed. Even a fucking marriage certificate can’t hold a candle to this. You had a joint bank account with a fucking two-bit junkie—

You fucking trusted him with your credit score— You loved Mikey enough to ruin your life— You wanted to go under together. That’s what you fucking wrote, isn’t it?

Every fear Carmen ever had is more than affirmed. He is here to fill a void, he’s here because his brother isn’t. He is nothing but a series of stories his brother has told you, to you. Nothing but another Berzatto man that you desperately try to rehabilitate and fix and inevitably fail with, because they’re all fucking hopeless, before moving onto the next.

He doesn’t even need to kill himself, this time, no— You’ll realize he’s a lost fucking cause when you realize he’s nothing like his brother, when you find out he’s sharp and rendered, that even if he was a good person, he’s still him, and that’s a rot that not even you can fix— You’ll leave him unfinished like all the projects in the corners of your apartment. Because that’s what he is, to you, a project, something to fix. He’s like all your other jobs. He’s a job. Just another distressed restauranteur. Nothing but a fucking replaceable part, that you’ve got ten more spares for in your car.

Carmen doesn’t need to be fixed— He’s perfectly fine the way he is— He was fucking great before you showed up, actually— No, he wasn’t happy, but he was talented, and he wasn’t so brain-dead that he’d fuck up a basic meal thinking of you, he wasn’t so stupid that he’d speak out of turn and call you pretty, he wouldn’t have gotten a cold walking to your house in the winter, he would’ve just taken a hot shower until it hurt, without you— Carmen was— is— A Two Michelin Star chef, he’s fucking great without his brother— He runs The Bear without him just fine, he did everything without his fucking brother just fine, it didn’t hurt when Mikey stopped picking up the phone, Carmen doesn’t need his fucking brother, so he certainly doesn’t need you.

“Carmen?” His sister is still on the phone. Waiting for him to respond. Waiting for him to entertain the idea of being a good uncle. He doesn’t need his sister, either. He hangs up without as much as a simple ‘bye’.

He hears Marcus, yelling for an all-day, yelling Tony. Even still Carmen’s expecting Richie’s voice to reply, but instead, it’s yours that reverberates in past the office door.

“Aye, Marcus! We’ve got three alfredo, two cannoli, one gnocchi, okay, sweets? Same team, right?”

“Same team, Chef.”

Oh, so it’s a fucking Beef thing, too? That’s so fucking cute. It’s so cute, how you’re everywhere, in everything. It’s so goddamn tender how he finds you carved into tables, finds you in filing cabinets, finds you under his booths, finds you in his walk-in, finds you in his shower caddy each morning, finds you on his balcony in a plant pot, finds you in his fridge in a spray bottle, finds you with Syd, finds you with Richie, finds you with Tina, Marcus, Jimmy, Mikey.

So cute. So fucking cute, that he’s gonna see you out there, running his kitchen, fixing everything you deem wrong with him.

Carmen Berzatto doesn't need anyone to ruin his own life except for him. He'll prove it.

i know i know i know i know--

I said it wouldn't be that much of a cliffhanger but when i got through writing the last fourth of this chapter i was having a lot of trouble because pace wise it just really really needed to be a separate part-- and this way, i get to do a fun format style change that i planned but thought i wouldn't get to do TURNS OUT I DO GET TO!! yeehaw

so much happened this chapter, like while writing it, when i'd go back to edit, i was like oh my god that was this chapter?? jesus christ. I was really waiting for y'alls reaction to this one, so please do harang me wherever you feel comfortable ranting to, i love to see it.

But yeah, really fuckin brutal, eh? And a lot of half lore dumps! You think they dated? You think it's something else? The RichiexTony and SydxTony crowds are eating fucking good tonight, also. Love those cuties and their friendships.

We've got a taglist now, I'm bad at keeping track of it, but remember if u wanna be added to this silly little thing you need to hand in an essay (more like a cute lil paragraph) tellin' me what you thought! And also ask. Duh. BUT YA GOTTA DO BOTH!~

@anytim3youwant @navs-bhat @whoknowswhoiamtoday @gills-lounge @slut4supersoldiers @sinceweremutual @itsallacotar @catsrdabestsocks101 @popcornpoppin @renaissance-painting @lostinwonderland314 @v0ctin

Next Part

[pervertwhore]

same beer belly anon here! hi! :3 also.ajdjwldnwkkansns raaaarrrgh your fuckign brain!!!!!

leon would be pretty insecure and would need quite a bit of reassuring! he would miss what he thinks was his 'prime' (I.e re4 build) and reader would literally be on their knees, worshipping all that he is and showing just how much they love Leon for him, regardless of his body <3

your dark leon got me acting up in a way that sets feminism back a couple hundred years uhmm😳😳😳 he would be bad! terrible, even! you would only fuel his alcoholic behavior rather than fixing him (there is no fixing him and you were a fool to think that in the first place.)

but pros are uhm uhm he suffocates you with his belly on the regular soooooo����‍♀️ like i had this image of Leon laying on top of reader, their stomach is pressed down to the floor, meanwhile his tummy is pressed right up against readers back, trapping them essentially. they have to deal with Leon's body weight pressing down on them, his arms wrapped around them and his sheer strength keeping them in place. and he's smirking the entire time as he watches reader struggle to move. he! would! be! awful!

NONNIE!!!!! IM GONNA KISS YOU!!!! this is literally sensational LIKE YOU GET ME!!! YES!!!!!! BEER BELLY LEON AGENDA IS GETTING SPREAD AND THE WORLD CHEERED!! world peace has been restored :33

insecure! leon is sooo regretful :(( like he looks at himself in the mirror and even though his tummy doesn’t take away from his skills AT ALL, he still feels so inferior, like he looks around at the people around him and even though change comes with time, their changes weren’t the same as him gaining weight so he’s literally crashing out — but YOU!!! at least help alleviate the deep rooted anxiety and just inner self loathing he’s developed over the years.

i think it’s hot idc!! riding him or sucking on his cock while he has a beer in hand, like he’s so “im disgusting, don’t do that,” like hello im currently between your thighs with my hands down your pants what are you saying??

just think abt it with me nonnie… sucking on his fat cock (hard or not) while he’s sitting back on his couch and drinking a beer.. he’s so embarrassed?? like cmon! don’t lower yourself to his level, find a better man, a man that’s not broken, one that’s not an alcoholic and not one that’s let himself go ;(( he’s drunkenly babbling but your kissing his into thighs and tummy before popping his cock in your mouth and sucking slowly while telling him that he’s the most attractive man in the world STOP!!! he cums so fast it’s so humiliating BUT IT HELPS!!! cuz you reassure him that he’s all you’ve ever wanted :33

now..dark! leon is a whole other story i fear.. he would be a horrible partner but IDC!! i still want his ass in my bed and on top of me 🔥 NO LITERALLY, there’s no way to fix him, he’s too far gone! at one point you tried to point out his addiction and it turned into an argument and you kinda stopped trying.. like yea you’re an enabler but whatever he physically can’t be in a relationship with someone trying to fix his issues it will make him crash out. he uses alcohol as a way to cope and i fear he’s never gonna give it up (>_<;)

and YES!! he does use his strength and weight against you :(( you can complain and whine all you want, but you and him both know you enjoy it. (me too girl) like he’s quite literally folding you in half, he doesn’t care if you’re flexible or not. in any context, dark! leon loves when you cry, dacryphilia king!! he just loves making you cry and seeing you squirm and try to fight to get him off of you.. like aw, sweetheart, did you really think some pushes and kicks would work against him?

him pressing his tummy against your back…UGH.. you’re so right, his cock is so girthy inside you, he gets so painfully rough with you :(( shoving his cock deep again your cervix and keeping you still..his arm wrapped around your neck as he holds you in a head lock :( and idk if you fw this but him slapping you around while you’re sucking on his cock >_< like you gag & squirm and he pinches your nose and gives you a few hard smacks across your face so you can get it together!! CMON!! you know better than that 😒 but again..YOU TWO BOTH KNOW YOU ENJOY IT!! smh! don’t try to hide it!!

