#hide facebook junk

[buzzcutlip]

Cracks and Gaps - The Worst Day (part I) Carmen Berzatto x Fem!Reader Mature (Explicit in the following parts) 7434 words ao3

You meet Carmen in Copenhagen through a mutual friend and bond over shared experiences. After following his rising career from afar, you reconnect in Chicago when he renovates his late brother's restaurant. As an editor, you can't miss an opportunity to find out more about the comeback of this chef prodigy.

A/N: I've started writing this story a looong time ago last year. There will be two more parts. I would like to thank @carmyboobear for being the most incredible beta and helping me out on the rocky journey. They're a very special person to me, and also a fantastic and inspiring writer themselves. Please, check their Carmy stories if you haven't!

THE WORST DAY

The first time you meet Carmen, you are both a little over twenty and in Copenhagen. He is staging at Noma, and you are interning at a design studio where everyone is very “green.” From one of your conversations with Carmen, you learn that Pop-Tarts and Cheetos are illegal here. In Europe. Most of the sodas that stained your tongue crazy colors when you were a kid are banned too. He lectures you on Scandinavian agriculture and food production.

Carmen is skinny and short—still a bit taller than you, though—with sharp, high cheekbones and bulging eyes. You don't know enough about each other to be “friends,” but he is a good companion. Your high school friend Becky knows Carmen’s older sister; that’s how you found each other in Denmark’s capital.

On two rare occasions, you get drunk together, and that happens only when he is stressed from work. Like, stressed STRESSED. You'd think he only drinks special natural wine from Lofoten or something, but his choice of poison is canned Budweiser. Maybe he misses home as much as you do. Maybe that’s what leads you to almost kiss him the second time. Carmen lives on a boat, and he takes you there, where you drink vodka mixed with herbs and licorice that Carmen concocts, his tongue peeking out between his lips as he concentrates. The drink tastes good. Weird. You don't hide your grimace. Neither of you comments on the alcohol ratio. It's more vodka than anything else, that's for sure.

Carmen is not your type, physically or character-wise—you are an introvert yourself, so you need someone to bring you out of your shell. Obviously, doing an internship on a different continent is a huge step, one that is only on you. He also smokes a lot and probably doesn't wash his hair. You've heard about his crazy mother and bonkers family from Becky, so you understand why Carmen is Carmen. Why he’s run off to Europe. It's just—his face—his eyes, when he's telling you about his dream job at Noma or Alchemist—they glow, and he becomes so animated, the quiet excitement seeping to the surface, and there's fondness blooming in your chest. He also knows a thing or two about sports, as you do, the subject bringing you back to Chicago, and the longing for “home” and “familiar” is terribly strong in the moment, enhanced by the alcohol. And Carmen, the boy sitting opposite you, with burns on his hands and ripped jeans, is both of those things put into one.

Nothing happens between you two, but the urge to press your own lips against his lingers after you leave in a taxi, not brave enough to ride a bike under the influence.

You try to stay in touch after Copenhagen, messaging Carmen on his empty Facebook profile, sending a text once in a while, mainly at Christmas, and when you have some terrible junk food, just to make fun of him. When he FaceTimes you, he’s in Paris, and you’re in Dublin. The next time, he’s in California.

He rarely ever answers messages on the phone. Usually, it's an emoji, sometimes a word or two. Soon, there are no answers, and you can't be bothered. You carry on with your life in Chicago, and it doesn’t take long before you start seeing Carmen Berzatto in the paper, on the internet. The young prodigy chef, everyone says. Reluctantly, you read the articles, thinking about the Copenhagen Carmen, smiling at his photos. He's grown up, filled out. His hair is curlier, his shoulders wider, his biceps stronger. He looks good. Good and sad, you think to yourself, and decide not to text him to congratulate him on his star career. Carmen is not one to care about what you think of it.

It's only when you hear from Becky that Mikey Berzatto has died, that you think of Carmen properly, after years full of work in the magazine office, one shitty almost-boyfriend, and summers spent in Europe, writing about sustainable travel and solo adventures. Becky says that he's inherited a restaurant from Michael. You decide against sending him condolences—too personal.

But about ten months later, there's whispering that a fancy restaurant, The Bear, is replacing The Beef of Chicagoland, and it's actually your boss who tells you that you should go check the place out.

You are not into that whole haute cuisine thing, to be honest. You never understood those tiny little portions and strange ingredients and their combinations. You prefer good pasta with Bolognese sauce or roasted chicken with mashed potatoes. Sometimes you wonder if Carmen's strange relationship with his family is what's keeping him away from his Italian roots and forcing him to work in pristine, starched whites in sterile kitchens, cooking intestines and antlers, making it art.

---

Becky gives you Natalie Berzatto’s phone number to get in touch with her to try to schedule an interview for the magazine feature. Your boss, Rob, hopes that Carmen could even make it to the cover soon when The Bear takes off. You’re not sure how you feel about bypassing Carmen completely and going straight to his sister.

So one Thursday, in early May, you decide to walk there, unannounced. You corner the building, passing a big glass window, and before you make it to the main entrance, you nearly collide with a very wonky wooden stepladder. With Carmen Berzatto on top of it, fiddling with a screwdriver or a similar tool, and a signboard.

The second you make contact with the ancient stepladder, Carmen shouts, "Fuck!"

“Sorry,” you yelp, and one glance at the man high up confirms that you are indeed dealing with the Chef himself.

“Could you watch out?” he says angrily as he makes his way down, measuring every step carefully.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize again, waiting anxiously for Carmen to—hopefully—recognize you. To anyone walking by, you must look like an idiot, standing still in the middle of the sidewalk, waiting motionless and stiff for a guy to climb down a ladder.

You don’t know what you had been expecting but definitely not Carmen staring at you with his huge, bloodshot eyes for seconds that feel like minutes. You nearly turn around and walk away, no joke.

He looks—

“You look—” you start. Terrible. But also, like, gorgeous. Terribly tired but hot. Is it awful of you to think that?

“Hi,” Carmen says, one hand going into the big mess of his hair, the other one into his pants pocket. He's avoiding your eyes, which makes you even more nervous, makes you think it was not such a great idea to come here.

“Hi!” you say, probably overly enthusiastically. “You're back in Chicago,” is the first thing you can think of.

He nods. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Well, congrats on the new place,” you say, gesturing to the building behind him, newspaper covering the windows. “I'm really sorry, I thought it was already open,” you explain, tugging on the hem of your lilac sweatshirt nervously. Can he tell you’re lying? “Becky mentioned something about it.”

“No, we’re opening next week,” Carmen says, holding a cigarette between his fingers.

“I'm really curious,” you smile carefully, testing the waters, wondering how he's going to react. You haven't seen each other in more than five years, and Carmen's never been exactly friendly. Not like mean, but definitely not easily approachable. “I work for this magazine, and we would love to do a feature on this,” you say, leaving out that it's you who would be writing it. Who wants to write it. Not only about the place but about Carmen, the enigma, the quiet boy, the excellent chef.

He only nods, clearly not sharing your enthusiasm. “Maybe later,” he taps the cigarette against the palm of his other hand. “When we're ready for this kind of thing.”

“Of course,” you agree quickly.

“Might be a while.”

“So what is the big plan?”

Carmen looks at you, measuring you. Like he thinks you have some ulterior motive. He lights up the cigarette, taking a long drag from it, and you fight not to scrunch your nose in disgust. The older you get, the more you hate the smell. Especially when someone is blowing out the smoke aimlessly—almost—in your face.

“My partner—Sydney, she’s hung up on the stars. So I guess a fine dining kinda place,” Carmen says, flicking the cigarette butt in the general direction of the gutter. The second sentence comes out more like a question than a statement, but you are still processing the first one.

“You run a business with your girlfriend?” you swear you don’t mean it to sound so accusing.

Carmen takes a step back, physically—bumping into the stepladder behind him—and mentally, too. “No! She—Sydney’s my business partner.” The defensive tone tells you exactly how your words sounded though. You wince. “We’ve been working on the new concept together with Nat, and the whole crew, actually. It’s—it’s a family business, I guess—uhm. We had only like three months to finish, and—”

You can see he’s really flustered. He’s starting to stutter, hand nervously scratching his neck. You hate the sight, hate that you’ve made him feel like this.

“I’m sorry!” you interrupt him. “It came out all wrong. I shouldn’t have said that,” you say urgently, hoping to see him relax back to his non-caring, nonchalant, tired-looking self. How could you mess up so quickly? Is that your special ability or a curse?

“‘s fine,” Carmen says, and he does relax a bit, shoulders dropping an inch. He doesn’t look friendly though. Or in the mood for a chat. “I just—she’s a business partner,” he repeats obstinately, face red.

The moment grows awkward. In your coat pocket, you touch a pack of chewing gum and start fiddling with it. “I—my office is nearby so I thought I could come around and see the progress,” you say into the void, trying not to cringe too much. “Maybe I would take a few colleagues for dinner.”

“The reservations aren't open yet,” Carmen says in a flat voice. You can’t call him out because it’s probably true anyway. Plus, you just lied again—the offices are not close; you had taken the L—and you feel bad about it.

There’s not much left to say, you realize. He’s not giving you any space to turn this “accidental” meeting into a proper conversation. You shuffle your feet nervously, feeling stupid.

“Alright. It was nice seeing you!” you say, as it’s about time to end this. “Hope everything’s gonna work out great!” you add in a cheerful tone, already setting to walk back to the station.

“Yeah. Thanks. Bye.” Carmen says back, lighting a second cigarette.

What a nightmare, you think as you walk through the busy streets.

—

In the following weeks, you almost forget about The Bear. Rob complains about the nonexistent article on the new, already hyped-up restaurant and wasted opportunities, but what can you do? The not-at-all-accidental meeting with Carmen had been a disaster you actively try to erase from your mind. Working on your regular column and material for the website keeps you busy. Then Becky calls out of nowhere, and you two arrange lunch at The Marq. You end up swapping hilarious stories from the last two months you hadn’t seen each other, and you secretly pray she doesn’t ask about Natalie Berzatto or her brother. You're out of luck, because she does—of course she does—and you have to lay the cards on the table.

“You did contact Nat first though?” is the first thing Becky asks.

“I didn’t,” you shake your head. “I didn’t want to exclude Carmen right at the very beginning,” you admit.

“Oh god,” Becky rolls her eyes at you, taking a small bite of her salmon cake sandwich.

“I knooow,” you quickly stop her, feeling like ordering something stronger than the simple soda you’ve been drinking.

“I think you should still call Natalie,” Becky says, pointing at you with a determined frown. “I went to see her and her new baby just last week. She asked about you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” she nods. “Apparently they could really use some help getting the word out about The Bear. A good excuse to talk Carmen into an interview maybe? An exclusive one?” She wiggles her eyebrows, knowing how cool it would be for you to come up with this.

“Maybe,” you muse, playing it cool. Inside, you are already hyped up about the possibility of scoring the first interview with the former best chef in the world. Is he still good at all? Why did he disappear? Why is he back?

—

The anxiety of the following days forces you to actually text Natalie. You’ve been checking online websites and Instagram accounts apprehensively, worried that a medium might publish something about The Bear before you get a chance. Rob isn’t a dick, but you wouldn’t want to look incompetent in his eyes. So far, you’ve been able to steer away from conversations about the new Carmen Berzatto restaurant at work. Your work ethic makes it difficult for you to let The Bear go without a fight.

That’s how you find yourself in front of Natalie’s door. When she opens it, she doesn’t hide her fervor.

“Oh, finally! Hi! Please come in.” She ushers you inside. You’ve never seen her in person, only on Becky’s Instagram, maybe, and even though the exhaustion is apparent on the woman’s face, you can spot the similarities with Carmen in her features right away.

From the dark hallway, she leads you to the sitting room. When you look around, it’s hard to find a clutter-free space. Every surface is covered with baby clothes, baby diapers, baby wipes—clean and dirty—bottles—full and empty.

“Sorry for the mess,” Natalie appears next to you, snatching away a baby muslin from the sofa. “Have a seat, please,” she nods. “The baby’s asleep. Hopefully for the next—” and she checks her watch, “another twenty minutes.”

As you sit down, Natalie collapses into an armchair, not minding what appears to be a pile of freshly washed newborn onesies and other clothes underneath her.

“Thank you so much for stopping by,” she says sincerely, and you notice the many stains on her purple t-shirt.

You smile. “No problem.”

“Becky said that you know stuff about Instagram and social media and marketing and all that?” Natalie’s eyes are wide and hopeful.

“I would say so,” you nod.

“I’m not sure what Becky mentioned already,” Natalie says as she starts pulling the baby clothes from under her and folding them absentmindedly. That definitely says something about the state she’s in, without Becky describing the situation to you—not only with The Bear but also Nat herself. “Carmy’s putting so much into the restaurant—we all are—so much hope,” she babbles, “none of us have slept properly in weeks—months! And now the baby...” Natalie’s gaze becomes unfocused for a moment before she blinks rapidly. “The timing’s not so great,” she forces out a weak laugh, and you smile again, already feeling bad for her, not wanting to make her uncomfortable.

“I understand. It’s hard,” you empathize, feeling genuinely bad—not for The Bear—but for Natalie.

“I’m not a marketing guru, but I can research things,” she carries on, more confident now. “But I can’t be there all the time, y’know? It’s just not possible. If—if someone could help with keeping the place afloat and spreading the word—” she stops talking and folding, looking directly at you. “That would be just so awesome,” she finishes quietly, her bottom lip wobbling.

You know that Nat’s not trying to emotionally blackmail you, even though the situation kinda feels like it, and you do feel for her.

“I can help, yes.”

“I’ll talk to Carm and Sydney, and we’ll figure out how much we can offer you!” The relief and excitement are apparent in the way Nat jumps up from the armchair.

“That’s alright, really,” you say calmly, putting a hand on her arm now that she’s closer. “We can discuss this later,” and you give her another encouraging smile.

The unmistakable sound of a baby crying comes from somewhere in the house. Poor Natalie freezes, her hand going to touch her chest. She takes a deep, steadying breath.

“Thank you. Thank you,” and she takes a hold of your hand, squeezing it. “I’ll tell Sydney to get in touch with you—or you can actually just go to the restaurant; they know about you.”

That makes you slightly uncertain as you remember your first attempt at an unannounced visit to The Bear.

“Alright,” you nod with a polite smile. After all, you’re getting something out of this too.

—

Sydney texts you exactly 22 minutes after you leave worn-out Natalie and her baby behind and invites you to come to The Bear the next day. To make yourself appear more untouchable, you reply that the soonest you’re available is next Monday. Make them wait.

It gets you on edge, though, and more than once you think of Carmen in his tiny Copenhagen kitchen, how things used to be. How easy it is to grow apart. Not that you’d been friends exactly. Hard to be anything like that with a person as closed off as Carmen Berzatto.

On the agreed Monday, you dare to finish early at work and take the train to The Bear. Your stomach is in knots, even though you’ve been pretty brave about the whole thing. It’s just—you’re not sure how Carmen’s gonna react when he sees you, and you’re already thinking about the worst possible scenarios. Just stop! you tell yourself resolutely, forcing yourself to concentrate on the simple but well-thought-out marketing plan you prepared to present. Without being asked. If Carmen sees that you actually KNOW things, he might change his opinion about you. Not that you KNOW his opinion, but—maybe he would actually acknowledge you finally.