[weirdmageddon]

ok. let's finally talk about this thing i've been wanting to go public with for ages

so i am not a fan of needing THC to help me curb the embarrassment i have in being happy talking about my real realll special interests, because perceived rejection of my interests feels like rejection of myself since i put so much of myself (my time) into them. i anticipate rejection from others because the stuff i find myself occupied with is detached, abstract, highly technical, or niche, and i'm aware of the surrounding cultural assumptions. some of them, and the level at which i am in involved in understanding them, are really specialized or esoteric, so even opening up about them is like "fuuuck im gonna be made fun of or it’s gonna be too technical that they zone out and dont understand why this is so meaningful to me" ive even posted about that feeling before.

see if i start accumulating too much self-context made in my own mind without sharing it i start to feel more and more isolated from other people around me, that they’re not seeing the full extent of what im seeing myself. i don’t share it, because i fear rejection or superficial judgments in other people’s eyes (probably because it’s happened to me and i’ve seen it happen to others). but at the same time it has to be shared with more people around me or else i feel like i have an intestinal blockage in my mind. what happens is my mental colon explodes from all the shit accumulated over time and vou get a post like this. i’m sorry for that mental image btw. anyway back the point of this post

anything where i can systematize archetypes in real, everyday situations has always been my strong suit. so when people ask me my hobbies im like ... uhhh what am i supposed to say? i analyze stuff about the world and rotate it in my mind. when carl jung wrote there are “as many archetypes as there are typical situations in life” i know exactly what he was talking about.

i’ve been toeing the line to really talk about this thing for two years, so let me tell you about socionics. if you already know what im talking about i love you. if you don’t (or even if you do, keep reading there’s probably stuff you don’t know in here), it is part abstract cybernetic model, part jungian concepts, part philosophy of information exchange. it classifies how people communicate and exchange information. it was created in eastern europe in the late 70s, developed primarily in the 80s-90s by other authors and it’s been an endlessly fascinating, elegant, and reliable tool for me.

usually people dismiss personality typology systems because the mbti became so watered down and pop-culturally saturated that people seemed to collectively take a stance of not taking anyone that genuinely cares about it seriously, or at least that’s the impression i got.

(btw — i need to go on this brief rant — i will never forgive 16personalities for being the big five rebranded and people thinking it's mbti. 16personalities gives you your big five type. they explicitly state on their website that they don’t borrow any concepts from jung. -A and -T don’t exist in the mbti and correspond directly to low and high neuroticism respectively. i figured out myself they mapped each letter dichotomy to the other four measures on the big five: extraversion (I/E), conscientiousness (P/J), agreeableness (T/F), openness to experience (S/N). which is stupid and it’s false advertising. take 16p and a big five test see for yourself how they match up. your personal mbti type can be different from its correlated big five type. the actual mbti using jungian concepts as a base is alright though. oh, and the best neo-jungian mbti stuff is by far michael pierce’d takes on it. if you actually fw that heres a carrd i created a few years ago about the cognitive function axes.)

but i always end up going to the bottom of the iceberg in anything i get really into, and i basically integrate it into my own understanding of the world around me for a while. maybe it was because i had a bad experience genuinely talking about it a few years ago from some people who made superficial judgments about it that made me sort of quiet about my interest in typology systems. i assume it’s because myers and briggs used the tool towards racist ends; it acquired negative connotations, bullshit intuition supremacy, and left the study of psychological types tainted in the united states. even if the individual’s study of the system is neutral, unbiased, out of pure curiosity as a way to classify and relate different personality structures to each other, as was the case with me. in addition to 16personalities being an invalid “mbti” test that bought their way to the front page of google, and rampant superficial information at all levels of study, finding anyone who was into it like me was basically impossible. the reason i have a preferred interpretation of jungian + mbti concepts is because i’ve tried different ones on and sensed how well they conform to reality as a way of describing phenomenon, ditching old ones that werent as clear. michael pierce’s i’ve found are the closest to what i sense jung's intentions were. (actually quite likely this is something i would attribute to being because all three of us are types LIl (and also all infj too, how about that?) brain-to-brain communication LII (carl jung) to LII (michael pierce) to LII (me)). so i felt like michael pierce kept the things that worked in real life and ditched the things that didn’t, leaving behind his elegant integration of the concepts.

anyway, i was under the assumption that anything that could be mistaken for it—which socionics often is at a glance—would be dismissed out of hand, even though it’s entirely different. plus, there’s all the context i’d need to clarify about how “it’s different from the “fun” unserious pop-psych mbti and also absurdly more technical” and what's the point in doing that if they don't respect you enough to hear you out anyway? so it just made me closed off.

they share a common ancestor though. the concepts are still based on carl jung’s book ‘psychological types’ which is why there is some shallow overlap, but the scope, structure, and application of it is different. i feel like this system is a lot more “living” and relevant to real interactions and communication between people in our everyday lives. i am always seeing specific examples of these concepts in play in real life and in characters depicted in media. it’s also been more empirically studied and successfully implemented over in eastern europe, and has gone under constant development and contribution. while since the 50s, mbti had crystalized and become stagnant with diverging interpretations to the point where it’s become basically meaningless to try to talk about because nobody can agree on concepts or semantics; there are virtually no distinctions between “schools” or “models” to differentiate interpretations — (although i have my preference for what i think are the most meaningful and reasonable one; as i said, that goes to michael pierce.) eastern (not so much western) socionics is incredibly more well put-together than mbti or kiersey for squeezing the potential from jung’s original ideas, and goes much deeper. that said, i will ALWAYS advise self-studying typlogy concepts over taking a test. the algorithm of a test can never possibly know you and your individual biases in interpreting the meaning of the words better than the knowledge you just have about yourself. if you learn the theory underlying it you will actually learn about yourself and others and it will actually mean something to you instead of a being an empty decoration for your profile.

here is a comparison chart i translated into english so you can get some idea of where these systems actually differ.

Букалов, А. (2019). On the advantages of socionics over other post-Jungian typologies. Socionics, Mentology and Personality Psychology, (6), 5–7. Retrieved from https://publishing.socionic.info/index.php/socionics/article/view/2603

for me it’s been super insightful applied to real life. it is like a toolkit for interpreting why some people just rub me the wrong way and our communication feels disjointed. or why some people pass my vibe check to enter my personal inner circle and i feel like talking with them is easier and not an uphill battle. who i feel drawn to and want to get to know better. to deconstruct why i and other people interpret information in the world the way they do, and how that explains the kind of people i end up curating in my life. it has put into words the concepts i haven’t been able to find the words for beforehand, and thus enables me to retrospectively pinpoint exactly what unconsciously makes people feel more at ease or why communication is just easier with some and why it’s harder with others, regardless of any other factors. there are other factors of course, that are the result of unique circumstances—nurture, culture, and upbringing—and i of course account for those, it’s not as pertinent to me as the framework that provides the skeletal structure regardless of those individual variations that are simply already a given for me. that was actually the whole point of its creation.

the system gives me a common language to communicate these ideas with, at least to the few people i talk to who have learned it, but i can adapt the concepts in how they relate to specific circumstances and convey it to a lay audience. i’ve been doing just that to explain why, of the people who have been made aware of the hs rarepair john-aradia, i have seen no one object to it, and instead, everyone i saw found it intriguing the more they thought about it, even when they initally thought was “so random”. and i realized, “hey wait! i know how to explain that!”, but that's in another post i've been working on.