It’s just after the family meal when you arrive. A tall man who introduces himself as Richie lets you in instantly, and he’s clearly been informed about your arrivall. As soon as Sydney is notified of your presence, she rushes to you from the kitchen in the back, wiping her hands on her apron. You notice right away that she’s friendly and calm, and it relaxes your nerves. There’s no doubt she loves the restaurant and her job, and you see that she worries as much as Natalie does, or even more.

“We’re opening in two hours, so it’s a bit wild in the back, but maybe you wanna see the kitchen?” Sydney offers as she’s showing you around the newly restored restaurant, opening the heavy door. “A quick peek,” she adds as a loud cracking noise comes out of the exact door.

You’ve been to a couple of kitchens, and you must say that this one’s definitely on the chaotic side of the scale. People in white aprons run here and there, no one’s still, not even for a second. There’s a good amount of shouting and a huge amount of swearing. In the middle of everything, there’s Chef Carmen Berzatto. He looks like a character from Cartoon Network. His wild hair is sticking out in all directions, dark tattoos covering his arms and hands, face sweaty, eyes ready to pop out of his head. He’s shorter than most people you see circling the kitchen, but the loudest one. He shouts orders, and you notice the vein on the side of his neck—it sure is ready to burst. You wonder how far he is from having a heart attack.

“Or maybe next time,” Sydney mutters, gently pushing you out of the way and shutting the door again. She leads you to one of the brown wooden tables where you settle again.

“Is he always like that?” you ask Sydney, actually glad that you’re not in the room where the storm’s currently happening.

“Only when he’s stressed,” Sydney explains shortly, an apologetic smile on her lips.

When it comes to money, it’s obvious The Bear doesn’t have much to spare, that much is clear. Sydney is extremely apologetic and sweet about it.

“There’s a marketing budget—previously non-existent—that we’ve set aside and can offer. It’s just not much, I’m afraid,” she tells you, jittery.

You want to reassure her, to tell her that you're doing it for Carmen, for an old "friend." But from what you've gathered, Sydney doesn't even know that Carmen knows you.

So you just smile and reassure her anyway. "I'll put it on my resume. I can use more cases with social media for hospitality," you lie.

Nodding, Sydney clarifies, "Yes, just Instagram. Please. Carmy doesn't want to put anything in the press. Yet."

When a curious Richie joins you at the table, you present the Instagram plan to both of them. Even though Richie can't help making a few rather stupid remarks that only he finds funny, they both listen carefully. You see a lot of skepticism on Richie's face, probably because he doesn't understand some of the big words, you guess, but Sydney seems to be really into everything from pictures of the food and the weekly specials, to quick reels showing potential customers a little bit of behind-the-scenes action.

"Oh, I'm sure Cousin will be thrilled to have people sticking their noses into his business," Richie says, and you're not sure how serious he is. But Sydney shushes him, and you carry on, showing her the mock-up of the possible Instagram feed to set the mood for the profile.

For the next three weeks, you go to The Bear twice a week to gather some content—photos and videos. You talk to the crew and film those who are okay with it. Your presence is met with mixed emotions, but Sydney's gratitude and kindness make up for every suspicious glare and exasperated sigh when you find yourself in someone's way. Besides the restaurant, you take your neighbor's dog for a long walk every Saturday morning, call your mom and dad to check in, scroll Instagram instead of finally starting an actual book, and often wonder why Carmen is so hostile towards you.

Generally, you try not to hang out in the kitchen directly, especially not when Chef Carmen is present. Being uncomfortable in a new environment makes you positively anxious, causing you to go through a whole pack of your favorite cinnamon Simply Gums a day.

You also remember to always tie your hair up—not that the staff there wear hairnets or anything, but you don't want Carmen to find another reason to frown at you. He's been basically only frowning or ignoring you. Hard to tell which one is worse.

You always clean your hands super thoroughly, like during COVID, singing the "Happy Birthday" song to time it before daring to even stick your finger in the restaurant. Sydney offers you an apron to protect your work clothes, which you refuse. You sense from some people there that you're not entirely welcome.

But the more you avoid Carmen, the more likely you are to bump into him. You know Murphy's Law. So one morning, he just appears from around the corner, carrying a tray of mushrooms.

For a second, you're actually horrified that he's going to introduce himself. Before that can happen, you blurt out, "Uh—do you remember me? Copenhagen?"

Carmen stops and looks at you, wiping his wet hands on the towel attached to the string of his white apron. "Yeah," he confirms, "yeah, I do." He says your name, all soft and correct, along with your surname, and with his eyes fixed on you, you're frozen to the spot, affected whether you like it or not. Then he leaves to taste Tina's roasted peppers.

Obviously, your mind can't let the episode slip away. As you type copy for the upcoming Instagram posts, you pause every so often to cringe at how embarrassing you behaved. Of course, he remembers you, for fuck's sake! You're working in his restaurant—kinda.

"Hey! Copenhagen! You wanna see this?" Carmen yells a bit later from the other side of the kitchen, and you falter, deciding whether you're really going to answer to him calling you that.

You bite your tongue and trail hesitantly to the station where Carmen is with Tina and Ebraheim, gathered around a saucepan.

"Tina, chef, this is excellent. Well done," Carmen says to her as you approach, then turns to you.

"This is what we wanna share with the world. Perfect red pepper sauce. Simple but delicious."

"Okay," you respond, taking in the expectant way all three of them are looking at you. Like you're some kind of magician. Or a fraud.

"Just," Carmen adds before he sets off, "no recipes leave this kitchen," and he waits for you to confirm.

"Right."

Slowly, you start to question why you're helping The Bear. Is it because two years ago you thought of Carmen and what you might have felt for him? What could have been? More than the chef himself, you find yourself growing fond of the place and the employees—some of them! Seeing the Instagram followers number increase fills you with pride and satisfaction. Fuck Carmen.

---

Mornings are usually the only time when Carmen isn’t around, and you try to time your visits so your paths don’t cross.

Wanting to snap photos of the new tableware and make a quick, fun video reel, you head into the kitchen. There's no one around—Sweeps is probably hiding somewhere, and Sydney might be in the office. Not wanting to bother anyone, you set your always-heavy handbag on a chair and start looking for everything you need. There's no reason for you to feel like you're sneaking around, but you can't help feeling nervous. That’s when your clumsiness strikes, and you manage to knock over a glass of water. Rolling your eyes, you get on your hands and knees to wipe the spilled water with a rug that you hope is meant for cleaning, as you’re very aware of every item having its particular function here.

You straighten up and stretch to get one more plate from the shelf. Then you lose your footing on the still-wet tiles. Your foot slips, and the top plate falls to the countertop with a loud cracking noise. You react quickly, trying to break the fall, but there's no use. The plate shatters to pieces.

Of course, it’s Carmen himself who emerges from the door leading to the office, and you wince—both physically and mentally—preparing yourself for a very unpleasant collision.

“What’s going on?” he asks as he approaches you, eyebrows pinched. He’s not wearing his chef whites, just a simple white t-shirt and dark jeans.

“Sorry, I—” you start apologizing as Carmen stands next to you, assessing the damage.

“What—what’re you doing here?” he asks in a very flat voice, staring at the pieces of ceramic.

“I’m sorry, I’m going to tidy this and also pay for the plate, obviously,” you ramble, reaching down for the shards.

“Don’t,” Carmy barks, stopping you by grabbing your shaking hands in his. His hands are big, the tattoos making them look harsh and crude, even though the touch is gentle. “Don’t cut yourself,” he adds quietly, holding you until you relax your arms and then a second longer.

He must sense your nervousness. “It’s fine, I’ll get it,” Carmen assures you, catching your eye. “Hey,” he lays a soft hand on your arm, “step away, I’ll clean this.”

Nodding, you step back and wait patiently, disconcerted, watching as Carmen carefully handles and discards the shards, then checks the floor for any tiny fragments. He turns back to you.

“Are you okay?” he checks.

“Yeah.” And you’re more thrown off balance by having Carmen pay attention to you, all of a sudden, than by damaging the kitchen’s equipment.

He studies you for a moment, his face unreadable, and you’re the one to look away first. Which you hate, by the way.

“You wanna see some stuff I’ve been working on?”

“Sure,” you agree, taking a deep breath to relax further. “I’m sorry. The loud noise—” you wave your hand in the air vaguely, rolling your eyes at yourself. “Just scared the shit out of me, I guess,” you finish with an apologetic smile.

“You’re alright,” Carmen confirms and disappears for a bit. In the meantime, you have a small meltdown, shaking your head at yourself for being so, so very terribly lame. Luckily, before he returns with a tray of different dishes, you pull yourself together.

Carmen sets the tray down, revealing an array of colorful and sophisticated meals that instantly catch your curiosity.

“Any allergies?” he asks.

“Passion fruit—easily avoidable. Sometimes kiwi,” you list. “And grumpy chefs,” you add cheekily, feeling bold.

Carmen pauses. “I’m not grumpy. I’m focused.”

“You weren’t like this in Copenhagen,” you say softly, leaning a bit closer to him, your body language signaling that once you had been comfortable around each other.

“I’m more focused now,” Carmen retorts, stubborn and maybe a bit offended. “Back then I—uhm—I felt comfortable around you. It was easy.”

“And now?” you almost whisper.

But Carmen ignores the question, pushing the first bowl closer to you. “Here, taste this… or take a picture and then taste it.”

And you understand that the re-bonding is over.

---

Soon, you drop the habit of visiting the restaurant only in the mornings. One reason is that spending time with Carmen, talking to him or watching him cook and explain things, makes you late for work twice in a row. That usually never happens as you take pride in being on time at the office. You don’t work at The Bear for money, but you hardly think about it that way. When you decide to pop in during the morning, Carmen shares his deadly strong black coffee that he mills himself with you. It’s bitter but heavenly. Secretly, you like drinking it while chewing your favorite cinnamon gum, which somehow makes the taste even better—smoother and richer.

The second reason—you discover that Carmen is much calmer in the evenings after service. Less jittery, more relaxed. His blood flows slower, you think. His heart pumps with more ease. Sydney and he share thoughts and plans for the restaurant with you while you all sit at an empty table. It’s nice, you think, while watching Carmen’s hands play with a napkin. His hands are especially nice.

It’s Saturday and raining as you find yourself sitting in Gordon Ramsay's Burger. Nothing could’ve surprised you more than Carmen asking you to go out eat together. Had he felt bad for ignoring you at the beginning? You’re watching the rivers of raindrops on the big glass window, waiting for Carmen. As usual, you’re ten minutes early, and after you order a Life’s a Beach, the first thing on your mind is you're just early, he didn't stand you up, and then: this is not a date, babe! Which instantly startles you into sitting up straight and looking around, as if someone could see your embarrassing thoughts. Why are you even thinking about this?? Then Carmen arrives, wet patches on his shoulders and jeans that cling to his thighs. He chooses the Chicago hot dog and three different burgers with a bunch of sides. While he only nibbles on them and writes down notes on his phone, you feel bad for wasting the food and eat more than you should. Carmen studies the buns very carefully and asks you a lot of questions about the food, some of which you find amusing and actually—endearing. When you go to bed that night, your belly’s uncomfortably full. You dream that you’re pregnant and about to go into labor, and you’re pretty sure that Carmen’s the father. And, honestly, do you need a book of dreams to explain the meaning? Fuck.

---

All goes to hell next week when Carmen sees you eating a sandwich from the corner shop down the street. Instead of having your regular lunch with Becky, you’ve chosen to run to The Bear so you could see Marcus unveil his new dessert. But before that, you popped into the nearby deli to order a mozzarella and sundried tomato sandwich. No one at The Bear had ever explicitly invited you to the family meal, and you would never dare to have free food there. But the way Carmen looks at you while you sit on the step by the back exit, eating the rather dry sandwich, is indescribable. The stern look on his face is back, with a closed-off facade. His eyes are cold. Before you take it all in, you wave at him awkwardly, chewing. Carmen retreats back inside wordlessly, leaving you confused and a little hurt.

Unfortunately, the atmosphere surrounding you doesn’t improve when you return to work, the stupid sandwich sitting in your stomach like a heavy stone. You have a big argument in the meeting room while planning the next month's issue. Then one of your co-workers makes a nasty remark about your single life. The afternoon drags on painfully slowly, which forces you to message your cousin—an astrologist extraordinaire—to check what the heck is going on with the universe.

Tuesday morning is rough. The second you wake up, you know you’ve overslept because you never get up without the alarm ringing angrily. A single glance at your phone proves it to be true. Right after, you notice three missed calls from Sydney and two from Nat. There are no text messages, though.

At first, you intend to call Rob to beg for a home office day, something you rarely ever use. But as soon as you check your calendar, you’re reminded of the big conference happening from 11 a.m. until 5 p.m. You rush to work, finishing your makeup on the train, then enter the office building to quickly run through notes with your colleagues. The first time you have a chance to make a quick phone call is when you finally go to the bathroom. It’s Natalie who you manage to reach first, as the lunch rush at The Bear is just unfolding. Over the cries of Natalie’s baby, you hear half-sentences about a recipe, Carmen, and a leak. It’s hard to put it all together. At 4 p.m., Nat finally sends you a text. It says: “Recipe’s published in Taste of Home. Carm’s mad. Says someone leaked it.”

It contains a link to the Taste of Home website, with Carmen’s perfect Berkswell Pudding recipe in the Top Recipes of the Week, marked “Chef’s tip.” You check it again to make sure, and surely—it’s one of the dishes Carmen introduced to you just last week. You didn’t dare to photograph it, much less taste it. You remember concentrating on the way his lips moved when he explained the preparation process, not much on the cooking itself.

What’s clear to you is that the "Someone" from Nat’s message is actually you.

A gloomy dread settles in your stomach as the meeting goes on and on. You barely pay attention, which makes everything even worse. You’re scared of what’s happened in the restaurant, and you’re worried that you’re going to miss something important in the meeting.

When you run for a second quick bathroom break, instead of peeing, you think of your next step. You could try to call everyone in the restaurant, try to find out what the hell is going on. But you don’t want to be seen as hysterical. You check Instagram and possible messages to find traces of a catastrophe. There’s nothing. Again, you open the website with the recipe. The photos are pretty sloppy, definitely not something Carmen would prepare. As you check the ingredients, you notice there are some major differences from Carmen’s dish. All in all, the only thing that stops you from texting Carmen is your pride. And true fear.

Absolutely dreading facing Carmen, you make it to The Bear during dinner time. Which, obviously, is the worst possible timing. You’re only praying that he’s not in the kitchen but hiding in his office, deep in paperwork.

It’s Sydney who you meet first as you sneak into the restaurant through the back door. She grabs your arm.

“Don’t go to talk to him now! He’s in a really, really bad mood. Natalie and I were trying to call you.” There’s genuine worry on Sydney’s face, her eyes big and honest.

“I don’t understand what happened,” you frown. You can feel a headache approaching from the intense day in the office. “I think he should tell me himself if there’s a problem.”

“I’ve been trying to work it out with him, to explain—”

“Explain what?” you question, more sternly than you usually are around Syd.

She falters. “It’s just this stupid thing—and we love having you—don’t let Carmy upset you,” Sydney half-explains. It doesn’t make much sense, and you shake your head, heading to the office. You’re more mad than afraid now.

You don’t wait for an invite after you knock shortly. Closing the door behind you, you find Carmen leaning against the desk, a bottle of water in his hand.

Everything inside of you drops the second he lays his eyes on you. There’s no doubt he’s angry.

“Didn’t Natalie tell you you don’t have to come here again?” Carmen asks curtly. “I’m surprised you think it’s okay to be here.”

Not expecting Carmen to be this harsh from the beginning, you swallow instead of answering.

“I hope that you’re happy now,” he says meanly, putting the bottle down on the desk.

“I don’t—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you croak out, sincerely meaning it.

Carmen straightens up, watching you like a feline. “The recipe. It’s out. One fucking thing I asked not to get out, and now the whole of America can see and fucking even cook it at home.”

You’re frozen to the spot. From the very beginning, you knew that Carmen is not a person to mess with, hoping that you would never experience his anger directed at you. Now it’s happening.

You want to say something about no one being able to cook the way he does, but it’s pointless. Instead, you’re fighting off the flush on your face from embarrassment. You feel like a child being scolded, but you don’t want to look like one.

The muted but still loud kitchen noises bleed through the closed door. A shout, clattering. Not loud enough to stop Carmen from piercing you through and through with his ice-cold eyes.

“I promise I didn’t do anything like that,” you say, desperately wanting the chef to believe you. “I swear!”

Carmen pinches the bridge of his nose, one hand propped on his waist. You wait, breathless, for his next move, scared to death. The shirt you have on is wet with your sweat. The really badly smelling kind—the one your body produces when you’re stressed or scared. And you’ve been stressed since the very morning. You flinch when you move your arm and the odor hits your nose, hoping that Carmen can’t smell you. You would be mortified. The strap of your tote bag is digging into your shoulder painfully, but you don’t dare to move to put it down to relieve your arm.

“This all doesn’t—it doesn’t make any sense,” Carmen starts pacing, looking down at the floor and not at you anymore. You’re not sure if it’s better this way. “You come here, wanna do a fucking interview with me, or some shit, then you show up again—this time wanting to work here. For free! So, please, tell me—how does it sound, huh?”

Petrified, you realize how exactly it all sounds. When Carmen says it like this, it makes you look like a fraud. Like a terrible, terrible person. A liar. Your mind goes weeks back, back to the moment you actually thought of maybe digging some scoop in here, maybe convincing Carmen to do the interview after all. But it’s far from how he’s making the situation sound.

“Carmen,” you start without knowing what you want to say. Carmen’s stopped walking around the tiny office like a caged animal, and he’s again looking at you. There’s so much tension in his face, back hunched. “It sounds bad, but may I explain—”

“You may not,” he cuts you off briskly. His neck—normally a place you find sexy—is all red, and the thick vein there is getting more and more prominent by the second. “No one fucks with my business, you understand?” Oh—and he’s shouting now.

The natural defense, you didn’t know existed, is to make yourself smaller. Somehow, anyhow. You hang your head, avoiding looking at his face. You just can’t meet his eyes, even though Carmen’s bowing and tilting his head to force you to.

“It’s like I have to start asking the staff to sign an NDA,” he carries on.

Carmen’s getting slowly closer and closer to you, pushing you against the wall by the door. He’s not touching you but only because you’re not allowing it. You’re sick with humiliation. Lost for words, probably for the first time in your life.

“—and Nat fucking leaves me here—us, all of us—and that’s just not fair. I would expect so, so much more from my sister. Not that my brother was much better,” he chuckles humorlessly, but you see it’s more like an effort to catch his breath. “Lousy fuckers… Do you think you do your job well here, chef?”

He’s scaring you now. The hair by his temples and above his forehead is damp, and his gesticulation is wild and weird.

“Do we disgust you here, is that right, hm?” Carmen probably finally sees your frightened expression because he adds, “Why would you buy food somewhere else and then come here to eat it?!” You understand that he’s referring to the day he saw you eating the sandwich by the rear exit. Unsure whether he expects you to reply, you decide to stay quiet. Your knees are starting to shake, from exhaustion after the long day and perhaps, from Carmen’s current behavior.

“It made ME sick,” he says, his face just inches from yours when one of his hands slams into the thin wall right next to your head. The noise echoes in the room, and you’re desperately hoping it’s not loud enough for the others to hear from outside. You would die on the spot if they knew what’s going on here.

“Who do you think you are?” Carmen shouts some more, loud, by your ear. It vibrates through you and never stops. You’re shivering all over, you notice. It’s not okay, not okay!

At last, you raise your head, chin jutting out. “No one’s going to talk to me like this. No one,” you spit out in the chef’s face, taking him by surprise. “Don’t you ever shout at me again,” and you jab him right in the middle of his chest, instead of punching him there like he deserves.

When you’re leaving his office and rushing to the back exit, you hear Carmen yelling.

Everything feels tense and your hands are shaking. Your jaw is set so hard your teeth could crush from the pressure. The fresh air hits your face, and you focus on breathing deeply through your nose. The sounds remind you of a steam engine. You walk for about a minute, mind blank with the shock. Only when you turn a corner do you allow yourself to stop, which causes the first tears to fall. You’re so mad at yourself. Why the fuck are you crying?! There’s so much frustration in the crazy mixture of emotions you’re feeling. You’re completely overwhelmed with it, not knowing what to focus on at first.

Out of habit, you look for your phone in your handbag to check the screen. The fucking heavy bag that’s been killing your shoulder. Frustrated, you let it slide off your arm and down to the sidewalk. You don’t even care if it breaks, as it lands with a noisy, dull sound. It had been years since you got properly yelled at, and you’re angry that it affects you this much. You promise yourself to take a few seconds here, in the middle of an empty street, then call a cab. At home, you can cry.

PART II

[worlds-worst-ships]

After somewhat popular demand... here is an absolutely obscene fanfiction I wrote in 2021. This will either go down great, or horribly.

*BEEP**BEEP**BEEP**BEEP*

How exciting. My alarm clock, once again, is going off right next to my head. Using my genius level ingenuity, I put four alarm clocks on my bedside table, all of which have a different unique design to them, forcing me to wake up and sort through each one until I turn the offending alarm clock off. I have my boyfriend set them for me, and this time he seems to have gone with the clock that has Hannah Montana's face plastered all over it. How very empowering. While still dazed, I groggily picked it up and knuckleballed it against the wall, obliterating it into a thousand pieces, as a real man would. 

"I'm sorry Hannah, but as empowering to me as you are, you've got nothing on Bo Peep from Toy Story."

"Babe, I swear to god, if you destroy another alarm clock, my wife's boyfriend is gonna kill me... he only gives me five dollars of allowance a month, I theoretically can't keep replacing your alarm clocks" said a softy, nasally voice from behind me.  

Of course... how could I forget? My boyfriend Ben was asleep right next to me. I felt bad. I knew he was always replacing the countless alarm clocks that I destroyed, but eventually, Chad was going to catch on and send him to his room with no dinner and no Fortnite for a week. Such a cruel man... A cruel, chiseled, strong, gorgeous unit of a man. Chad, Ben's wife's boyfriend... God, I wish I could leave Ben for him, but Chad would absolutely pop my skull like a grape between his mighty pectorals. I am not worthy. Thus, I turned to Ben and asked: 

"Today is the day. Are you ready?"

"Yeah.. yeah, I am" he replied, a confident look sweeping over his face. 

"Whats the name of the place you're getting it done again?" I asked

"Uhhh... Claire's, I think? I mean, I saw on a conservative Facebook page that thats where people usually go to get the surgery. The guy had a MAGA hat and a beer in his profile picture, and he works at a junk yard, so he must know what he's talking about" said Ben, climbing out of bed and putting on his spray-on jeans. "Hurry up and get dressed, we have to leave in an hour."

Yeah... today was the day that Ben would get his top surgery. I was so proud of him for getting one step closer to completing his transition. I know that Chad would just flick him in the chest, break all of his ribs instantly, and tell him to get back to raising his Chad-babies while he ate metal and drank beer, but I was going to support him all the way through. In the least gay way possible... I love him. Chad, not Ben. I actually hate Ben. He's so annoying, never just saying what he thinks, always saying "hypothetically" and dumb shit like that before everything. What an annoying little prick. If I didn't get views from his fans, I'd dump him straight away and stop agreeing with everything he says. 

"Alright, alright" I said, flicking through my side of the closet, looking for the best possible outfit to suit the situation. Hmmm... the closet.... it looks very comfy in there. I'd love to climb in and stay there forever to hide from my support group, but that would be the easy way out. So, after a minute or so, I chose the cutest floral blouse, some jean shorts that really hugged my glutes, some platform boots and a floppy brimmed straw hat adorned with fake flowers. I thought about using real flowers, but thats way too girly, which is offensive to my masculinity. 

After a breakfast of lucky charms, raw eggs and a whole turnip, Ben called us an Uber and we got ready to set off for Claire's. 

"Steven... I'm scared." Said Ben, tightly squeezing my hand. 

"Hey, hey, hey... whats the worst that could happen?" I said, forcing a confident smile. "It'll be fine! I'm here with you!" 

"You just ate a whole raw turnip five minutes ago Steven, I, in theory, highly doubt I can rely on you in the worst case theoretical scenario" said Ben in a snarky tone.

I nearly picked Ben up and Rikishi'd him through the front porch for that little comment, but then I remembered who the top was in this relationship... Chad. I'd be in big, big trouble if Ben came home with a porch wrapped around his neck. Either way, the Uber, who was interestingly named Guiseppe, arrived to pick us up.

"MAMA MIA!!! Look at the glutes on that thing!! My Grandma has made PIZZA DOUGH thats not as thick as that!!!" Guiseppe yelled, slapping his thigh and starting a small fire in the front seat, gesturing to me and saying "Come bay-bee, put it out for me"

I was extremely confused. Guiseppe was an extremely... "forward" man. I certainly didn't want to put a fire out with my dump truck of a batty crease, but at the same time, I desperately wanted to go off on him for harassing me and go on a tangent about how men deserve better than to be treated like this by Italian taxi drivers every day. But then I realised that I'm full of shit, and that I know I'm not actually a victim because this has never actually happened to me, and I climbed in the trunk instead with Ben tightly squeezed under my armpit. Then we felt the car start moving. 

"Steven... Why are we in the trunk?" asked Ben. 

"Well, thats because it's pointless trying to make myself a victim since I'm really not that bothered by it and we're not on camera anyways, and if the fire burns my booty, how will I ever please Chad?" I replied

"How will you... what?" Ben inquired in a serious tone

"Oh, uh, nothing, babe" I said, blushing as the thought of Chad running a rocket on my hips and confining me to a wheelchair forever. 

"Oh, fair enough." said Ben, letting out one of the loudest burps I've ever heard in my life. Then something hit me. 

Do I smell... turnips? Has that little pixie shit been eating my turnips?!

In a rage, I flung open the trunk, grabbed Ben by the head, and yelled an order at Guiseppe. 

"DO SOME DONUTS!! DO SOME DONUTS!!" 

And Guiseppe did so. As we spun around, I shoved Ben's face into the road below, grinding his entire upper body down to nothing. It looked like someone smeared tomato puree all over the concrete. Ben was reduced to an ass and a pair of legs. Sorta like this. 

"Hows that for top surgery, you turnip-stealing fuck?" I yelled at Ben's now burnt behind, spitting into what remained of his spinal cord. 

Then, as if on cue, Ben's remains bubbled and expanded, and he reformed into his original shape, and looked me in the eyes as if he'd just woken up. 

"What happened?" he asked. 

"What the-"

I was amazed. I'd just turned Ben into pizza sauce and he just grew back like a zit during high school. 

"I think my brain got destroyed, so I lost some of my memory. What happened?" He asked, scratching his new head. "Oh I should mention, I have Resident Evil powers, since this is an ideal world, and the creator wanted to add in a hilarious moment where you turned the freeway into a bloody pizza by grinding someone down to nothing. Is that what happened?"

Regaining my senses, I said "No, I just farted and you passed out from it. See? you can smell the turnips."

"Oh, ok, cool." said Ben, nestling back into my armpit. "do you think you have regenerative powers too? You should get top surgery right after me and find out. Although I heard they're a one-time thing, so be careful."

Unwilling to find out, I stayed silent for the remainder of the journey until we felt the car come to a violent halt. Turns out Guiseppe decided to drive his car through the doors to the mall, and park right outside Claire's. 

"Finally!" we both said in unison, stepping out of the trunk. 

"You know, if you want to pay me, you could always let me get a lick of that dough ball behind, big boy" said Guiseppe. 

"No, I think I'm just going to leave and never talk to you again" I said, flipping Guiseppe off like a bad boy. I should really film a 'why do good girls like bad guys' TikTok after that one.

In the chaos of the crash, it would seem that all but one of a group of protestors were reduced to paste under the car. The one remaining, a soccer mom looking woman with a scowl on her face, stood up, dusted herself off, and looked at us in disgust.

"You'd better not be going in there" she hissed, pointing at Claire's. "you know they operate on kids in there, right? You know they mutilate kids? You know they manipulate young girls into getting their bodies ruined forever??" 

I walked over to the door, gestured to a 'no kids allowed' sign and said "Bitch, please. Show me some proof". 

"Whatever. I'm still right. Have a nice day. I'm nice really, even though I'm not. Trust me." she said, rolling her eyes and turning away with no proof to give. "You guys are just... I dunno, sexist or something, I really don't feel like putting actual effort into finding an appropriate buzz word to call you."

Then what she did next will haunt me for the rest of my days. 

She knelt down and... picked up her picket sign. But... how?!

She's a woman... how could she be so strong?? That power... in a woman's body... anything heavier than a cooking pot should be impossible!!!

"Who... who are you?? Who the heck are you???" I yelled

"Arielle. Ally to trans people, and supporter of having their healthcare rights taken, supporter of groups that hate them, and supporter of authors who write uninformed bullshit books on them, as well as long-time transphobe. I love trans people! I just show no respect for them and block people who call me out unless they have followers. I'm so nice! Wanna try my apple crumble? Don't worry, saying I support them immediately erases anything bad I've said or done to them. Jeez, isn't the existence of Bon Ninary people so sexist? I'm only saying that because I feel personally attacked that female-bodied people anywhere are becoming trans rather than dating me, because I'm entitled to that, but yknow. Hmmm, I wonder why so many people hate me... Oh well. I'm a genius. I'm gonna go cry into a frozen microwave meal for one now."

While I wasn't surprised that a woman had just said something stupid and oxymoronic, being as I love looking down on them, I was surprised at her insane power. I... I had to fight her. 

But then I remembered that I'm not on camera, realised I don't actually think like that, and walked into Claire's. Jeez, I really need to grow up. 

The room we were in was... strange. There were way too many cameras. I mean, of course everywhere has cameras, but this many? There were even some on the floor aiming upwards... lucky I didn't wear my favourite skirt! That would be extremely gay and stupid and probably lower my strength stat by a few hundred points. 

We walked past the ear piercing section, and straight through the black curtain at the back to the surgical department. 

Ben's hand clasped mine even tighter, as if to say "daddy, I'm scared". But I know he wouldn't be stupid enough to show me any fear, unless he wants to be evaporated into nothing but an ass and some legs again. Stupid boy. Be a real man. Pathetic. 

Once we entered the lobby, things just got stranger. There were even more cameras, and the windows almost seemed... fake. Nonetheless, we approached the front desk where a rather snooty looking young man was sitting watching a lacrosse game on his phone. I almost wanted to tell him to stop pouting and flexing, but I felt like he was on the cusp of a meltdown if I offered him any sort of criticism. We stood there awkwardly for a moment in the silence of the lobby, where only the three of us and a man hidden behind a newspaper were sat, until Ben broke the silence.

"Um... excuse me?" he stammered

"Holy shit, you're fat and ugly" said the receptionist, looking up from his phone. "Why do you look like your wife has a boyfriend who treats you like a son? You look so stupid. Jeez. Probably a trender."