[i was actually originally writing this post in the middle of said aradia and john analysis but i felt like there was way too much i wanted to talk about as its own thing. i figured people are going to be reading that post for john-aradia explanation, not public updates about my mind. i just didn’t want to rewrite this to account for the context because the point i made was still relevant]:

but now i’m thinking okay… i’m talking to a bunch of homestucks. why am i prostrating myself here? why am i so defensive? they’re probably creaming their pants at the idea of another symmetrically divisible system of classification to get their hands on. homestuck itself is founded upon a bunch of ideas with symmetrical divisions and classifications (divisible products of 2). aspect dichotomies, quadrants, cards, black-white, yin/yang and literally countless other abstract systems. if there is a common word to refer to these sorts of things, please let me know.

but in socionics terms, all of this sort of stuff i’m refering to would be within the domain of extraverted/black intuition (Ne) information, and classifying or positioning someone within those frameworks would be introverted/white logic (Ti). you can read more about these “elements” here. homestuck has familiarized you with notionally irreducible aspects present in everything, dual yin/yang forces permeating everything, so if you understand all of the sorts of abstract classification systems in homestuck you’re basically already 75% the way to fundamentally grasping model A socionics. it is way more structured and stable than the typologies in homestuck though. but you will perceive there to be similarities in the need for archetypal/thematic sense skills.

if you want to learn socionics, for the love of god start here. there are many weak places out there to start out with that will set you up with a faulty and loose understanding, but school of classic socionics is the best foundation to start with. i saw it emerge from the beginning when it was founded, having been part of it since late 2022.

this is an introduction to SCS, what makes it special, and and how differs from other socionics schools. i find SCS to be the most comprehensive, and i’m active within a side discord to discuss theoretical constructs related to model A. i’ve helped find the links between some concepts in model A that weren’t fully substantiated in augusta’s original works, specifically the importance of the asking/declaring reinin dichotomy, how it fits with regard to the rest of model A’s structure, how it underpins the ring of social benefit (which was missing from her writing), and how it can be used as an information element charge just like positivist/negativist can (i.e. all process types have positive asking Ne (+Ne? and all result types have negative declaring Ne (-Ne!). i’m still working on transfering my essay on that to a document.)

i know the intricacies of this system like the back of my hand but yeah i never post much about it because it’s so niche and i dont know who would even want to hear it besides people who i already know would, like in that small specialist group, but they actually been quiet lately even though i’m still active in there sharing things i realized. and i even feel alienated in most casual socionics discussion groups, especially larger ones. i need people who can match my freak about it.

because i have nowhere else to talk about it i’m starting to feel guilty yapping my friends’ ears off about it when i deconstruct everything i come across in light of this system like i’m being annoying about it. but at the same time when im doing that i am constantly reinforcing the merit of the system in successfully finding some dynamic i see in the drama of real life in connection to some idea from the model. i can immediately lock on to the core principles that are at play in any situation, validating the patterns that have been observed by others. by what measure do these people / characters / groups relate to each other, how do we define the specific “feeling” of the energy between them together? i could do a socionical analysis for anything that captures my interest.

it’s also been incredible for self-insight. i can now accurately explain my thought process.

i can change my perspective of the scope of my thinking on different levels. depending on the urgency of a situation developing around me and my respect for other people’s time, i can expand my reasoning from splitting hairs at the smallest pedantic specifics—although i prefer not to, to the most holistic global hard binary 0/1 (no/yes) judgment.

it’s fractal-like; once i know how to classify and compare the features of something to another, everything else with overlapping logical relationships instantly rises up in the same way, which of course is what leads to me having insights that reinforce the potential inherent in the things around me, because my way of thinking is isomorphic. i also experience strong animated mental imagery accompanying my conscious thoughts about these systems, minimalist shapes or lines of the barebones motion happening. i feel like my mental activity and what i actually write down is trying to capture what im seeing in my head.

i prefer to be brief, but that requires sharing contexts with someone. once i've established similar ways of talking about the same thing with someone so that we’re on the same page, our messages basically become exchanging code words with each other. all of the potential densely packed into these efficient little terms.

the effect is that i am reducing the amount of time and energy i have to spend trying to explain things to someone. i just want to communicate easily and be understood by the people i talk to so that i can enjoy my time with them. this is why i felt like such a long, clarifying, in-depth post was necessary, which would rip the bandaid off and pull it all up at once, instead of on a private, individual-to-individual level. i had to have it engraved somewhere i could just point someone to instead of repeatedly having to explain the same thing over and over cause that’s a waste of time and energy.

in fact, that revelation i had about myself just now can be explained by model A too! my own type is LIl and this type’s id block houses the information elements +Te! → +Ni?, which aushra describes as “The quality of deeds and actions and the efficient expenditure of energy in work—only performing for what is truly necessary—leads to peace of mind in the future.”

or, for example, coming at it from another angle, here is an older post i made before i was even aware of socionics. i was already talking about my experiences, patterns of thinking and self-awareness in a way that was so on the nose for a socionics analysis.

is that not the clearest example of phase 2’s sensitivity (for me it is information about sensorics)? -Fi? → -Se! superego block, anyone? and did you see how much i gave attention to the time i spend working; +Te! -> +Ni? id block? [information element descriptions here]. you could also derive the progression of the information metabolism stages in my own psyche (phase 1: Ethics -> phase 2: Sensorics -> phase 3: Logic -> phase 4: Intuition).

(from The Characteristic of SLI)

so through socionics it’s like i can find an explanation for just about everything i observe in others and myself just because i’ve extrapolated the logical relationships from that system and can isomorphically apply them to anything.

and i don't say that lightly! i'm not saying anything in this post lightly. like i have a degree in biopsychology from an honors college (ncf; yes, the liberal arts college desantis got his soulless hands on because it was “too woke"). having taken courses in statistics, research methods in psychology, and others, i know all about proper research design (and designing them myself). and of course i ended my four years there with my undergrad thesis, examining temporoparietal synchrony in autistic individuals when working alone and together, where for months on end i was doing nothing but reading and interpreting the validity of research papers. i even deconstructed poorly designed psychological constructs commonly used in autistic research in mine.

i also took personality psychology as a course during my time there. i got a birds eye view of most of the popular paradigms and still felt like i was more knowledgeable in the discourse behind some of the topics we glossed over since the course material was more of a broad comprehensive thing than an in-depth one for anything specific. in totality, all of the models i read about in relation to each other seemed so fragmented into different cuts and perspectives in trying to understand and find the patterns in people’s mental life. and yet none of the models i read about hold as as great of an everyday explanatory power as socionics does for explaining ways of thinking, people's proneness to certain tendencies, and the energetic tension that happens between certain people.

people can say otherwise that it’s pseudoscience. even though there are numerous studies built on real-world observations, the large-scale statistical data like from victor talanov. there's school of system socionics who emphasize its practice. it would be impossible to add all the evidence i can to support my claims to this post but you can see for youself - there are still countless new articles being published from different authors. regardless of that, even if it isn't accepted within the rigors of “scientific canon” i really dont give a fuck since it absolutely does indeed have explanatory and predictive power, and that’s all i care about. i’m confident in this not only through firsthand experience, the ability to frame what i know to be true about the real world within it and have it successfully describe those things, as well as talking to other people about my observations.

additionally, i see people make conclusions about interpersonal dynamics where they unknowingly repeat information that can be derived from socionics concepts.

something i noticed a LOT and ive repeatedly thought about and come to the same conclusion multiple times is that i think i naturally might "embody" the most optimal ways of interacting with other people for myself. it gives me insight into the nature of the personal relationships that i already procure in my life, but it’s not really a self-fulfilling prophecy because i dont use socionics to prescribe who i "should" be friends with. that's silly. thats a silly thing to do because people do have idiosyncracies that don't perfectly align with a system if you rigidly adhere to it, so you're bound to be set up for failure if you try to force that and you will be disappointed. it's better to let these feelings happen naturally without pretense, because that's where the observations that fuel my insight comes from.

i have a subconscious sense for who i will be able to get along with in the long term almost instantly without the need for any kind of system, just based on their actual mannerisms and “vibes”, but that alone is not good enough for me, i want to know why. socionics just gives me tools to figure out why so that i know what im dealing with and its not just ineffable energies, but i can put a name to those energies to think and talk about it and compare and discover patterns in what ive curated in my inner circle over my life, what i feel drawn towards. and indeed i do find plentiful amounts of recurring patterns. the simplification and abstraction is not to destroy the soul and expression of individuals but to wrap my head around them and understand them deeper in relation to everything else, including myself.

i am aware it can be confusing for many people which turns them away. but if theres any questions you have or youre confused about any concepts i can answer them

but yeah um, i’ve really only scratched the surface of this cognitive cybernetic tool. if you are genuinely interested in what i have to say and want me to talk more about it please openly tell me since i’m not a mind reader! i assume disinterest by default.

anyway if you got to this point thanks for reading. i wanted to just put it out there for context about any posts i make in the future. just stating my honest thoughts and whats been occupying my mind for the past two years.

be on the lookout for the john and aradia analysis soon where i’ll use it in practice to deconstruct some things about those characters. and if you’re coming to this post from that analysis after ive posted it, i’m sorry this post is so long in the middle of an already long-ish post. i just thought the context was important.