Blown away from his rudeness, I grabbed him by the collar and stood up, dangling him like a saveloy on a fishing hook. I looked him dead in the eyes, and spoke from the heart. 

"Listen here you antagonistic little cretin, if you ever talk to my boyfriend like that again, I'm going to fold you into a paper cup and drink from you on my podcast where I talk about things I don't understand, got it, you soggy onion boy?"

Seeing that I wasn't a 13 year old non binary kid on TikTok, or someone with half the testosterone he has, he backed down with nothing to say like a rat retreating into a hole. That was... way easier than I thought. Looking at his name tag as I dropped him into the waste paper basket by his desk, I saw his name was Kalvin. 

"So, uh... I have an appointment" said Ben. 

Kalvin pressed three buttons on his keyboard, and then reached under his desk and dumped what looked like a crate of milk bottles in front of us. 

"Um... what?" I said, puzzled. 

"There you go" Kalvin said, his eyes flicking back and forth from the security camera above his desk. 

"Explain, you wet flannel" I demanded 

"Oh, do you want me to actually organise a boxing match with you that I will totally train for and turn up to?" he spat back at me.

"Listen, Mr Inferiority Complex, I'm not a tween non binary TikTok user with no fight experience and less than a third of your testosterone, you're not gonna lay a finger on me you fucking pathetic clown cunt, even if there was someone who would actually take you seriously enough to organise a fight sports event for a sack of shit like you, you wouldn't even train properly for it you baton-wielding prick, so stick to your little games of lacrosse where you get ten times the protective gear you do in boxing anyways and explain why you've just put this in front of me before I fucking wrap the front door around your skull, alright you soft little sugarplum fairy wannabe tough guy dickhead?" I said, while menacingly flexing my muscles under my floral blouse.  

"Its testosterone" said Kalvin, on the verge of tears after being stood up to by someone his own size. 

While I was baffled that anyone actually found a sensitive little softie like me intimidating, now I was even more confused.

"But I didn't come here for testosterone, I came here for top surgery" said Ben. 

Kalvin leaned in, beckoned us closer, and whispered to us:

"Listen... I know this makes no sense. Literally no clinic anywhere gives out cross-sex hormones this fast. But thats not what *they* believe, and if *they* see me making realistic choices when dealing with trans clients, they'll stab me" he whispered in a shaky voice.

"You are beyond useless. Why are you even doing this?" Said Ben.

"Look, I get it, I'm trans too, I know I'm full of shit. But what matters is that *they* think I'm normal." he replied.

"Who's 'they'?" I asked

But before I could press him further, Kalvin backed off and said loudly "Anyways... since you're a girl, we can't give you the surgery. You girl. Stupid, weak, pathetic girl who listens to people on the internet. But we're libtards, so we're gonna give you the surgery anyways, because we like blending children!" he obnoxiously yelled, winking at the nearest camera.  

"Oh, Kalvin..." said a nearby voice in an Italian accent. "You know there are laws preventing people from getting hormones within 24 hours. You know that nobody is stealing your resources. And you know that gender expression and gender identity are different things. I thought law students were supposed to be smart."

We all turned around to see the man with the newspaper stand up, only to realize it was...Guiseppe? 

Mama mia! What a plot twist!

"G-Guiseppe??" Kalvin gasped. "But... I thought you were dead!"

"Oh Kalvin, sending a few angsty teens over to spam in my comments may be enough to defeat a child, but I'm Guiseppe. I'm not even supposed to be here." 

Then he turned around and left, after slapping Kalvin with his newspaper and starting small fires in each and every chair in the room. 

"Arriverderci, bitch" Said Guiseppe, flipping us all off and walking straight through the glass door, leaving a trail of blood down the street as he tossed bricks of cheese at the police officers chasing him. 

After that weird little episode, Kalvin ushered us down a corridor and into another room where a nurse put Ben into a hospital gown, which offended me because I wanted her to touch me instead, and then told us to wait. 

Then the doctor came in. And hooooooly smokes... Chad who??

"Hello there, I'm perfectly normal doctor Blaire and I believe I'm performing a top surgery later today? " She said in a voice that turned my legs to jelly. 

There was something about this woman... something that just made me obsessed with her. Something that just made me want to grab her and stuff her in my tighty-whities. I just couldn't get over how hot I found her. 

"Uh, yes, thats right, on me." Said Ben. 

"Nervous? You fucking should be, you she-girl" responded the doctor

She just misgendered my boyfriend right in front of me, but I didn't care. I was pitching a tent like my shorts were a homeless colony just from looking at her. But... why? She looks like literally every popular girl that struggled to stay popular after graduation. Like, I could scrape a carbon copy of her off the streets of LA. Why do I find her so attractive??

"But yeah, anyways, don't worry, I totally care about you, you're gonna be fine. I'm trans too, so I definitely understand the struggle." she said with a definitely not fake smile. 

Then it hit me. Trans. That was it. Thats why I was feeling such a desperate urge to squeeze one out then and there right in front of her. All over her definitely not disingenuous face. 

She walked out of the room, and I finally took a breath. Then, ten or so minutes later, the nurse came back wheeled Ben into the operating theater. 

The walls were very clearly made of cardboard, and the doctor's desk was shoddily thrown together. Thats when I noticed... there was a picture with her and a man on the desk. 

"Hey, I know him!" I said. "Isn't he a member of the KKK? You seem pretty cosy with him. I mean, nothing he does really effects me, so in order to appeal to people in the same boat, I can't say anything about him, but thats a very nice picture!"

"Oh, yeah, totally" said doctor Blaire, adjusting one of the sixteen security cameras in the room. Seriously, what is with those cameras? 

"Now, Ben..." she said, walking over to Ben, who was looking like a stupid little fucking sardine in his hospital gown. "Do you want the regular top surgery, or the really good conservative top surgery?" 

"Conservative...top...surgery?" said Ben, raising his shitty eyebrows. Bitch needs some work done, fr fr. 

"Oh, yes. Its really really good. I promise. Its just as good as the regular one." 

She seemed to be shaking and stammering, so I spoke up. 

"Okay, this is weird. Like, seriously weird. Why are there so many cameras? Why is your office made of cardboard?" 

"Ah-ah!" She said, moving closer to us. Then from under her doctor coat, she pulled out... a gun?!?

"You want the conservative top surgery, riiiight?" she said, doing that stupid fucking fake smirk she does. But make no mistake, I'm a chaser, I give zero fucks. 

"Y...yes!" squealed Ben. 

"Thats right. At least I can tell who the top is here." she said, gleefully. 

"Its me" said Ben

"Oh, right, yeah, sure" said Blaire. 

Thats when I noticed... the poster on her wall that I previously thought said 'live, laugh, love' actually said 'If he ain't aryan, I ain't marryin''. And in the desk drawer... was that... a confederate flag?? And a badge that says "I'm latina and proud"??? This bitch is CRAAAZY!!

Before I could call her out, she grabbed both me and Ben, pulled us close, and spoke as if she was terrified of something. 

"Listen... I'm here to sell you out. Yeah. I'm trans. But thats some scary shit. I need to get as cosy as possible with the far right so that when they kill trans people, at lease I MIGHT survive. Yeah, I'm a sellout, yeah, I'm a coward, and yeah they will most likely hurt me anyways, but I don't care. I'll be their token invite. I'll lick their boots. They taste great. I love it. The attention feels great. I've lied, cheated and betrayed my people to save myself, but so what? Terfs are very supportive when you're on their good side. So sit there like a good little twink and fucking enjoy the surgery."

Quick as a flash, she glided over to a nearby cupboard and pulled out... a lawnmower?? 

"ALRIGHT! THIS IS A PERFECTLY NORMAL SCHEDULED TOP SURGERY THAT WE DEFINITELY DO TO CHILDREN! LOOK!"

And then the machine descended onto Ben's chest. 

"IN THEORYYYYYYYYYYY-" Ben screamed, as he was blended like a milkshake in a diner. After a few seconds, the surgery was over. all that was left of Ben was a perfectly presented bowl of spaghetti bolognese. 

"Wow, for once in his life, he actually looks kinda delicious..." I muttered

"YOU SEE? THIS IS WHAT THEY DO TO CHILDREN! YOU WERE RIGHT!! LOOK!! I'M NORMAL!!! I'M ON YOUR SIDE!! THE ONLY WAY TO SAVE THESE PEOPLE IS TO TAKE AWAY THEIR HEALTHCARE RIGHTS!!!" screamed Blaire, into one of the cameras. 

Thats when it happened. 

The walls... they collapsed. Revealing a huge audience of thousands and thousands of people. All of them, screaming like animals. MAGA hats, confederate flags, and inbreeding as far as the eye could see. There was so much stupidity in front of me that I forgot my own name. Sven? Sven Coward? Sven Chaser? Ah fuck it, who cares, I'm just a hilarious embodiment of a venomous content genre anyways. My boyfriend is a dinner. I'm surrounded by idiots. Life is good. 

"Do you see? I'm just like you! Please don't hurt me! I'm one of the normal ones! Please, use me as your scapegoat!" the doctor continued to screech. 

But her cries were in vain. The mob of zombies were upon her in seconds, devouring her while ensuring to use proper cutlery, because they might be transphobic, but at least they use a knife and fork. 

And that was it. That was what happened. What the hell was that? 

[arthurdrakoni]

It took me a while to try The Call of the Void, but I’m glad I finally did. Come for the Lovecraft homages, stay for the compelling characters

Topher Sommers is a tour guide who works at the New Orleans Pharmacy Museum. He’s got a fairly good life, and is reasonably happy. Then his father, a prominent physics professor, disappears. Topher and his sister Simone try to retrace their father’s steps. This leads Topher to a palm reader named Etsy Delmen. She went to school with Topher, but he kind of forgot about her over the years. Etsy is hide a few secrets of her own. Topher and Etsy hit the road to retrace Mr. Sommers tracks, while Simone stay behind in New Orleans. Topher and Etsy are about to find more than they bargained for. They will discover arcane symbols, deranged cultists, morally questionable experiments, and eldritch horrors from beyond this universe. This is The Call of the Void. Stay tuned, stay sane. 

I had known about The Call of the Void for a while. I’d seen it get recommended alongside shows such as Spaceships, The Strata, and Residents of Proserpina Park. The Twitter account for The Call of the Void even followed and unfollowed me a couple times. I did follow them back eventually, but I think I ought to explain my process. I don’t follow shows on Twitter until I have caught up with all available episodes that they have. It’s nothing personal, it’s just how I conduct myself. But it was also clear that The Call of the Void was trying to get my attention. Okay, it worked. You guys twisted my arm enough, and I gave the show a listen. 

I sometimes get the feeling that shows follow me on Twitter in order to fish for a review. As such, I must repeat what I said during my review of We Fix Space Junk. If any of you who create audio drama would like a review, just be direct. You can message me on Reddit, or send me a direct message on Twitter. You can also comment on one of my many posts on r/audiodrama, or the other subreddits I post in. Or you can message me on Facebook; I'm active in the Audio Drama Lovers group and the Audio Drama Hub group. You can also message my Facebook fan page for this blog, Sam McDonald's The Audiophile. Point is, there's a lot of way to get in touch with me. The best way to guarantee that I'll review your show is to directly contact me. As you might have noticed, I'm more than happy to give any show a shot. 

I’ll admit that horror investigation audio dramas aren’t really my go-to genre. Despite this, The Call of the Void managed to hold my interest for all three seasons. I was worried that things would move too slow, and both the mystery and plot would drag on. Thankfully, this was not the case. The plot moved at a decent speed. In fact, there were times when season one felt like it was moving a bit too fast. Fortunately, these pacing issues were smoothed out in seasons two and three. I was also intrigued by the references and connections to the Lovecraft Mythos. I am a fan of the works of H.P. Lovecraft. Let’s see: incomprehensible eldritch horrors from beyond this universe, deranged cultists who worship said eldritch horrors, mysterious archaic symbols, academics driven mad by the eldritch horrors. I don’t know about you, but that all sounds pretty Lovecraftian to me. 

Also, as someone from Louisiana, I’d be lying if I said that The Calling of the Void being set in Louisiana didn’t intrigue me. My dad’s side of the family is from throughout the greater New Orleans area. So, I’ve visited New Orleans on quite a few occasions over the years. While we’re on the subject, points for getting the pronunciation correct. Those of us from Louisiana pronounce it New Or-lense, not New Or-leans. I realize this makes no sense to non-Louisianans, but that’s how we pronounce it. Saying it as Or-leans is a good way to get yourself marked as a tourist. Also, points for remembering that Louisiana is divided into parishes, not counties. It is a legacy from our days as a colony of France and Spain, who were both Catholic nations. Louisiana is one of only two states that don’t use counties. The other one is Alaska, which uses boroughs. 

As I noted at the beginning, The Call of the Void draws heavily upon the works of H.P. Lovecraft for inspiration. The Void itself wouldn’t be too out of place in a Lovecraft story. Even the way it factors into the plot of The Call of the Void evokes Lovecraft. H.P. Lovecraft came up with a pantheon of Great Old Ones with a very detailed mythology. However, the Great Old Ones usually don’t directly appear in Lovecraft’s short stories. They’re usually lurking just off-screen, for lack of a better way of putting it, and manipulating things from the shadows. The Void only directly appears a few times, but its presence is very much felt. 

The main antagonist of season two is known as The Yellow King. This is an obvious reference to The King in Yellow. The King in Yellow was created by Robert W. Chamber. However, Lovecraft was a big fan of Chamber’s work, and incorporated The King in Yellow into the Cthulhu Mythos. Speaking of Cthulhu, I get the impression that the title of the series might be a reference to “The Call of Cthulhu.” Topher, Etsy, and the gang are also menaced by Night Gaunts at the end of season two, and the start of season three. Points for picking one of the more obscure Lovecraft monsters.

The Call of the Void bills itself as science fiction, but it’s really science fiction to the same extent that Stranger Things is. Though, this isn’t too surprising, given that the creators are big fans of Stranger Things.

Also, as a history major, a lot of Topher’s characterization rang very true.  I haven’t been to the New Orleans Pharmacy Museum, but I’ll be sure to fix that the next time I’m down that way.  I’m tempted to ask if Topher Sommers is in just to see how the tour guides react. 

Have you listened to The Call of the Void?  If so, what did you think?