[jerry-the-leech]

Welcome to your favourite show: what unhinged things has Lovely put in their outline?

here's some random lines out of context that I find really fucking funny:

the chapter ends with an old lady having a heart attack (rip old lady)

she goes to the kitchen in a mad panic cause she's late for school to find her mother making soup

and her friend is like 'what in the backward ass logic is that?'

Blah Blah bullisht

they argue about their precious little public image

don’t be stinky hormonal teenagers and take out the sudden changes of your lives on each other (this is my favourite)

'Budget Hogwarts' and "Barry Digger and the smart man's rock"

She comes out holding a shampoo bottle as a weapon

I'm only half way through chapter 13. I will be updating this list at some point

also, I've started to explain how magic is actually preformed lore wise (or at least spell casting) and I figured you want to know?

also how are you on this finest day?

MY FAVORITE SHOWWW!!

*eagerly turns on tv and cuddles on couch under blanket*

LMAOO THIS IS ICONIC I LOVE IT SO MUCH

My fav is prob She comes out holding a shampoo bottle as a weapon that oen is great

ooo yes please tell meeeeee

im fucking bad i had a panic attack in pe class and then idkk the day went down hill from there (that was 2nd period)

[mychapel-004]

i am about to ramble like a crazy person abt the fnaf movie so scroll if u don’t like spoilers

was not expecting all the love on my last post so i will keep posting thoughts abt the movie

another thing that rlly interested me in the movie was the focus on images, how humans process things through what we see rather than context, and how this sets up the fnaf movie trilogy to focus on fnaf 4 in the next movies.

the most obvious example is abby, we’re explicitly told that children communicate and understand things through pictures, which mike sorta shrugs off until he starts seeing the bigger picture. this then applies to the animatronics when he learns that they are also children and incredibly influenced by the drawings in their environment. the restaurant in the movie is very much a living thing of its own, the way it thrums to life when abby enters, and the animatronics know the truth of the drawing the second it is pinned up, and the animatronics are an extension of that.

a less obvious example is mike. even though he shrugs off abby’s teacher, and the point she makes about him being at the centre of all her pictures, he is much the same. it isn’t just children who are influenced by images. he has been returning to the same image every night for we don’t even know how long, the same picture of the nebraskan trees, the same perfect family picture he describes to vanessa, the same image of his brother looking at him out of the car window. everything he does is a result of this image. he is wholly consumed by it, believes he can somehow change the picture and see the truth beneath it if he just tries hard enough.

the ghost children, specifically golden freddy, change the image for him in an attempt to placate him into giving them abby, but no matter if he dreams of a happy family, it wont change the truth of what happened. just like how pasting a picture of five children happily holding hands with a golden bunny won’t change the truth underneath. images are fallible, they don’t tell the truth and we cannot trust our brains.

firstly i think this is a really fun direction to take in context to how the movie humanises the animatronics. fnaf 1 is a game made entirely of scary, still images of the animatronics, save for the jumpscares and foxy’s run. the lore is sparse and entirely given through exposition (if i hear one more person complain abt vanny only being there for exposition and not phone guy’s two minute loredump at the start of every night in the game i will lose it), and we know nothing other than that our death is imminent.

but the truth is that these animatronics are kids. they’re scared and lost and confused and cannot understand what has happened. underneath bonnie in the west hallway camera and freddy staring at you from the showtime room are terrified kids doing what they feel they have to. the movie was incredibly dedicated to showing that these kids still want to build pillow forts and sing to music and tickle their friends and be a family and i think it was a great choice.

i think all this focus on images is definitely a perfect lead into fnaf 4 (im not 100% on my book lore but i believe there are three books that cover fnaf 1, fnaf 4 and then sister location??) especially with the recent lore update that all of fnaf 4 is hallucinations. we don’t need a lore explanation of how the nightmares could be real because… they aren’t. following the game timeline, fnaf 4 would have already happened by now but we could easily see a return to it through mike, especially if the schmidt-emily or schmidt-afton theories are true and mike could have been the child in fnaf 4 but surpressed his memories. firstly we have a protagonist who is already on sleeping medication and has dreams that can be easily manipulated. this is a perfect setup for the nightmare animatronics to start making themselves known.

i also think that fnaf 1 was intentionally visually tame. the themes of the movie are actually very dark, they don’t shy away from the truth of the bodies being hidden in the suits, the animatronics Very Brutally kill the burglars, max is literally bitten in half and her body is hidden away, but the on-screen gore keeps it pg. this 100% allows them to experiment further with the levels of gore, tension and violence if they do fnaf 4, because quite frankly some of the nightmares are horrifying.

TLDR this movie sets up a million directions and theories that the next one could go in, and theres nothing the fnaf fandom loves more than vague lore and theory crafting

vanny post next bc i have Thoughts

[thatonedaydream]

Don’t really wanna be Elevator Buddies (Sephiroth x Reader)

A/N: Part 1 here. im suffering sufficiently at my current job that im leaving that i think i can write something because i need an outlet and i also want sephiroth to make it better. also, i am so much older than when i wrote the first part; as such, my writing probably reads a lot more different - better, worse or same is up to you. to those who have requested a part 2 and have waited literal years (its been 4!!!!!), i love you, i'm so sorry its so late.

★★★★★

Staring at the message in your work inbox, you suddenly couldn’t summon the effort to care. Your mood instantly dropped and you needed to leave your desk. You kept your headset on as you wandered towards the small staff kitchen under the guise that you were still connected to a meeting and listening in, when really you just want to block people out. You didn’t want to be perceived.

You just wanted out.

ShinRa Inc wasn’t known as the best place to work, but the pay was good and it was better than any other options you had. 

The coffee machine rumbled as you waited for it to process your order. You didn’t even want to drink the cheap, watered down stuff, you just didn’t want to be at your desk looking at that stupid fucking request. There wasn’t much that could get your out of these kinds of emotional troughs bar one thing that seemed to always work.

You felt the vibration of a notification from your phone in your pocket. Knowing what and who it was probably from, you eagerly checked the new message that had come through. It was just a photo of blue sky with some clouds—the tops of greenery you didn’t recognise lined the bottom. It was very abstract and out of context, but you were used to it now.

Putting aside your misery for the moment, you typed out a short response.

I can’t beat that. This is my view.

You took a photo of the ceiling above you. Stark, stale and claustrophobic in comparison to the natural sky you were given. You sent it off and only a few seconds later, received a thumbs up in response. It made you laugh.

Sephiroth was a terrible at texting sometimes, but it was endearing in way.

When you had first traded contact details a little after The Elevator Incident, it had taken a while before anything was sent from either of you. You were too scared of bothering him and he was more than likely too busy or just didn’t know what to send. It also felt like trading personal IDs was crossing into an entirely different friend territory that wasn’t as nonchalant as impromptu elevator conversations.

The messaging ice was broken when, one day, you got a single image of chocobo out in the wild with no context. If you didn’t have Sephiroth’s ID saved, you would have wondered if someone had messaged the wrong person. Your response was a quick ‘I love chocobos, they’re so cute!’, and your reward several hours later was a picture of a sweetly sleeping chocobo in a stable.

Sephiroth was a man of very few words, but he still found ways to communicate with you and that honestly made you feel… Well, you weren’t sure you wanted to admit what you were feeling too much. You knew you had feelings for the man, that you were attracted to him, but those feelings had no where to go. You couldn’t tell him.