Link to the full review on my blog: https://drakoniandgriffalco.blogspot.com/2022/07/the-audio-file-call-of-void.html?m=1

[xiosandrafirelyte]

Spookzilla 2023 - Designer List by Toxxic Rhiannyr Via Flickr: TR Events presents The 11th Annual Spookzilla Hunt Event Dates: October 20 - Nov 3 2023 Costume Party Date: October 31 @ 6pm SLT Waffles 6-8p Lichi Moonwall 8-10p Severus Seven 10-12a About Spookzilla Hunt The Spookzilla Hunt presents an immersive Halloween experience spanning over a heavily decorated swampland. Our hunt has earned a distinguished reputation for its challenging nature, as we create an experience that pushes hunters to their limits. By strategically hiding prizes on hard mode, we introduce an element of excitement and intrigue, maintaining secrecy around their exact locations. Upon arrival at the region, hunters receive an official notecard featuring hunt keys from each brand. A Hunt Key is an advertisement showcasing numbered prizes, along with store / product details. [Like a Gacha Key] Each participating store is assigned a unique ghostie texture. This image is displayed inside the hunt notecard and at the landing area for hunters to preview before starting their journey. To enhance accessibility for hunters, we also make the hunt keys available on our Facebook page. Visit to see past hunts and key examples www.facebook.com/treventssl Go big or go home! ♥ 718 1990 -Disconnect. -Extra- :: ANTAYA :: ::Static:: !!Kute Kreations!! !13ACT !BODY EXPRESSION! . Hanzel . .::Lockheart::. .:.Nocturne Skies.:. .{PSYCHO:Byts}. .Mars. .Olive. .Tardfish. "Off-Line" [HEXUMBRA] [high v.] [MENTALASYLUM] [Onyx] store [QE] { anxious angel } { Red Blossom } {A-list} {Rosier} *B.D.R.* *KD* KaiDesign \\DEGENERATE// +Ghoul Babe+ +Psycho Barbie+ 1 Hundred 28LA 7 Deadly s[K]ins Aardvark Abrasive Achroma Acorn & Oak Adora-tions Aitne AJU Akai Ito Allure Allure Skins Amadeus Âme. Andromeda Angelic Designs Anomaly anonymous collective ANTI. antisocial Apika Apocalyptic Apothic Rebirth Ari-Pari AseRiz Astarothic Astralia AZENOX Poses B L V C K . D I V M O N D babyboo Bartimeu Beauty Of Darkness Beauty Unleashed Believe Belissima Beusy Black Lotus Blossie Blue Blood Blue Valentine BLUEBELL BONDI BOOTISM Bouncy Boutique #187 BoWillow Breaux Willow Build.a.Baddie Bunk CAMO CAZIMI Celesticat Chemical Princess Cherry Bunny~ Chimeric Arts & Fashions Cho-kidlets Chorrai CLUMSY Corvus Creeperesque CRY BB. Crybunbun crystal CUTE FOR YOU Cuteophobia Danger! Dark Agony Dark Love DarkerSide Darkheart Deviance Dazed. deluge. Demicorn DEVILOCK DIEM Divah DM DOBS DOE&TANGSAI Dollified Dorada dovely. dumb baby Eden Edie's eerie Effervescence ELEVEN Emi's Attic Enaitch Enamour Enigma Apparel Epoch erotiK Eventyra EVHAH Ewa Boutique FAUXBERRY Flamingos FOI Frayed Furrocious GAKI GANG Galagher Garmonbozia GHOST GHOULISH GLEAM Glitzery Gloss Go&See Goddess Creations Grumble Guapa HAUS Havoc Hazy Doll hell.o HER HERA HexemSL HexPosed HolliPocket Hollow HORL Horney Delights Hot Stuff Ichor (AMBIX REBRANDED) IDOL iicing Inkling Insomnia Angel Jelly Junk Food Just Tony just yaska // KILLJOY Kitty Coven Kiu Knife Party KNIFU. Kore KREEP KUMIHO KVITO KYMILE La Feminique La Maldita Bruja Landgraff Le Moon LEMPIKA Letis Tattoo LIFONTI Lilith's Den Lilleth. Liotta Lithium Littlep LIVIA Liyue Loki Lolapop! LOVESOME Lowlyfe LuLu LUV EFFECT Luxury Madame Noir MAENA Magnetic MAJIKAL Meatcat Mechante Mechta MedievalFantasy Store MEWSERY mija Minuit mirinae Miss Chelsea Misteria MITO Mochi Modulus MOMOCHUU MONOMANIA MOoH! MOONIE moonphase Mosscore Muu~ Mym Store Mysteria namo. NecroNoir NEED Niko No Cabide Normandy Nuage Nuve NYNE OATMILK Odd Doll ONEDAYs OPOPOP ! Opulein OTHER FACES PAIX panDEMONium ink Paper.Sparrow pecheresse. Peechy. PERLA STORE Petrichor PHASE Phedora Pink&Love Pinky's Nails Pirocious Pixel Doll Polar Bunny Porcelain Poser POUT! Puddles. PuddyTatts PurpleMoon R U V A Raindale rainnn RAIRE Rebellious Rose REDZ3N [R3] REPULSE REVERIE Rokins roslyn. Rowers rue Sacul Sad Grlz Sass SEKA SEKAI SHE SAID DESTROY. Shining Shiny Stuffs SHY SiMi [Do you see me?] Skoll sleep. Sofia Som SOMEONE Somnium Spells & Charms Spruce Starfall STERNBERG Stiff Store Studio 1988 SUGAR DOLLS Suicidal Unborn Sukker SUNI Sweeties TAINA TANAKA TAOX TATTOO Tastic Telsiope's Couture The Kitty Corner The Artist Shed The Bearded Guy The Nunnery theROOM THIS IS WRONG TO.KISKI ToG Store TOMASU TRS Designs Tsuki TSUMI two delta U:REFINED Unicorn UniCult Unnie Useless Addiction V8 UNDERGROUND Vae Victis VALLEMONT VELLUM VENGE Verboten Vermilion VIENA violxnce VIPERA Von Noir VORTEX Vudu Tattoo W.G STORE WellMade Wicca's Originals WickedWire Widdershins WIHK Wired Wistaria. Witch In A Box Wraith XLR8 XS Primal xx Youke Your Dreams Yumi. ZEX ZFG

[blueberrydays]

✏️📚School memories, part 2📚✏️

Do you know those movies about the prom? Pretty dresses, amazing night and fun with your friends?

At mine, classmates planned via Facebook how to pour some sticky drink and feathers/confetti over my dress to ruin it and humiliate me in front of everyone.

🎨🏀📒✂️🎾

What about school trips for a week? Doesn’t matter if it’s a boring one or not, you and your friends will make the most out of it and will have lots of fun away from home.

For me, the „fun“ started right at the beginning. No one wanted to sit next to me on the bus. And at the youth hostel, the teachers had to forcefully assort me to a dorm room, as no one wanted to „take“ me. Being there for a week, without being able to escape to my home, was pure torture. I was basically a fair game 24/7. Being pushed in the water? Stealing my clothes when in the shower, just to lure me out naked and mock my body? Putting junk in my backpack? Or telling me to sleep in the lower bunk bed because the whole bed would hopefully crash down on me.

🎨🏀📒✂️🎾

Having to hide on the disgusting toilet over lunchbreak and having my food there, because entering the cafeteria or campus would just mean humiliation.

School? Good times. 🙃

[christinaem]

Social media was once a form of communication between classmates, friends, families, and colleagues. Today social media is used for entertainment and news. What we see on our feeds is chosen for us by these tech giants to make our experience better while using their products. When using these products such as Facebook, Google, Instagram, TikTok, Snapchat, and more we are being tracked, and the social media algorithm begins to know us better than most. No, not through our phone cameras and microphones (that has yet to be determined) but what we click on through their algorithm and this includes ads. They have become virtual junk mail that we can’t throw out that sneaks into our social media space disguised as a regular post, article, or store. Facebook was the first to do this years ago by hiding the words “Ads” or “Sponsor” and currently Amazon.

This past week, in one of the videos I watch from the class, Zeynep Tufekci explains how we are tricked by these tech giants for us to click ads. The Netflix documentary “The Social Dilemma” dives deeper into the ways we are tracked and Vox recently put out a report about Amazon sneaking ads into their searches.

[khelinski]

The Loot Crate

Once upon a time there was a fella name Ron. Poor, poor Ron. The last time we had seen poor, poor Ron – he was stuck in line between a Team Edward fan and a Team Jacob fan while buying a Twilight DVD for his girlfriend. Ron is still poor and poor, being dragged to stuff he doesn't like (just this past weekend, he was forced to go to the screening of the third Fifty Shades of Grey film with his girlfriend – poor, poor, Ron). This tale doesn't involve Ron or his girlfriend. This tale involves Ron's not so poor brother, Ben.

Benjamin Benny Ben goes by just Ben. He was named after the Michael Jackson song, 'Ben.' He hates that song and Michael Jackson. He also doesn't care for his poor brother Ron, and Ron's girlfriend. Ron doesn't have much of a personality. Ben doesn't either, though Ben thinks he does.

 Ben Benny Benjamin loves WWF. No, not the World Wildlife Fund. He loves WWE, which is referred to as World Wrestling Entertainment. It was once called the World Wrestling Federation, but the World Wildlife Fund sued the World Wrestling Federation for the WWF name. The World Wildlife Fund won the battle, so the World Wrestling Federation had to change its name to the World Wrestling Entertainment. Ben still calls the World Wrestling Entertainment the World Wrestling Federation. He used to be a moderator (mod for short) on a wrestling fan forum called NoDQ, which used to be called The Mayhem after it was initially called WWFWCW. The World Wrestling Federation, before it was the World Wrestling Entertainment, sued the WWFWCW for using its name without legal authorization. The circle of life as we know it. Ben doesn't mod NoDQ anymore, for NoDQ fan forum no longer exists (but the site exists). Instead, he does weekly podcasts on YouTube called THE MAIN EVENT. He has a whole whopping 14 weekly viewers on his weekly podcast. 13 of the viewers are his co-workers at his employer, Dime-a-Dozen. The 14th viewer is Ron, poor, poor Ron. Ben doesn't care much for Ron, but poor, poor Ron sure does enjoy Ben's podcast. It is Ron's only escape from the clutches of his girlfriend's world. Ron doesn't watch WWE, aka WWF. It's not part of Ron's scheduled TV time (his girlfriend controls the TV). Ron gets away with watching Ben's THE MAIN EVENT while hiding in the bathroom.

Benny Benjamin Ben enjoys collecting Pop! Funko figures (don't you dare call them toys around his presence, much like don't you dare call graphic novels, comics around him either). Ben has five china cabinets, just to keep up with his collection. He never takes them out of the box, as they would lose its value. He is a regular at the local Gamestop, which he will spend hours glaring at every single Pop! Funko figure, making mental notes in his head of what he owns and doesn't own. Mind you, he has three Stranger Things Sheriff Jim Hopper (512), 6 Kill Bill Gogo Yubari (71), and 10 Macho Man Randy Savage (10). A friend from work came over once and asked Ben if he could spare a Macho Man. The friend also did a tasteless impression of Macho Man grabbing a Slim Jim. That was the last time that friend was over Ben's house. The friend didn't get a Macho Man Pop! Funko either.

Among Ben's hobbies (which isn't much, to be honest, TBH for short), Ben really digs getting loot crates in the mail. Not only does he dig it, but each time he gets a loot crate in the mail, he Facebook's live himself opening the loot crate. Never-mind that majority of the monthly subscribed loot crates are dollar store junk (and replica Pop! Funko figures). Never mind that each time Ben opens a loot crate (and Facebook's live himself opening the loot crate), he always looks disappointed afterward. Never mind Ben, um, never mind!

In the mail, today arrives yet another loot crate. But this one is very unique. Unlike the majority of so-called loot crates that are made out of cheap cardboard – this was an actual metal crate. And it's small. Certainly wouldn't hold a handful of dollar store items and a few Pop! Funko figures (never toys). Its sender reads Providence, Rhode Island, USA, North America, Earth, and Milky Way.

           The loot crate that was meant for Ben was accidentally shipped to a neighbor across from Ben. The neighbor's name is irrelevant because as soon as the neighbor opened the loot crate and discovered its contents, the nameless neighbor died. The nameless neighbor lived alone and wasn't discovered until a month later. The discovery spawned an investigation. No foul play was found. The loot crate also didn't cause the nameless neighbor to die. That's silly, considering it's just a crate – a loot crate. The nameless neighbor simply had a heart attack after he opened the loot crate that wasn't meant for him. The loot crate sat at the nameless neighbor's house for another week before it finally reached its designated home: Ben.

           Like clockwork, Ben got his live Facebook feed working. He has 14 followers (the same followers that follow his THE MAIN EVENT podcast). He plays Metallica 'The Call of Ktulu' on his Spotify account. He then handles the loot crate carefully, as if it is the Holy Grail, or the Ark of the Covenant, or a crate that consists of a Mogwai named Gizmo. The 4 by 4 by 4 metal loot crate, weighing half of a pound, has a simple lock that you can unlock by lifting the lockup, unlocking the lock. With luck, Ben unlocks the lock and opens the loot crate. As he does this, he talks to the Facebook feed, giving the 14 viewers something to chew on.

           "Okay, guys, this is the second loot crate of the month. I wasn't expecting this, but hey – the more the loot crates - the better! Not familiar with the packaging. It's not an anime loot crate, or a Star Wars loot crate, or a DC loot crate, or a Marvel loot crate, or a WWF loot crate. Maybe it's a new loot crate, like a horror movie loot crate."

           Ben doesn't open the loot crate immediately – he still talks to the Facebook live feed and guesses what could be in the loot crate. He could just as well open the metal loot crate and unveil the mystery once and for all. Instead, he continues to guess. This is one of Ben's infamous traits. It keeps the 14 followers enticed. Ben doesn't know this micro-size fact, in which the majority of the 14 followers find annoying – they all scream at the screen, 'just open the fucking box!' They never directly tell Ben this, though.

           "Maybe it's a The Conjuring loot crate with a small Annabelle doll. It would be sweet if it was the original Annabelle, a Raggedy Ann doll, instead of that crappy version they have in the movie. Did you know...?”

           Ben rambles for a bit. He rambles about the inaccuracy of The Conjuring films to its inspired story counterparts. He tends to do this once he finds a topic worth flapping his jaw about. He thinks that this gives him a personality. It doesn't. It just makes him very annoying, as most know-it-alls are. As he rambles on, 13 of the 14 viewers on his Facebook live feed go about their daily lives. They keep Ben's live feed on their personal electronic device (whether it is a phone, a computer, or a TV screen), but they are pre-occupied with more important stuff in their lives. 13 of the 14 viewers do this quite often. They never directly tell Ben this, though. The only viewer that is watching Ben's Facebook live feed is poor, poor Ron. Poor, poor Ron is sitting, uncomfortably, on the toilet in his bathroom. He has the volume really low, and the door is locked. This would be strangely suspicious under normal circumstances, but poor, poor Ron doesn't live a normal life. Being whipped is love, and love is being whipped. The circle of life, as poor, poor Ron sees it.

           After some time, Ben stops rambling and finally opens the metal loot crate. He eyeballs what is inside the metal loot crate. A dumbfounded look surfaces on the dumbfounded dipshit's face.

           He reaches inside the metal loot box and pulls out a slimy, green Beanie Baby. But it isn't a Beanie Baby. There is no TY label. And it's too slimy and ugly to be any resemblance of a Beanie Baby. The appearance is what would happen if you blended a man, an octopus, and a squid together. An infinite amount of tentacles are attached to the mouth.

           "What the fuck?" is the only thing Ben can utter. And he didn't say it out loud. He whispers it.

           Ben stares at this bizarre plush doll (never a toy). Ben then tries to think where he has seen the likeness of it before. As Ben is possessed (and obsessed) with his brain's wheels turning (and turning) ever so slowly, attempting to crack the case – Ben doesn't notice the tentacles attached to the mouth of the small octopus/squid man move slightly.

           Poor, poor Ron also doesn't notice. By now, his girlfriend pounds the bathroom door. The jig was up for poor, poor Ron. He turns off his phone.

           Ben's Facebook live feed is now down to 13 viewers. But none of the 13 viewers were viewing the live feed. Ben was all by himself. He still talks to the live feed, as if people were watching him. They weren't.

           "I can't place where I've seen this guy from. I am trying to think. Maybe a monster from a Tora film."

           He means Guillermo del Toro.

           "Or a creature from Studio Ghib…Gib…Studio Ghilbia."

           He means Studio Ghibli.

           The little slimy plush's mouth moves. Its voice is faint – almost a whisper that even dogs wouldn't be able to pick up. Ben doesn't notice the voice, the quiet but effective call…

           After some time, the little slimy plush repulses Ben. Not because of it being slimy, or ugly. Of course, Ben doesn't notice any of the hobbit-size octopus/squid man's strange little quirks no plush figure (never a toy) would do. Ben is still occupied, trying to figure out what it is.

If there is something Ben can't figure out, or doesn't know right away, or has no answers for – he immediately becomes distressed and rules it out as of any significant importance to him. He does the same thing when it comes to politics, philosophy, and even the opposite sex. If he doesn't understand, he doesn't want anything to do with it. That's why WWF (WWE), Pop! Funko figures (never toys), and loot crates are his preferred fancy in life. He can easily understand these facets.

He puts the ugly little dude back in the little metal loot crate. He proceeds to walk out of the house. The Facebook live feed is still live, not that there is anyone watching it, despite the 13 viewer's icon lit up.

           Ben takes the loot crate and throws it in the garbage can in front of the house. Luckily, it's garbage day tomorrow.

It starts to rain. Ben runs inside as if the wet, watery liquid rain is acid rain. Luckily for

Ben, it isn't. Unluckily for us, it isn't. But that doesn't stop Ben from running to the house. Luckily, this is the last time we see Benjamin Benny Ben that goes by just Ben. Unluckily, this isn't the last time we see the little ugly. slimy green plush.

           Ben, of course, doesn't notice the garbage can in front of his house is knocked over. The loot crate falls out of the garbage can. The loot crate lands in the curb of the street. The wet, watery liquid rain creates a little stream along the curb. The little stream grows bigger, and grabs hold of the loot crate. The loot crate drifts away, passing houses. No one notices because no one is outside. It is raining, after all.

           The stream (and the loot crate) flows directly into Clinton River, which resides half a mile away from Ben's house. The loot crate submerges into the river. It floats for a little bit, then sinks. A faint voice, a whisper, a call can be heard. Within an hour, the rain stops. Drip, drip, drip can be heard from the water off the trees drip, drip, dripping onto the ground. A few bubbles appear in the river randomly named Clinton. No one sees it, though, because no one is outside. The bubbles increase to a lot of bubbles. The water in the river begins to turn into waves. The waves intensify into violent surges. No one sees it, of course, because no one is outside.

           A dark shadow appears underneath the water. It rises up. All of a sudden, a monstrous huge green octopus-man figure appears, increasing in height, width, and dimension. It rises out of the water. It is the slimy green plush (never a toy) that upsized itself, considerably. Its infinite tentacles attached to its mouth move in all different directions. If this were a scene in a movie, the audience would say, out loud, 'whoa!' If a person saw this in real life, they would shit their pants. But, no one sees it because no one is outside to see it.

           The monstrous huge green octopus-man opens its mouth and starts to say with an ear- piercing volume for all to hear:

…"

Kissimmee, Florida, USA, North America, Earth, and Milky Way.

"…R'lyeh," I hear again. This is the fourth time I've heard the word as I am writing. But it's always at a faint whisper.

         "What the fuck?" I say out loud. Everyone is asleep. Its 3 A.M., the best time to get some writing done. I love it this time of night. Half of the world is asleep. It's quiet, except for the music I have playing in the background. Tool's 'Ænima' is currently playing. Maynard James Keenan is screaming about taking a vacation from this shit. I don't blame him any. While he takes a vacation from this shit, I am starting to freak out a little bit.

         I get up from my desk and look outside to the backyard. I then open the door and go outside for a few. I can hear the wind make sweet love to the palm trees: 'CHHHHHHHHH…wastin' away again….CHHHHHHHHH.' At least, that's what it sounds like to me. A few dogs nearby start barking. Then they stop. Everything else is peaceful, quiet, relaxing. The very definition of tranquility. And no, that wasn't a cheap reference to Wastin' Away.

         I go back inside, lock the door, and sit back at my desk. By now, 'Ænima' is over, and Tool's 'Schism" starts playing.

         I stare at my computer monitor and re-read what I've written. Should I keep the reference of Metallica's 'The Call of Ktulu' in the story, I ask myself. Hmm…I stare at the screen for a few seconds, and finally decide to keep it in. Fuck it, I say to myself! It's a cheap reference, but it works. I then add a few finishing touches, proofread it several times (but knowing I will still miss one or ten simple mistakes – the joys of writing!)

         'Schism' concludes with Maynard James Keenan screaming about knowing the pieces will fit.

I debate with myself between Amazon or Fiction Press, Fiction Press or Amazon. The story is good, I think. Whatever. I go to Fiction Press, upload the story, and publish it. I then get an email confirming that the story is published.

         "R'lyeh!" This time, it wasn't a whisper. It was a full-blown shout consisting of a million voices at once – and it came from somewhere far, but loud enough to be heard. My computer turns off. The power is out.

         "Oh great,” I say to myself. I check my phone, turning on my mobile data. No Internet source on my phone. I can hear thunder outside. I look out the window, and I see a lightning strike nearby. Thunder rumbles a few seconds afterward. A separate rumble can be heard from a distance.

         I really start to freak the fuck out. The family is still asleep. How could they sleep through this?

         I am still looking outside. Another lightning bolt flashes the night sky. With it came a brief image of a huge, monstrous creature standing above my house, looking down at me. I also saw very briefly a monstrous creature standing above a house next to my house. But that's got to be my pure imagination, right?

         Before I could register what I was seeing, I hear a huge explosion outside. I am so scared; yet, I cannot look away. I am possessed (and obsessed) over what I was seeing. My eyes are glued to the window looking out the backyard; I didn't even notice that half of my house is torn apart

         I've read my share of dark and bleak stories about horrors and death, as well as writing my own share of gruesome tales. Never occurred to me while writing those stories, how to completely convey what goes through a character's head before they ultimately meet their demise. They didn't know. But I, the writer playing God, knew when they would die.

         I didn't quite register that I was about to die. I also didn't put two and two together that I am the cause of the end of the fucking world. I just thought it would be cool to write homage for both Kurt Vonnegut and H.P. Lovecraft. Hell, so many writers throughout the year's written stories, was honoring H.P. Lovecraft. Movies, TV shows, authors owe their success to H.P. Lovecraft. I doubt they knew with each Lovecraftian story written, it was just another piece to the puzzle to call the great ones, the ancient ones, the elders.

A huge hand crashes into the window and grabs hold of me. I feel like I am on a simulator ride at Universal Studios. But what is in front of me isn’t a screen. It is a big, fucking, green, monster. It is a Cthulhu. But not just any Cthulhu – the Cthulhu.

         "R'lyeh!" it says to me.

         The big, fucking, green monster raises his hand to his mouth. Contrary to what I wrote, the tentacles attached to his mouth stay in one fixed position. The big, fucking, green monster opens its big, fucking, green mouth and places me inside. I feel a sharp pain all around my body. The last thing I hear is a loud CRUNCH.

K.H.; February 13, 2018.

[kecharacosplay]

So this past week, I've been doing a little experiment. I've been keeping track of all the "fat stuff" on television, social media, and the occasional comments from friends and family. Feel free to skip if this kinda thing upsets you.

Anti-Fat: 29; Let's start with the big one. This is how many times "fat" was mentioned in a negative light, including jokes and scathing comments against a person for NO other reason than because they were overweight. And I didn't even include the characters who were meant as a joke in the first place(see: any time a main char is put in a fat suit, or that one fat guy/girl who always seems to be excessively stupid/desperate/gross compared to EVERYONE else in the show).

Pro-Skinny/Pretty: 13; Every time someone was praised for being conventionally attractive, or for 'catching' a conventionally attractive spouse, regardless of that person's personality or behavior. This number was actually a bit lower than I expected.

Weight-Loss Ads: 17; I didn't include every exercise equipment ad, otherwise this number would have undoubtedly been higher. My focus was mostly the pills, shakes, meal plans, and apps whose sole purpose is 'shedding the unsightly pounds'.

Bonus round, Junk-Food Ads: 36; This is JUST the junk food ads. Candy, fast food, chips, soda, etc. And that was at best half of the food-related ads I saw throughout the week. There wasn't a single show or movie that didn't at least have food in it, and it was almost never perfectly 'healthy' home-cooked meals.

So in conclusion, that's 59 times fat-related content was brought to my attention in just ONE WEEK. Imagine what that must be like to ANYONE's psyche over the course of a LIFETIME. That's over 3000 times a year on average that a person's value is tied to their appearance. THREE. THOUSAND. Three thousands times a skinny girl will feel like she'll be worthless if she gains even a pound. Three thousand times a fat girl will be reminded that she already is worthless just as she is. And this list doesn't even include the comment sections online.

And you may be asking yourself, what about the body-positive ads? People are more inclusive than ever, right? Maybe on Facebook and IG(a little), but there was nothing noteworthy on regular television. Every body-positive article I've read came only from a source that I had to specifically search for, groups that I was already a part of. And I guarantee every single one of those posts by body-positive pages were strewn with anti-fat comments.

And truly, body-positivity is not my goal here. I don't want 'all bodies are beautiful'. I want body neutrality. I want 'we don't care what you look like, just don't be an asshole'.

Stop insulting yourself just because you don't see a specific number that 'sounds right' on a scale.

Stop telling people they 'need to eat a sandwich/salad'.

Stop hiding behind 'I just want you to be healthy', because you know damn well someone's physical appearance does NOT dictate how healthy they are.

STOP OBSESSING OVER FAT. Literally every human on the planet has it, our fucking bodies are LITERALLY SUPPOSED TO HAVE IT. Don't believe me? Go find that damn post about the super ripped dudes almost dying trying to get rid of it that has been floating around the past few weeks.

TL;DR- People come in all shapes and sizes. Don't like it? Then gouge your eyes out and shut TF up.

[pretendrocketships]

Think About Me

About: Shawn fucking you after your bachelorette party, reminding you who you belong to. Forever. (SMUT)

A/N: 3K THIS REQUEST WAS EVERYTHING. IF YOU HAVE A FIRE REQUEST LIKE THIS YOU BETTER SEND IT. I went from Dom!Shawn to cute and giggly mid sex Shawn.Idk how this ended up being so cute.  Lmao I hope y’all can see I’m indecisive.   Actually had fun with this, I’m back babbieesss. I would love love love some feedback. 

Song: Think About Me by DVSN

--- 

“Baby! Have you seen my keys? I’m going to be so late and the girls are going to kill me.” Shawn sat on the couch and continued starring at whatever was so captivating on his phone, 

“Nope, haven’t seen them.” You rolled your eyes and took his phone out of his hand.

“Shawn, you didn’t even look up from your phone, let alone help me look!” 

“One, you’re cute when you yell, and two, you asked if I had seen them which I truthfully answered no.” He snatched his phone back and planted a quick kiss on your lips before plopping himself back onto the couch. “Any other questions?”

“What is wrong with you?” you asked more to the wind than to him.

“Nothing. Fine.  Why wouldn’t I love sparkly pink balloons and confetti around our house, reminding me that over-sexualized men are going to be rubbing their junk all around your face,” he said drawing air circles around your head, “for the entire night!” You threw your head back in a laugh.

“Baby, don’t be like this, you had your fun last month,” you reminded him. All the boys flooded out of hiding to surprise Shawn with the “dream bachelor party”, as they called it. You remember the pictures on Brian’s Facebook of Shawn’s goofy drunk smile and all of his closest friends finally in the same place at the same time. Clicking through the album you were cracking up until you saw a picture of Shawn with his hands covering his eyes and the boys laughing or wide-eyed around him. You were ready to click to the next picture to see what all the fuss was about until suddenly everything disappeared. The album disappeared before your eyes, baffling you until your computer pinged, signaling a private message from Brian: “Sorry love, what happens in Vegas and all that.” You snapped yourself out of the memory when you felt Shawn pouting around you.

“Ok yes, buttt it was all Brian! I had no choice; I was kidnapped!” he whined, sinking further into your plushy couch.

“You’re lucky you’re cute Mendes,” you said, straddling him and kissing his temple to attempt to stop his whining.

“So you’re staying?” he said perking up, sliding his hands around your waist, towing with the hem of your dress. It was your turn to laugh.

“Oh hell no, I’m going to have a great time, baby.” You leaned close and kissed up his neck, ending just under his ear when you felt him shiver. “And you’re just going to have to get over it,” you remarked kissing him slowly while he pulled you impossibly closer. “My needy boy,” you chuckled lowly.

“You actually cannot leave me here right now,” he groaned thrusting his hips up.

“Watch me,” you whispered. You felt a little evil, but mainly powerful. Getting off his lap, you were excessive with sliding off him and shaking your ass once you were back on your feet. “Don’t wait up.” 

“You know what, I will. I’ll take care of myself tonight you have fun. You smiled at him, that dazzling smile that initially made his heartache.

“You do that, baby,” you cooed squeezing his cheeks, “give your right hand a break after a while.” He groaned. It’s not that he didn’t trust you, far from it, he just hates how hot you are. That was confusing, and he admits it, but having a fiance so attractive means looks. He was no stranger to them. No matter how many times you reassured him all the stares were for him, but he wasn’t stupid. The fact that not one, not two, but several hot men with glistening abs and better dance moves than him were getting paid to put a smile on your face. Fuck he needs to stop thinking. He may be slightly freaking out, but he would never let you know that. He removed your hand from his cheek quickly and interlocked your fingers, stretching his hand out above the top of the couch.

“You can do whatever you want, honey,” he said whispering while holding an intense stare. “These guys can grind on you, touch you,” he muttered while trailing his other hand down your curves, “try their best to put on a show, but we both know I’m the one that has you begging, screaming,” his hand how ghosts over your neck,” cumming until you’re shaking. So, have fun, honey, I’ll be here when you need me.” Your breath hitched in your throat as goosebumps appeared all over your skin. He kissed your temple and pulled himself up from the couch. “Gotta get going, (Y/N), you’ll be late.” He was full-on smirking on, glad he took back control of the situation. You straightened up and fixed your top and your hair.

“Don’t wait up.” With one final kiss, you grabbed your keys, which were where you left them, you were out the door, leaving Shawn to ease his mind alone. Now, what was he going to do all this time? He didn’t even come back from his own bachelor party, spending the night at Brian’s because he was so far from gone by the end of the night. You got a picture from one of his friends with him curled up shirtless, in black jeans that were way too tight, with a teddy bear in his arms. No one was really sure how Shawn got to bed, but the picture was cute enough for you to not be mad at him for not coming home after a night of strippers. 

Shaking the thoughts of his bachelor party away, he got up and looked around the house for something to do, but everything in your home reminded him of you. Like everyone normal person, his mind went to Instagram to hope some mindless scrolling would take his mind off everything. Several questionable Tasty videos and dog pictures later, he found himself clicking through everyone’s stories, not paying much attention until his phone let out a scream. He almost dropped his phone before seeing your face flash across his screen. He sat up straighter on the couch and clicked back to start the story front he beginning. He saw you and your friends screaming on a party bus, he saw all the alcohol and the pink glitter sash that settled nicely between your boobs, so he thought. You and your friends were dancing and laughing about whatever you managed to hear over the loud music. The next story was a solo picture of you with the caption “LAST NIGHT OF FREEDOM DONE RIGHT!!” The next story, he wished he didn’t click on. The front of the strip club was familiar. He might have looked up all the best clubs in the city just in case he needed to come to rescue you, and this one was at the top of the list. He saw several more stories that were to follow, and he locked his phone. He considered throwing it, but he already heard the lecture you would’ve given him if you found out why. He decided to lay back and force himself to sleep, aka torture himself thinking about how was getting to rub their junk all over his almost wife.