For many reasons, you just couldn’t ever tell him about your ever growing affection for him.

You just couldn’t.

You wandered back to your desk, completely forgetting about the coffee you had made in the kitchen. The message from the 1st Class Soldier perked you up way more than the caffeine would have anyway. You scrolled through your requests again and sighed. It was probably going to be another late night in the office. Maybe you’d just call in sick tomorrow.

You worked a few more hours, eyeing your phone and hoping for more messages, but none came. Sephiroth was often the one to initiate conversation as you still felt like you would bother him if you sent something first. Still… You kind of really wanted to talk to someone—to him, specifically. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to send one message?

Picking up your phone you opened up your chat and tried to think of something to say. You typed out several things, but kept deleting them. ‘Hello’ felt too formal, ‘Hi!’ seemed too chipper.

Is something wrong?

The message popped up before you could send something yourself.

!!! No! I was just about to message you. How are you?

There was a pause—and then a short voice message.

▶• ıll— “Are you sure you’re alright? Was there something else you wanted to say to me?”  

You could hear the smile in his words and you flushed upon the realisation that he must have seen your stupid three dots pop up and disappear constantly in the chat. You playfully hissed your own voice note back, 

▶• ıll— “Ohhh shut up, I just didn’t want to bother you!” 

Putting your phone down, you peeked over your divider and looked around to see if anyone else could hear you. It was fairly late in the office, way past usual business hours, so you could see some screens still lit up around the  space, but there wasn’t anyone near you.

Your phone pinged a few times, indicating new messages. Some more photos, but this time of more a familiar sight—the Midgar cityscape.

I’m back.

It had been awhile since he had left on his last mission. You were glad he was back safe, not that you’d tell him that now. You sent off a quick, mildly motion blurred snap of your desk and sent it off.

?

A question mark? A question mark to what? The photo wasn’t that blurry.

It’s my desk.

Are you still working? It’s late.

Ohhhh… You cringed; it was late. Honestly if you didn’t procrastinate with absolute loathing and low morale earlier in the day you probably could have been home already, but you couldn’t push through the negativity.

Yeah, its been a rough day.

You waited for a response, but none came. Sephiroth went inactive spontaneously during your conversations, so it wasn’t surprising. Instead you put your phone down and continued on a project that was behind on its deadlines. Technically all of them were behind, but this one you at least had the energy to push through for now.

An hour later your phone pinged a couple times. A photo of the elevator you used everyday to get to up to your floor and:

Time to leave.

You stared at the message, biting your lip. Even if you wanted to leave, there was still things to be done and—

Do I have to drag you out?

▶• ıll— “Okay! Alright! I’m packing up, hold your damn chocobos. I’m leaving now.”

Who knew Sephiroth could be so pushy? During the long elevator ride down to the lobby, you wondered if maybe he only showed this side of himself to people he trusted or cared about. The thought made your stomach flip.

It could also have been that people never really gave Sephiroth the opportunity to be himself. It was an upsetting thought. He was the 1st Class Soldier, a warrior that couldn’t be toppled, a man way above the norm. Untouchable. Distant. You knew what his public image was like, but still somehow you couldn’t fathom how people couldn’t consider that there was another side to him.

The side of him that you always got to see.

The same Sephiroth that you saw was waiting for you as the elevator doors opened. You couldn’t help but smile at the sight. He stood by the empty reception desk with his arms crossed, looking out the front entrance. When he heard your footsteps he turned to face you almost immediately. The man’s expression would have seemed stoic to others, but you recognised the warmth in his mako-infused gaze.

What if you were the only person he looked at that way? You held your smile steady even as your heart argued with your head to accept that maybe that’s what you really wanted.

It felt like Sephiroth’s gaze only intensified as you approached him. “...You look awful.” His voice was low, quiet, but still teasing. There was a chuckle in there too, somewhere in his deep tone. Sure you had heard it recently in the voice message, but it wasn’t the same as hearing him speak to you in person.

“That’s so mean, Seph. Not even a proper greeting for me? Wow.” Even though you were exhausted, you automatically matched his manner. “You look…” Oh, you couldn’t tell him how you really felt about how he looked. There were so many adoring and affectionate words, yet somehow still not enough. “...Like you?” You finally sputtered out after filtering all the other things that your mouth wanted to say.

The 1st Class Soldier gifted you with a short laugh and you struggled to hold back the burst of emotions that bloomed in your chest. “You are so mean to me.” This interaction wasn’t like the others. This didn’t feel like the light playful chats in the elevator. When did these interactions change? When did all the same words that you used to use before suddenly mean something different?

Sephiroth suddenly leaned closer towards you, a small smirk crossing his lips. “I am nice to you.” The way he spoke was next to a purr, “Did you want me to be mean?” It felt like the mako glow in his eyes brightened for a moment; he was close enough that you could see specks of the otherworldly green in his irises.

You wanted to die on the spot. He was not flirting with you, no matter how much it felt like it. No way. However, before you could stop yourself, you replied quietly. “...I like it when you’re nice to me.” The look on Sephiroth’s face melted into something else—something just as warm, just as intense, but something so much more genuine and it immediately scared you. Before he could say anything more you let out dismissive laugh. “Phew, I am a lot more exhausted than I thought. I-I should probably get home.”

Maybe the fear was reflected in your expression. Sephiroth fell back into his usual cool and stoic demeanor and you wanted to apologise—it was hard not to feel as though you had just ruined something important. Casual conversation you could navigate. This? What was this?

Of course you’d find a way to make a bad day worse. Of course you’d ruin a good thing. Of course you’d—

A large hand pressed into your lower back and guided you forwards, interrupting your downward spiraling thoughts. When you looked up at Sephiroth beside you, he simply watched and waited for you to take the lead. Nothing in how he looked at you had changed from when you had first exited the elevator. “There’s a car waiting for you outside.” That voice you so adored, was steady and warm and sure. Still the same.

Quietly you stepped outside with Sephiroth in tow. He opened the car door for you, nodding to the driver who did the same in return. You sat in the back seat, with the soldier leaning outside on the vehicle, looking in to make sure you were comfortable. 

“...Bye Seph.” You really did sound tired.

Sephiroth didn’t respond right away, but the silence wasn’t as heavy as the one inside the lobby. He placed a hand over his heart and bowed his head. “Goodnight.” You knew there was something else he wanted to say, but he held his tongue. There was another pause before he shut the door for you.

You leaned back in your seat and let the butterflies run rampant in your belly, let the buzz run through your veins, let it hum through your body. You covered your hands with your face. It felt like there was still something left to say, a conversation left unfinished.

From outside the ShinRa building, Sephiroth watched as you were driven away out of sight. He stood there, holding what he really wanted to say to you in his throat.

It was frustrating for him to know he could physically conquer any fight, any conflict, except for whatever he could see going on in your eyes. Did you know that he could see you becoming more and more tired with each interaction you had? It frustrated him to no end knowing that people took advantage of you and your time and your efforts. Idiots. Fools. 

How could he put into words how you made him feel? Sephiroth was no good at words. He just wanted to keep you safe. He just wanted you not to be tired. He just wanted you to always smile when you saw him—a smile that said you were genuinely happy to see him. Not the 1st Class Soldier, but happy to see Sephiroth himself.

The man snapped out of his reverie as his phone pinged with a message. A voice note from you.

▶• ıll— “...I missed you, Sephiroth. Welcome home.”

Sephiroth stared at the screen of his phone.

And then he replayed the message, just to hear your voice again.

[mycatishandsome]

AMA: My Experience as an Experienced “Shifter” and Where I am Today with it

So, I don’t ever talk about sifting anymore really, even to the friends I made through the sifting community, but I’ve weirdly been seeing a lot of sifting posts on my main and thought that it couldn’t be a coincidence- especially since I hadn’t been looking for the content. Tumblr is very specific about their algorithm I’ve found. That was weeks ago though, but for the first time today, I actually thought about shifting.