-- 

“Bye! Thank you again!” you whispered as waved goodbye to your friends, silently thanking them for making sure you got home safe.  Shawn shot up from the couch as if his dick told him it was time to wake up.

“Honey!”

“Shawn!,” you screamed. “Don’t scare me like that, and I told you not to wait up!” He laughed and grabbed you by the waist, pulling you into him.”

“(Y/N)!” he mocked you, “you know I always do. So how was it?” he said waiting no time. You chuckled and pushed his chest, moving past him towards your bedroom. 

“Not much to tell.” He wrinkled his eyebrows at that, quick on your heels.

“What do you mean ‘not much to tell’?” You steadied yourself on the wall to take off one of your heels. 

“I mean you don’t really wanna know, baby.”

“Ok, now I need to fucking know exactly what happened.” He bent down to grab your legs and threw you over his shoulder. 

“Shawn! Put me down you fucking animal!” He came around to the couch and sat down, forcing you to straddle him.

“There, you’re down. Now, what happened?” You rolled your eyes and cupped the back of his neck.

“Do you really wanna know?” He rolled his eyes.

“Obviously.” You hit him in the chest.

“Don’t be an asshole or I won’t tell you anything.” He held his hands up in surrender and stayed quiet. You took a second to admire him. He looks so good when he wasn’t talking and letting you be in control. That gave you an idea. You leaned in, impossibly close to him. “Do you want me to tell you? Or show you?” His head jerked back in confusion for the second time on the night.

“Show me?”

“Show you.” And something clicked in Shawn.

“Show me.” You grinned and started to get off him and shake your hips in front of him. You were swaying side to side, to the beat of some song from the club that would not get out of your head. He was about to teach his hands out before you moved further. You whipped your head around. 

“Look, don’t touch.” After giving him enough of a show, you got back on top of him, letting his hands finally begin kneading your nearly bare ass. 

“No. This?” he said, squeezing particularly hard, “is all mine. And I will touch as I please? Got it?” You laughed and started unbuckling his pants.

“You can’t go one night without giving up control huh?”

“You never let me. I let you go out all night with your friends, let you have God knows how many guys dry fuck the air around you, let you post all over social media about how much fun you were having, yet the whole night I know you were thinking about how much better I could do. Had to shell out ones for those guys when I could having you moaning into the sheets. I let you have your freedom because I know at the end of the day you’re mine, and I’m yours,” he growls.

“W-was not thinking that,” you whimper, slowly feeling the rough pads of his finger paw at your clit.

“Then why are you so wet right now, honey?” You groaned. You wonder why you continually choose to lie to the person who knows you the best on this earth.

“Fuck you,” you spit out, unable to focus because he’s just tapping your clit and not doing anything. 

“Aw, honey, is that any way to speak to your future husband?” 

“Shawn, if you don’t do something right now you’re not going to be a husband.” He laughing and smiled while sliding your thong and underwear off in one swift motion. 

“What do they say? Happy wife happy life?” he continues giggling to himself. “Yeah, I’m funny.”

“For the love of, God,” you begin to sit up and take your shirt off. 

“Leave the sash on.” From giggling to stern, that was your Shawn. As you undressed, he went to work. His fingers were sinfully skillful. His thumb was rubbing slow circles into your clit. You leaned back into the couch cushions, the feeling washing over you.

“Fuck, Shawn, your mouth.” 

“So needy, could your little strippers make you feel this good?” Those were the last words he said before attaching his lips to your soon to be swollen bud. The sounds he was making were obscene and bouncing off the walls and amplifying in your ears. He was sucking your clit with the force of a vacuum, and you felt like he was trying to pull the orgasm straight from your core. He was lapping at your folds, it was messy and crude, just how you liked it. He spread your lips and spit directly on your clit.

“Fuck!” you cried out squirming. He drove back in, drawing patterns, letters, music notes. Whatever the fuck he was doing,  you just didn’t want it to stop.

“F-fingers,” you moaned out, reaching down to pull on his locks. Without warning, two of his fingers slipped inside of you, searching around and making themselves are home. Your hips were jerking and with one forearm, he held you down and made you take it. His fingers were grazing your gspot, rubbing softly like he was trying to build you up for as long as possible for your release. 

“Close?” he said muffled against your core, asking as if he didn’t know your body better than you did.

“Please, Shawn! I’ve been thinking about you all night, please, please just me cum.” You tried to stroke his ego to get him to be nice, but as soon as you said that, he let up and wiped his lips with a dirty grin while you were gasping, trying to catch your breath. “Shawn! What the actual fuck!” 

“No way you’re not cumming on me, honey.” He pressed what he thought was going to be a quick kiss to your lips when you pulled him closer by the neck to be fully on top of you. A soft chuckle was let out by Shawn until you glared at him. “Sorry! Sorry!” he said with his hands up, “the sash tickled.” 

“My husband’s an idiot.” He smiled wide at that.

“Wondering if you’re going to be able to keep insulting me with my cock stuffed halfway down your throat?” You whined and squeezed your legs together. 

“Shawn! He laughed and started stroking himself.

“Fine fine, I’ll stop teasing, but only because I love you.” He leaned over you, tip angry red. He spent a minute raking in your body, wondering how he got to be so damn lucky. He left sloppy kisses starting from your belly button all way down to your clit. “Ok, now I’m actually done teasing.” You opened your mouth to scold him until it turned into a scream.

“Fuck, Shawn!”

“Your wish is my command.” After he bottomed out, he took a second to savor the moment. Your eyes were squeezed shut, a light layer of sweat was covering your chest, and the glittery pink sash, your breasts looked like pillows just waiting for him to suck. 

“S-shawn, you can move.” His hips jutted forward, almost as if he were on autopilot. The sound of his hips slapping against you consumed the room. 

“God, you feel so good,” he moaned into the air as you clawed at his back, pushing him closer. He was exactly where you wanted him, attacking your favorite spots that he knew like the back of your hand. 

“No no no, Shawn, right there!” you whined as he started to slow down.

“Oh, I know.” Even with that purely fucked out look on his face, he still managed to be cocky. He pulled out completely, slapping his tip right against your clit, repeatedly. “Wanna hear you say I’m better than the strippers. You wanted to scream, actually, you might of, it was hard to think with your mind so hazy. All you could think about was the orgasm that was just ripped from you.

‘Shaw-”

“Say it.”

“Fuck me, just move!” Now he fucking with you, pushing only the tip in before pulling back out, laughing to himself about how frustrated you were. 

“You’re in no position to make demands here, honey,” he reminded. You would truly hate him if you didn’t love him so much.

“Fine! I was thinking about you making me cum all fucking night. No one can fuck me like you so please, please just let me cum.” The desperation in your voice made his dick twitch.

“God, I want that as my ringtone,” he groaned while pushing fully back into you, filling you beyond belief. He was done teasing now, coming to terms with the fact that he couldn’t make you wait any longer because he couldn’t handle much more. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head when he grabbed your right leg and threw it over his shoulder. His other hand snuck around your left to rub you fervently. 

“(Y/N),” he commanded in the tone that let you know he wanted your attention. You forced your eyes open to see Shawn staring straight at you. He held eye contact, watching your every move while he felt you flutter around him, letting him know you were close. “Come on, I know you’re close. Let go, baby.” His hips and hand sped up, forcing your orgasm to wash over you.

“F-f-cuk,” you broken cries were swallowed by Shawn’s lips. He snapped up into your forcefully, spilling inside you. You felt ribbons of his cum inside you, intensifying your orgasm. You were grabbing onto the arm of the couch, onto his back, anything to stabilize you, and bring you back down to earth.

“I’ve got you, honey. You’re okay.” You were still breathing hard when Shawn pulled you into his arms, squishing you both onto the couch. He snatched the throw hanging on the edge of the couch and pulled it sloppily over both of your bottom halves.

“I love you, you know that? More than every stripper in the world” He grinned and pulled you impossibly closer. Fuck. He was in love. Your breathing finally evened out as he played with your hair. He looked around the house that became his home because of you. He looked down at your sleeping figure and felt his heart swell. Seeing the glitter sticking to your chest, due to the sweat, he looked down and saw the sash still on you.  

“Bach that ass up,” Shawn read and rolled his eyes. “Fucking incredible.”

[shadow-assassin-blix]

If I Can’t Have You

Will Miller x Reader/You

Song fic. Continuing the Shawn Mendes theme. Benny and Santi will come out this week hopefully. Uhh. This went a slightly different direction than what I had planned... Oh well. The song...sorta fits. It’s been an odd day writing this. Mentions of creepy stalkery dude. Shitty ex fiancé and terrible family. Mentions of nightmares/night terrors, nothing detailed just mentioned

Taglist: @mikeisthricedeceased​ (Let me know if ya wanna be tagged)

I'm in Toronto and I got this view

But I might as well be in a hotel room, yeah

Will Miller kept himself to a pretty precise schedule. He was not one to deviate from it. Numbers brought him comfort. The guys liked to tease him about it, but they also knew it was coping mechanism that Will developed while they were enlisted. It was an odd habit, true, but numbers were something he could always rely on.

Currently, it was 7:00pm on a Friday night, and he was at his usual bar, having his usual drink. He wasn’t usually one to stick around for more than one drink. But this night, something changed. He noticed you, when you took a seat near him. Usually, he doesn’t pay attention to the women who walk in, but something in your demeanor caught his eye.

He noticed your hands were shaky and you were glancing over your shoulder a lot.

His gaze slowly drifted toward where you were looking and he noticed a guy outside, looking around.

“Are you okay?” He quietly asked, trying not to startle you.

You glanced at him, slightly jumping, and whispered, “That guy has been following me for 10 minutes.”

He frowned at that, and slowly moved to the seat next to her. “Pretend you know me, or that we’re dating. I’ll wait with you until he’s gone. The name’s Will by the way.”

You tell him your name and felt strangely safe next to this stranger. Maybe it was the way that he spoke, his voice slightly gravelly. Or maybe it was the way that he positioned himself to hide you and keep you out of sight of the door.

He sat with you for well over an hour, just talking. He even walked you back to your car, which was a good 10 blocks over.

“You walked this far from your car to get away from that guy?” He asked concerned.

“Kinda. I was about 3 blocks away from it when I noticed him, and I diverted my path. Didn’t think I would get stalked, would’ve worn better shoes,” You lightly joked looking down at your high heels.

“I’m sorry you had to deal with that,” He apologized as they stopped next to your car.

“Umm. I hope this isn’t inappropriate but uhh… can I get your number? Ya know… in case I need protection again?” You shyly asked with a small smile.

Will chuckled and nodded his head. They exchanged numbers and parted ways.

It doesn't matter 'cause I'm so consumed

Spending all my nights reading texts from you

It’s been well over 2 months since that time, and the two of you have texted each a lot. Flirting has been heavy, and you even had a couple of dates together. Will felt extremely content and he felt happy. His brother, who noticed just how much happier Will has been acting and has been trying to get Will to spill the beans for weeks. Benny even got Frankie and Santi in on the investigation.

Will was able to hold them off for a time. That is… until one night. You had gone a date and wound up back at his place for some… extracurricular activities. It was about 2am and the both of you were passed out when you heard a phone ringing.

You reached out blindly, to answer it, thinking it was your phone.

“Hello?” Your voice was hoarse from earlier.

“Umm. Hello sexy voice, where’s Will?” Came a teasing voice.

Your eyes widen in mild horror as you jerked the phone away to look at the caller ID: Pope.

But the horror washed away as you noticed the time.

“Pope? Is this a life-or-death situation?” You calmly asked once your put the phone back to your ear.

“Uhh. No?” He answered hesitantly.

“Then call back at normal hours,” You told him hanging up.

When you told Will about it in the morning he laughed. Especially when the guys asked about Sexy Voice and when they were going to meet you. He shook his head at them and told he’d introduced you when he was ready to.

I'm so sorry that my timing's off

But I can't move on if we're still gonna talk

It happened slowly. You’ve been together now almost 7 months. Will wasn’t talking to you as much. He honestly sounded exhausted every time you spoke. When you did see him, you could tell he hadn’t slept much. You tried to subtly ask what was wrong and he would simply wave it off.

Will wouldn’t admit it, but he was having nightmares. Nightmares about his tours. Nightmares about you. About not being to save you. He knew his nightmares often led to night terrors and he didn’t want you to see that. He didn’t want to risk hurting you fighting off invisible demons.

This led to arguments… over everything. One day, he went to go for a run to cool down after yet another argument. You looked at his phone, biting your lip. You had yet to meet his brother or his friends, but you needed to understand what was going on.

You looked for Benny in his contacts and gave him a call on your phone.

“Hi… is this… is this Benny Miller?” You asked hesitantly hoping this was the right number.

“Yeah. Who’s this?” Came a hyper voice.

You introduced yourself, mentioning you were Will’s girlfriend.

“Oh. OH! Sexy Voice. How you doin’? Why ya callin me sweetness?” He asked excitedly.

You quickly explain what’s been going on, and Benny listened intently.

“He.. he has nightmares… and sometimes they become night terrors. If he’s acting like that, then it’s because he’s scared he’s going to hurt you. So… he’s trying to push you away to protect you,” Benny slowly explained.

“…that idiot,” You muttered softly. “Excuse me. I have to go knock some sense into your brother when he gets back.”

“Good luck, maybe next time we can speak in person, yeah?” Benny offered with a laugh.

“Sounds good to me. Bye,” You hung up, and began to pace, trying to figure out what you were going to say.

Is it wrong for me to not want half?

I want all of you, all the strings attached

Will returned from his run 40 minutes later. He berated himself the entire time. The argument was so stupid he didn’t even know what it was over. He did know… he owed you an apology. As he walked inside, he noticed that you had bought Chinese food and had it set up on the coffee table. There was a glass of wine and a beer waiting as well.

He looked around for you and saw you standing in the kitchen, getting utensils out.

“Hi,” You greeted simply.

You set the utensils down before walking over to him. You stood in front of him, arms crossed.

“I’m tired of fighting. I… I talked to Benny. He told me you have nightmares. Night terrors even. Why… why didn’t you say anything?” You asked wanting to understand.

He looked down at the floor, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Because… you didn’t sign up to be with a man who has PTSD and could harm you while he slept,” He confessed quietly.

“Strange… cause.. I feel like I did. I want to be with you. The good, the bad. I’m with you cause I like all of you. Not… parts of you. You told me early on some of the issues you’ve had while back in civilian life. We’ve been together for seven months baby. If I wasn’t all in, I would have left quite some time ago,” You assured him as you stepped closer, placing your hands on his chest.

“I just don’t you to regret being with me,” Will admitted as his hands took hold of yours.

“I won’t. Let’s go eat, yeah? Also… may have promised to meet your brother soon,” You stated with a smile.

Oh, I'm good at keepin' my distance

I know that you're the feelin' I'm missing

You’ve been together a year now, and you finally met Benny, Santi, and Frankie. They are all such dorks, but you can tell they love each other. It made you a bit envious to see their makeshift family. You yourself, hadn’t spoken to your family in years. You had cut ties with them long ago. Will asked about it, but you could never bring yourself to explain it.