For a bit of context- I used to be a very popular shifttoker on TikTok years ago. Obviously im not anymore. I did it for about a year- met some great people, and some others not so much. It was exciting while it lasted, but i moved on after i started to notice all the drama, and genuinely got so annoyed so i left. Before shiftok, I was already very spiritual and using my time to consistently look into techniques especially regarding meditation, lucid dreaming, and astral projection. I never did figure out astral projection, but became what you could call a “master” of lucid dreaming. I was doing it every night, several times a night without waking up or causing problems! Then deeper into my research i found out about shifting.

It was much like lucid dreaming, or at least it followed my theories about dreams- that when we dream, we’re technically in another “state of existence” much like astral projection, where our consciousness is leaving the body. I couldn’t find much info on it honestly, and what info i did find either led back to TikTok, or to ancient spiritualities and religions, and I genuinely couldn’t decipher half the stuff i was reading from them. My mistake, was i went to TikTok instead of trying to understand anything else. TikTok, I genuinely believe, has done irreversible damage to what actual shifting is, and if you were anywhere near shiftok in 2019-2022ish, you know exactly what im talking about.

BUT that’s not what this post is about, I wanted to talk more about my experiences (just wanted to add my history :))

My first shift was actually not too long after i found out what shifting was, I can’t entirely recall the method i used- no its not one of the fancyshmancy ones we see all over YouTube. It was something more simple, like a genuinely simple meditation, and at this point i had gotten very good at meditating- shutting my mind off and feeling everything but nothing (if that makess sense). It was unlike anything i had experienced, ESPECIALLY lucid dreaming. It was really just a mirror image of this world, with some differences, so nothing crazy. It was after i had found shiftok that i decided to join in as a creator and share my experiences, as I was actively shifting.

This was another mistake, as i found it more difficult to shift after this, but again- this post isn’t about that.

I was actively shifting for about 2-3 years before I eventually stopped. Why did I stop? I started to see really negative results in my real life (cr as some call it). I had some real elaborate realities I would go to, some were planned to the most minuscule detail, others not as much. But i had a blast regardless, and genuinely learned so many new things. I stopped when I started to really look at my life here, which when i was a creator, i always would tell my followers to ground yourself here, to never look past what’s happening here. It’s easy to get lost in your many lives, but it’s not worth losing this one. I really should’ve followed my own advice though. In my life here, I was still in college, had just broken up with my boyfriend of a year, had some shit friends, and a job at a library (which was honestly the only good thing). My life was boring, and I was living out what i wanted, through shifting. Which isn’t entirely a bad thing, just not the best thing.

Once shiftok when to shit and i had left, I had kind of “healed” myself in a way and created a new relationship with shifting, i was shifting regularly again. It was also at this point that I started to come up with more theories about shifting other then the whole, “we’re tuning in to another consciousness”. I’m by all means not saying that isn’t what it is, but we don’t know for sure if it is, so i was just having fun, as a regular shifter and lucid dreamer, trying to figure out other explanations.

I havn’t shfited in god knows how long. I haven’t meditated either. And I sure as hell haven’t lucid dreamed. It sucks to kind of lose something that was such a huge part of your life, but for reasons that has made my life better. I now have a partner of 2 years, im back in school for my masters, and im generally happy with my life :). The first time i have thought about shifting, was this morning when i woke up. Something happened earlier this week that has caused me great stress (family related) and one of my thoughts were “man shifting somewhere else would be lovely” just this idea of not having to deal with anything really. This thought process isn’t healthy, and by no means should you shift to escape anything. If you choose to do this (let’s face it, lots of us have or will), just understand the consequences.

If anyone would like to hear any shifting stories, methods, or theories or just any questions, please ask! I may not shift anymore but i love talking about it :)

Thank you for reading :)

[bunnyzweig]

An inch away from more than just friends♡ ☆*:.｡. oo .｡.:*☆

Tashi Duncan x fem oc

Note!!: Im a liiittle embarrassed by this one but oh well… also for context Rory and Art are together!! If anyone has questions about her pls pls ask me!! :D and this hasn’t been proofread. If you see mistakes, no u don’t!

Summary: Tashi and Rory can’t remember a time when they weren’t together. Surely it’s only natural that they do a little exploring together atleast once, right?

Girls night with Tashi were a sacred thing. She never failed to make Rory feel… special. Tashi had that effect on people.

It was a warm, sticky day in late August— Art and Patrick were having their own ‘boys night’, leaving the two girls crammed into Rory’s dorm room, watching stupid rom-coms and doing eachothers makeup.

Rory’s brows were furrowed, a mix of focus and determination on her face as she tried her best to neatly apply Tashi’s eyeliner.

Tashi herself was leaning back on her palms, dark, cattish eyes tracking every little move that Rory made. After Rory finished her second eye, Tashi leaned up, tucking her hair behind her ear. Rory smiled, her head tilting.

“What?”

Tashi just hummed, a small smile quirking on her own lips.

“Nothing. I just think you look nice tonight.”

Rory laughed, a small, forced sound.

“Do I not usually?”

Tashi seemed to consider this for a moment. After a while, she shrugged again.

Rory looked back to the TV, watching as some generic blonde woman cried over a guy with too many muscles. When she looked back, Tashi was still staring.

“Seriously,” Rory giggled, “what is it?”

Tashi straightened out, sitting up and crossing her legs.

“Have you ever kissed a girl, Rory?” She smiled, leaning back over to twirl one of the mousy brown strands of her hair.

Rory shook her head, mouth suddenly dry.

“No. No, I- I don’t think I’m…”

“…seriously?” Tashi scoffed. “No offence, Rory, but I catch you staring at me all the time. You can tell me if you’re into me.”

“I mean,” Rory looked away again. Tashi seemed to know exactly what to do in order to get make her brain feel like mush, “I guess I think about kissing you sometimes.”

Tashi’s face lit up all over again.

“Yeah? And what would Art think of that, huh?”

The two stared at eachother, before bursting into another fit of laughter. They both knew exactly how he’d react—big blue eyes, pink puffy lips—eager and confused all at once.

The image had only just finished processing in her mind when Rory felt lips on her own. Her eyes darted down, watching a smile spread across Tashi’s face when she pulled away.

“Why did you pull away?” Rory asked quietly, sitting forward on her knees. Her arms clumsily looped around Tashi’s neck, getting closer. She needed to be closer.

She straddled Tashi’s hips, lips meeting with hers again. This time, Tashi didn’t pull away. She tilted her head, nipping on Rory’s lip and slipping her tongue in the second her mouth parted in a gasp.

Tashi ran her hands through Rory’s hair, messing with it and pulling at it, gasps and yelps and a mess of different noises spilling lewdly from her warm, wet mouth.

She stood up, scooping Rory with her, and laying her down on the bed.

“You’re so pretty,” she whispered, pulling down her shorts.

“Art doesn’t deserve you. You know that, right?” She leaned down, lapping at Rory’s neck before sucking a dark hickey onto it.

Rory’s eyes were squeezed shut, grabbing at the sleeves of Tashi’s pink zip up.

“Gorgeous girl.” She murmured.

“Tashi-“ Rory yelped. The taller girl smiled, tilting her head.

“Yeah?”

Rory swallowed, and made another squeaky noise.

“I don’t think Patrick deserves you.” She mumbled.

She smiled, before leaning back down, her lips immediately latched onto Rory’s clit, sucking at it before licking a stripe up it.

“Here, girl,” she cooed, bringing two fingers up and gently prodding them into Rory’s mouth. She sucked earnestly, drool spilling down her chin before Tashi’s fingers were rudely ripped away from her.

Seconds later, though, Tashi was licking at her clit again, two fingers slamming in and out of her hole. Rory mewled, bringing one arm up to cover her eyes.

“Tashi—“

“Mhmm?” The vibrations against her clit almost made Rory scream.

“Just—“ she whined, “thank you,”

Tashi laughed softly, her breath warm against Rory’s cunt.

“You’re welcome.” She cooed, lapping at her sticky cunt, before going back to sucking at her clit.

Rory looked like she was on a whole different level of existence. She was just gaping hopelessly, hands gripping at her sheets, before her hips snapped up and met Tashi’s jaw.

“Oh my god!” She yelped, her thighs clenching around Tashi’s head, who was still (somehow) lapping at Rory’s cum.

“That good?” She asked softly, sitting up and gently rubbing at Rory, who was pouting.

“M-mhm, yeah,” she mumbled.

“Over too soon?” Tashi asked smugly, kissing Rory’s cheek. Rory nodded again, taking Tashi’s hand.

The remainder of the night consisted of Tashi getting Rory off atleast two or three more times, before running her a bath.

The girls were both in fresh pyjamas by the time their respective boyfriends dropped in by the dorm.

Neither Art nor Patrick seemed to notice the knowing grin Tashi shot Rory.

Until next time.

[oscconfessions]

the Osc is such a wonderful and genuinely wonderful place.

until you bring up tacomic or people seeing yin Yang/bot as kids/teens.

Then people write essays about how you’re wrong, and I’d like to say that I don’t know those people. I don’t know their likes, their dislikes, (sometimes) their name, their personality, anything about them.

it’d be stupid to make any judgement on them as a person (or to even dehumanize them, because I’ve seen that happen before) just because they said something that I disagree with.

because all I know about these people are that they hate (insert topic/character), and specifically on this blog you see people at their most enraged, their most passionate, so that’s the only context I have for these people. it scares me. how angry people get. I try my best to respect everyone’s opinions, but- still, half the time I get a bad taste in my mouth and don’t know how to communicate why I don’t like something, while still wording it in a non confrontational manner (I.e. instead of saying “im so angry at you” saying “what you said made me upset”)

I don’t want to down play people’s feelings by saying ‘they’re just objects’ or ‘it’s just fiction’ but I don’t know how else to word it.

Like, I like the headcannon that yin Yang is a teen because I feel it suits the image of the character I have in my head. But that’s just my opinion, and I don’t understand why people would tell me that my version of the character is wrong. It’s a matter of opinion and I feel that people tend to forget that.

also there was a person who said that “everyone who ships tacomic is a pro shipper” which 1. Is a very generalized statement to make ans assumes that all tacomic shippers have the same reasons for shipping it & 2. I just, don’t understand the hate around tacomic?? Like I get it’s Manipulative and toxic (and I don’t mean to down play That and sorry if it comes across as such) but people hating everyone whom ships it, & people also assume that it’s not post cannon, or in and au, but that it’s just during ii s2. Like I’m pretty neutral on the ship my self, but just I don’t know why people hate it so much.

anyways sorry for the rant, at the end of the day your opinions are yours and that contributes to you being a unique human being, & if anyone wants to leave an essay explaining their reasoning I’d love to read it /gen

.

[confessioncivilization]

frieren au anon here :) not much has changed! but also dw even before i did a small round of edits we never actually saw the torture, only the implements :) emf has never seen an iv machine before but they have now! they of course dont know what it is tho :)

ALSO the fic is now multiple chapters! im planning on finishing up to what i hope to be chapter 3 before beginning to post (with a posting schedule of once a month/every other month)

OOOOOOOO I SHOULD GIVE A LIL SNIPPET also for context its raining :)

“Come to scold me?” The venom was watered down. “Tell me how monstrous I am?” He giggled and wiped raindrops—just raindrops—from his face. “It’s not exactly news.” “Come home.” They weren’t proud of the waver in their voice. “Please.” Seawatt turned his head and eyed them and their cloak with derision. “Why should I?” he snapped. “Why shouldn’t I just waste away here and desecrate your god’s image one final time with my ashes?” EMF let the cloak fall to the floor. “I don’t know,” they whispered. An olive branch. One they hoped desperately that the other would take. They can't be alone again. EMF tamped that thought down quickly. Seawatt took the cloak for himself. It was a start. The rain was finally starting to let up.

giggles cutely OK BYEEEEEE

im setting you on fire frieren au anon

[crazylittlejester]

DAILY BRAINROT

I really need to stop trying to explain my fics out of context to my college friends. Today, someone asked if they could read my Hyrule whump fic because I said it was about "a rescue operation." Which technically isn't lying because I've got at least 2,000 words of Sky & Warriors rescuing Hyrule, but I also didn't tell him it was fanfiction...

Anyway, I've been poking at the Midwest gothic horror AU and have made progress on Sky's backstory. He is, of course, a god-killer.

God-killers are a whole thing in this AU. It's not a species so much as a classification based on potential. No one really knows how people become god-killers, they're just born that way. Given that it's based on their potential to kill a god, they're only called god-killers before they kill a god.

This is because once a god dies, there has to be a replacement or else the world will end. So you can think of god-killers as baby gods, I suppose, even though that's technically not right. Anyway, god-killers are forced to lose the type of mortality that prevents them (and everyone else) from being gods as they're slowly turned into the very thing that they destroyed. The variable is which god they kill if they kill a god. (Not all of them actually kill gods.)

Sky never looked for a god on purpose until the mess with Sun happened. Hylia ended up convincing him to fight Demise on her behalf because gods can't kill each other. Only god-killers can kill gods, so she needed him. Once he killed Demise, though, he ended up getting stuck in the process of becoming the next god of that domain.

no because today i was telling a coworker about how i ranted to my friends about the star wars sequels and essentially rewrote the movies in said rant and she went, “Oh you mean like fanfiction? You write fanfiction?” AND I WALKED STRAIGHT INTO A FUCKING WALL. BECAUSE LIKE YES, I DO WRITE FANFICTION (OBVIOUSLY), BUT THAT WASNT WHAT I FUCKING MEANT, I MEANT I TOLD MY FRIENDS HOW I PERSONALLY WOULDVE WRITTEN THOSE MOVIES, SO NOW MY COWORKER THINKS I WRITE STAR WARS SEQUELS FANFICTION. and I don’t even think I can correct her because she genuinely thinks thats super cool and I cannot ruin her image of me by going “haha actually i write fanfiction for a fan COMIC of a video game ☝️🤓”

guess i have to go rewrite the starwars sequels now /j

‘slowly turned into the very thing that they destroyed’ <- BITING YOU. /pos

dude im SO obsessed with this au idea its so awesome. midwest horror my fucking LOVE. AND THE THOUGHT YOU PUT INTO ALL OF IT?? OUGH. EATING IT. EATING IT!!

[knizuu]

DECIDED A REBLOG WOULDN’T BE ENOUGH- // FANG RANT PT 2

Ok ok ok, WE BACK AND CHATTIN’. TIME TO GRAB POPCORN OR WATER IDK TO ENJOY MY RANT <33 +uhh warning ig: get ready for BEEG over analyzation lol 

.

.

.

Soooo

Notice the color used on the arrows? Symbolizing yellow and red? If you see this conversation as a mockin’ful, you can relate the meanings. If used negatively [seems fitting for this scene], you get this: Yellow meaning cowardice, and red meaning warning. 

Honestly, this is VERY fitting, knowing how scared Fang is in Fang’s Big Break. The amount of fear he gets in Superstars as a whole really makes you worry for him. Bean is pretty explanatory, he’s “getting tired of Fang’s antics”. Reason for Bark not having the arrow, I'm not sure, possibly because he’s not verbally arguing, or he’s not as mad as the others. Either way, I think Bark is just more caring about the situation. With this hypothetical situation, I think Fang is just scared that he’ll be alone. So he turns reactive in the face of a jerky persona. For Bean, he’s gaining more independence. I know this rant isn’t about ‘im but I really do realize how much Bean is getting as a character. He’s speaking more, asking the questions, getting sassy more on screen. 

Okay, now let’s get into connecting Fang’s Big Break with Fang the Hunter. I’m claiming that FTH is before FBB, because I’m sure that’s the motion for it. Looking at the images below, don’t they look similar? Somewhat? Now I want you to mash those frames up, with the speech including the thoughts.

“Bean?! Bark?!” [Get your act together! You’re repeating your past mistakes! You’re better than this! You have to be!] Both are in distress, and it shows how much content is missing from the cover [saying that Fang is just what he shows to be]. And even if both situations are VERY DIFFERENT: See how that helps my case even more. In FTH, he’s with his crew and now they’re gone. Of course he’s gonna yell out for them, that’s the first instinct. This is expected, if you lost the people near you, of course you’re gonna call for ‘em. Nothing deep is seen here, but for the right image, I differ. I say it over and over again, but he really is trying to be better. The context is, he’s on a hunt and he angered a bird who now is chasing him along with crushing his cork gun. A big difference between the situations is that he STARTED alone compared to becoming alone. With no one else in his mind, he’s gonna worry for himself. But he isn’t getting mad about being alone [at least, from what’s written], he’s not yelling for help, he has only himself to talk to. And what does he notify himself? “Get your act together”. He’s trying to stop his mistakes, whatever that may be. 

Let’s use that past sentence, and although it ails Hooligan fans [INCLUDING ME AHHHHHH </3], let’s imagine Bean, Bark, and Fang harshly separated. If you put that hypothetical with Fang’s thoughts, you can imagine he’s telling himself to stop being careless.+SINCE I’M STILL MAKING THIS HAPPY, THIS HYPOTHETICAL DEF HAS BEAN AND BARK COMING BACK <33

From sources, people push others away so that they won’t get hurt. Well, you could use that to correlate with Fang’s behavior. 

This is what Sega calls him, a jerk, “our favorite jerky jerboa!”, even in Archie, “And a total jerk”. This actually lines up with pushing others away, making this term more seemingly true. Going to the main point, you can see why Fang would want to stop acting this way. It led him to be alone, without “his boys”, without the zaniness that his gang brings him. It’s not the same anymore. (this is where I insert my shipping blast btw)

 In Superstars, this is correct! We don’t see Bean or Bark, we’re introduced to Trip [a WHOLE NEW gal], Fang is working very close to Eggman, and heck, his tech got upgraded.

*okay rando thing: In FTH, he wishes the Marvelous Queen gets the upgrades she needs to take Sonic down. In Superstars, he gets more than that, he gets his own robot ALONG with tons of upgrades for the MQ…if FTH is before Superstars, would he feel achievement? Somehow? +yknow, until it blows up [yeh, i'm not joking] 

BACK TO LE COMIC, …oh ye I technically went over everything. Or at least, what goes into his mentality,..UHH

Let’s look at Trip rq. Trip the Lizard gets an entire arc in Superstars! Her dynamic between her and Fang is simple, Trip tries to help or Trip tries to do what Fang says and Fang just relents and belittles her. Once Trip gets kicked by Fang, [Trip had to gull to stop Fang] she gains her heroism and sides with Sonic. Fang gets defeated by her anddddd ye that’s the last of Fang in that story. Now, I'm gonna show how sweet she was, even if Fang wouldn’t return the respect. 

I know Sonic Channel isn’t usually taken as canon, but like SHE GIVES HERSELF THE BAD PANCAKE, LIKE AWHH<33 And she doesn’t give up when given commands, tho that can be because she’s verbally forced to. And in the left image, Fang isn’t mad or annoyed about her behavior. Obviously it’s a calm setting, +he’s getting something good. Gosh, he looks surprised, or a little concerned,  because “Why is she still being like this after the stuff I push her through?” It’s not new to him though, it’s like Bean and Bark all over again. They stick together through many things. But the more he doesn’t let others in his life, he’ll just get hurt more and more. This is where I'd say Fang should try to listen to himself, “Get your act together” “You’re better than this”, but in the sense he should open up, that he should be more emotional and let his mind speak. I think that explains why he’s unlikable to some, he’s just reacting madly with no reason. And if I were to find a reason, it’d be because he’s not getting what he deserves, a close bond. And bringing up the sad fact, if he doesn’t let himself be himself, he’s not going to get what he needs. I swear, he’s regretting his choices, but it seems like he’s gone far. Trip could’ve helped but she moved sides. In FTH, Bean and Bark are staying, and I can only hope it STAYS.THAT. WAY. Cause like, Team Hooligan has been together for SO LONG, Bean and Bark are having fun with Fang, and Fang is leveled out with Bean and Bark. 

Ngl, this is supposed to be a “This is why the way he is” more than “He’s justifiable”, but I think my rant could give new insight as to why he’s not a horrible character. Especially when there’s so many others already avoiding an unlikable Fang, Fang Gang being my prime example :] cause we love the silly jerboa! We don’t STOP loving him, and we make sure of that. <33

[kindred-spirit-93]

Sup it's me Astron

I wanted to talk a bit about my ideas for Persephone and Hades - everyone's favourite couple. I haven't really thought a lot about them

I imagine that Hades is constantly anxious (inspired by the myth where Poseidon's massive earthquake nearly exposed the underworld). Zeus assigned him the underworld domain, where only the dead reside.

However, Hades' true passion lies in material aspects of his domain - ore, jewels, fossil fuels, and treasures. This aspect of him is based on his Plutus/Dis Pater aspect. A god of material wealth, his power stems from ownership, not his role as God of the Dead. He also manages the gods' treasury, handling currency and money - all human concepts introduced by Zeus.

Persephone, SEEMS to historically be an underworld deity before Hades IRL. So in this story Hades obsesses over treasures, Persephone tends to the underworld's deceased and all their matters. She's more of a god of the dead than him.

She feels deeply embarrassed to be a deity that has "died" (Like OMG she's never going to let that down) and seems to hold a resentment towards Hades for that.

The kidnapping topic comes up in arguments from time to time but more in the same vein as a partner would use the fact that you forgot their birthday or something.

Demeter and Persephone share a strong bond compared to the other gods. After Persephones "death" Demeter was never really the same. Demeter relives the painful cycle annually, and carries a deep rooted bitterness toward the other gods for it.

Persephone seems to not really care about the situation (we think) and doesn't talk about her mother or anything for that matter

They're the least developed figures in my mind

honestly cant tell you just how long ive been waiting to get to this gem (pun absolutely intended). the mental image u planted (pun also intended) has been clawing and biting at my brain for eons

i already have a doodle or two planned, ill get to it as soon as i can :D

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in the meantime i really love the splitting of duties and dual domains of the underworld down the middle, hades being treasurer and geology g(r)eek is eveything ive ever wanted and needed in life. and don’t get me started on a cthonic persephone. dread persephone all the way baby! need to experiment with her design more :3

ive mentioned it before i believe but ill say it here again, i really adore and appreciate the way you choose to depict seph and demeter. you know more than anyone lol that im not well versed in the mythology, but seeing retellings new and old comepletely butchering or otherwise doing great disservice to the original text and context of the time really bothers me.

pitting mother and daughter against each other should be a federal crime. anyways so thank you for doing them justice in my eyes. yes the pantheon is messy but theres room for so much and healing and growth. ok ill see myself out now hehe

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art probably during the week or this weekend, depends on how messy the first week back is lol. ill edit this post so for anyone interested stay tuned :]

[accessibleaesthetics]

if you could, could you run a poll that asks weather people prefer

A) shorter, more concise but still descriptive image descriptions

B) longer, very descriptive image descriptions

i don’t know if you can tell but im Very wordy and i want to make sure im making my image descriptions to be as functional as possible! i can see how both would be useful but im not sure what the general preference is.

i would run this poll myself but it’s not what my blog is mainly about so i’m not sure if anyone following me would have an opinion and i’m afraid it wouldn’t reach a very wide audience.

thanks! sorry for phrasing this like a letter ahshshhd. def don’t feel pressured to if you don’t want to :)

Well, if you want to have the best of both worlds, you can always go with a brief description in the alt text that ends with some form of "see image description for full details."

If nothing else though, I would strongly recommend you always put something in the alt text, even if you include an image description. This is because some screen reader users will just skip the post entirely when they start hearing "photo, photo, photo...", and never even get to the image description in the body of the post.

But! None of that is actually what you asked. You asked me to make a poll, and so I did. Though fair warning: for many people, which one they prefer tends to depend a lot on context.