It was the holidays, and you were trying to grin and bear it. It didn’t help that your family was blowing up your phone left and right with 100 messages on facebook. Then there was the invitation to the family get together that came in the mail. Will watched as you stare at it blankly before ripping it to pieces. He didn’t ask about it as you then came over to him and curled up in his lap. He just held you close.

Later that night, as the two of you laid in bed, you told him what happened.

“I was engaged… and my sister… slept with my would-be husband… on the day of our wedding,” You began. “And… everyone was strangely surprised when I called off the wedding. Acting like I should’ve been okay with it??”

“Wow,” He said lowly, surprised.

“I threw the antique jewelry and rings he gave me into Boston Harbor, blocked everyone who gave me shit for it, and moved as far away as I could. That’s… that’s how I wound here. Was looking for a fresh start… well. Another fresh start. I moved several times trying to get away from my family. I figured here… no one would look for me. Got a job. Met you. I’m happy,” You further explained sighing a few times.

“I’m glad I make you happy especially cause you make me happy too. How about… we spend Christmas away from here? Go wherever you want?” Will offered turning on his side to look at you.

“Really? So… if I said Italy? We’d go?” You asked excitedly.

Will reaches over and grabs his phone. A few texts and phone calls later, he declared, “We leave the 20th, and we will be back by the 29th. Enough time to be back for New Years. Benny would never forgive us if we missed his annual party.”

You squealed happily and kissed him.

You know that I hate to admit it

But everything means nothin' if I can't have you

A few weeks later found the two of you in a hotel, in Italy. It was Christmas Eve, and you were watching Christmas movies, eating junk food. Halfway through White Christmas, your phone went off. You looked down to see it was your sister trying to video call you on facebook. You paused the movie, situating yourself so Will wasn’t in the frame just yet, before you answered.

“What do you want?” You asked not caring if you sounded rude.

“Wow. So testy. You’re not still mad about me sleeping with Derek, are you?” Your sister asked smugly.

“No. I’m not. But you’re ruining my Christmas Eve with your presence. What do you want?” You asked again unimpressed.

You could hear your parents ask who your sister was talking to and you hear one of them tell her to put you on the big screen. You rolled your eyes and plastered a fake smile as the screen switched to show you the entire family in the living room.

“Hey sweetie! We miss you, why didn’t you come down to see us?” Came your mom’s voice.

“I made other plans. Why does it matter? You haven’t asked me to a family get together in years. Why should I drop everything for this one event?” You questioned rolling your eyes.

You picked up a chocolate covered pretzel and was eating it when you heard a voice tell you, “Really shouldn’t be eating that. It’ll make you fat.”

Your eyes slowly looked at the screen and you spotted him.

“Derek. I see you haven’t crawled back into the sewer you came from. And I will eat whatever the hell I want,” You snarled at him, wishing he was in front of you so you could strangle him.

“Derek and Lydia are getting married. That’s why we wanted you to come. To get over this tiff between you guys,” Your mother chimed in.

You stared at them in disbelief. You looked at Will your eyebrow raised and mouthing ‘are they for real?’ Will was trying not to laugh.

“Can’t. I’m in Italy. So. Too bad. I hope you two are miserable together,” You wished with a bitter smile.

“Italy? Yeah right. I’d bet you are home, alone, pigging out on food to make yourself feel better,” Your sister, Lydia, assumed acting very conceited.

You then gently, turned the camera to show off your view to the right which had the Colosseum in the distance. Then turned it to the left to show off Will, who gave a small wave.

“Uh huh. Buh-bye,” You ended the call as soon as you saw the looks of shock.

The two of you looked at each other and began to laugh. You continued your evening without any more interruptions.

I'm trying to move on

Forget you, but I hold on

Everything means nothing

You two get home with very little issue. You got ready for Benny’s New Years Eve party and were stacking up presents and food in Will’s truck when someone tapped you on your shoulder. You turned around and were horrified to see Derek standing there.

“What the hell do you want? How did you even find me? Why are you here, you creep?” You fired off questions left and right as panic grew.

“Got the address from your parents when they mailed you the invite. Listen. I just want to talk. That’s it,” Derek tried to explain.

Will at that point, walked out with the last of the presents and such. He looked at Derek, then at you. He quietly put the items in the truck. Then stood in front of you.

“You have exactly 10 seconds, to get back into your car and drive away,” Will warned, arms crossed as he glared at Derek.

“This has nothing to do with you, move,” Derek demanded trying to push Will out of the way.

Will didn’t even budge. He stood there, quietly counting. When he reached zero, precisely at the exact moment Derek tried to throw a punch at him, he sighed. Will grabbed the fist that came at him, and quickly threw a right hook out. The punch knocked Derek to the ground. Police were called, and when Derek tried to claim he was assaulted, Will pointed out the security camera that he had installed. Followed by the video that showed Derek escalated the situation. Derek was arrested and you and Will continued to the party.

I can't write one song that's not about you

Can't drink without thinkin' about you

Will pulled up to Benny’s place and asked you if you were okay. You nodded your head, pressing a kiss to his lips, thanking him.

You made your way up to the party, and after explaining what happened, the boys began trying to distract you and make you laugh by telling stories. Frankie asked at one point if you would like to hold his daughter because “She can make anyone smile.”

You said sure and was currently talking gibberish with her.

Will kept an eye on you as he took a drink, while Santi checked to make sure he didn’t bust his hand.

“That prick really showed up at your house? He’s lucky you weren’t armed,” Santi noted with disgust.

“I didn’t mention this to her, but the cop told me he had warrants out on him for stalking and harassment. He won’t be bothering her again for a long time,” Will informed him as he took drained the last of his beer.

“Good. She’s a good one, don’t mess it up yeah?” Santi joked, hitting him on the chest.

“Think it’s too soon to ask her to marry me?” He murmured to him.

“If you don’t, I will,” Santi dared him.

Will shook his head at Santi, who was urging him forward.

Will quietly picked up Frankie’s baby girl and whispered to her, “You can come back to her in a moment. I gotta borrow her.”

Will takes you outside to the balcony.

“You..uh. You havin fun baby?” He asked awkwardly.

“Yeah… what’s up? You’re acting odd,” You noted staring at him confused.

“Listen. I know we’ve only been together a year… and I love you… a lot… You consume my thoughts. I’m crazy for you… So, I was wondering… will you marry me?” He asked stumbling over his words.

You stared at him surprised. Biting your lip, you give your answer, “Yes. On the condition that the engagement is a long one, and we don’t rush anything.”

“I can deal with that, beautiful,” Will accepted the condition with a relieved sigh. “I haven’t gotten a ring yet, but I wanted you to know… that I’m in this for the long haul. You mean everything to me.”

The two of you kissed and broke apart, laughing, as you hear the cheers coming from inside.

“I’m all in if you are?” Will asked in a whisper.

“My life was going nowhere fast, then I met you, and my life got significantly better. So, yeah. I’m all in,” You whispered back.

The two of you headed inside to enjoy the party. Neither of you expected your lives to lead to this but neither of you would change a thing. The two of you founded each other when you both needed it, and that’s all that matters now.

Is it too late to tell you that

Everything means nothing if I can't have you?

[rpmemesbyarat]

RP Meme from " Corax" in "Chapter Two: The Changing Breeds" from the World of Darkness "Changing Breeds" book (20th Anniversary edition)

Seriously? Who writes this stuff?

You’re never going to learn the real story about who you are from that hack.

You know how the littlest kid is always the one who runs to Mom with every little thing their siblings do wrong? That’s us. We’re the tattletales.

You know why we can’t settle down? Cuz they’re everywhere, so we have to be, too.

We’re built to go everywhere, see everything. No homebodies allowed.

If there are secrets going on, you can bet there’s one of us, listening in, poking around, getting a gander — so to speak.

We see something going on — we gotta spread the word.

No, I don’t mean porn — well, not just porn, anyway.

We make the Net look like a buncha clay tablets with “Cleo Was Here” scrawled on them. We’re bleeding edge, eyes-in-the-sky, grade A, number one know-it-alls.

Information’s no good if the messenger can’t deliver it.

Oh, we’re nasty enough in a scrap, and we’ve got a few tricks up our sleeves, but the truth is we’re not built for going toe-to-toe.

Fight sneaky, the way we do everything else, and you’re more likely to survive to tell a tale — or pull a prank — another day.

Most of the time, there’s a method to our madness, a lesson in the lemon-meringue.

See, some folks just don’t listen the easy way.

You should know where your allegiances lie.

Find stuff. Tell people.

Laugh, because the world ain’t getting any prettier.

You’re learning already. But, here’s something you gotta know; Once I finish teaching you the basics, you’re on your own.

Now, don’t look like that.

I mean, what’s the good of gathering stories if you don’t get to tell them in front of a group every now and then?

As for specific operations, well, I can’t tell you much beyond “they exist”, because I don’t know.

If you’re heading in a way that crosses winds with one of them, they’ll find you and tell you what you need to know about hooking up with them.

High tech, big business, politics? We’re there too.

Japan? Europe? The Middle East? You name it, one of us has an eye on it.

Well, let’s just say that if you turn over enough stones, you’re eventually going to find more than dirt underneath one.

Do your job right, and there’s a good chance you’ll find yourself in a heap of trouble soon or later.

Quit thinking so literally!

The possibilities are, as they say, endless.

Between Facebook, Twitter, and all that jazz, almost everyone has some sort of internet presence — and online friends — these days.

A couple of dummy accounts armed with stock photos and a fake bio, and suddenly I’m “friends” with whatever patsy I’m looking for more info on.

If I’m lucky, he’ll keep a running dialogue with his hundred closest buddies about where he’s “checking in” for the meeting I want to listen in on.

If I’m really lucky, he’ll jump on instant messaging and try to impress his new “follower” with some handy details that can be used against him.

Of course, if I’m unlucky, I might end up with pictures of his naked junk, but even those can be used for blackmail or sold off to the highest bidder — it’s gross, but hey, them’s the breaks in the info business.

Government agencies are required to make certain files accessible to the public. So, a lot of that stuff we used to have to wing it down to the archives office to get a gander at is now available on a point-and-click basis through one website or another.

If you can get a hacker on your side, there’s almost nothing you can’t find out about someone.

Debit card transaction records, ISP cookie files, internet site caches, phone and text message logs? Easy breezy, lemon-squeezy, if you know what I mean.

Don’t get me wrong. We were made to do what we do — and to do it well. Like any fine piece of equipment, form follows function, and all that jazz.

I thought that might get your attention.

What? You don’t know that one? I’ll tell you later.

The thing? Where you drink the stuff from a corpse’s eye, and you see the last thing it saw before it died?

Oh, come on now; don’t make that face. You’ll take to it quick enough.

There’s no better way to get information on what killed some poor schmuck, or why it was done.

See, that’s another thing about being one of us. That whole discretion thing? Not so much. We can’t shut up.

Hey, don’t tell me you noticed; that’s disrespectful.

Information wants to be free, and it’s hard as hell for us to hold back when we know a juicy tidbit.

You probably have noticed that there’s some differences between, say, me and you.

You’re probably more comfortable that way, cuz it’s how you were born.

Y’all are usually pretty cliquish, talkative — even by our standards — and a little fuzzy on the notion of property rights where shiny things are concerned.

We tend toward the twitchy loner type.

We’re generalists, built to survive anywhere, under any circumstances.

Sure, it’s fun to go poking after spooky stuff; all kinds of interesting things hiding out in the shadows.

Just make sure if you join up with a band of these guys, that at least one of you has the brains to keep an eye on where the exits are.

Don’t be dumb enough to think stumbling onto something interesting means you’re tough enough to deal with it yourself

Oh, and once they start talking? Pack a lunch. You’re gonna be there a while.

But their big money makers aren’t “things” at all — they’re secrets.

Passwords, bleeding-edge code, blackmail fodder, and anything else that someone doesn’t want brought to light?

Their CEO is riding the headwinds of technology at this point, and there are big things on the horizon for the “company”.

It’s creepy as hell.

You either high-tail it out of there, or prepare to be a part of the fighting, cuz things are about to get crazy.

They’re always picking fights, causing trouble, and generally being the biggest bitches they can get away with.

Trying to be bad, yep, yep, yep. Pulling it off? Sometimes.

Oh, and it’s a girls’ club only. No boys allowed.

Most of the time, they’re never heard from again.

There’s stuff out there that would eat a little-bit like you without even needing to spit out the bones.

I mean, time works different out there, and the rules are all wonky.

They were pure, once upon a time.

They’re the trickster’s tricksters, and they take the job damn seriously, which means they’re always practicing — and pissing people off.

It looks kind of goofy, and you walk funny while you’re in it.

Most of us are thin and don’t tan well, which makes us kinda look like underfed Goths.

It’s not a sure-fire giveaway, but it can be a clue.

Hold your head high.

We’re big, we’re smart, we’re fast, we’re beautiful; what’s not to love?

I don’t even want to talk about the feet.

It's just humiliating.

We look out for you, and you look out for us. Capische?

They talk too much, but if you know what to listen for and what to ignore, you can learn a lot. Assuming you don’t kill them first.

They irritate without making enemies.

Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!

[the-blackest-spider]

Revisiting History, Part 2

Pandora’s Box

@specialagentace

When she had left for New Jersey, Natasha hadn’t made the decision where to go from there. Back to New York? Back to the facility where Germaine was? Natasha knew, when she couldn’t make a decision, precise and sure in her head, then she needed to go with her gut.

A small, by the highway motel, one of those chains that offer a rewards program, that families like because they’re cheap, but still decent. Other people like them, because it’s unassuming. Not too fancy, but not so run down that it’s an obvious hiding spot. She takes whatever they offer her, paying in cash of course and settles into the room after raiding the vending machines. She’s definitely not going to use their free, shitty wifi, it might work for a Mother of three uploading pictures to Facebook for relatives to leave various tones of comments on and like or whatever else one did to posts on there, but for this, Natasha had her own means of wifi, secure, multiple VPNs, one for her laptop, another for her cloud storage, one that was used between her and Isaiah, one for SHIELD and so on. None of them seeming particularly connected, but all reverting back to one hub, which was her current laptop as her previous was now brick and she wasn’t going to use the cheap one she got for questionable things, this was not a questionable device. This wasn’t going to leave some nasty virus. But all the same she’s still very wary of it.

Nick Fury was never known to be a man of sharing more than he had to, which was often not a damn thing. Natasha got used to it, she understood it being cut from similar cloth as she was. However she had somehow still been naive, believing she was in his loop only to learn that she was not. He didn’t trust her. Not to the same degree she did him. That had hurt more than getting shot again by the Winter Soldier. It still ached now, like a scar. It’s always the ones you can’t see that hurt the most.

It was a hefty drive and cold to the touch. It had been sitting there now on the little nondescript table that had probably seen way too many Happy Meals over the years and board games its technically too small for. But it fits her laptop fine and the coffee from the in room maker, the fancy type with the little pods which are in her opinion not the best, but a heck of an upgrade from the tiny pots with the super cheap packets that just turn the water brown. This at least has some flavor.

On the bed next to her is a collection of vending machine fare, a glorious haul that Clint Barton would be proud of. A variety of chocolate bars, some pretzels, those big soft cookies, spicy chips that coat your fingers in red dust that is really the appeal of them because licking your fingers clean is the best part and nuts. Twenty bucks in some areas could still go a long way.

She had once she arrived showered, having hid her tacsuit with a trench coat. Now she was comfortable in a pair of yoga pants and a tank top, bare feet settled into the other chair, making herself comfortable as she held the drive up, looking at it as though she expected it to just start talking, telling her things.

It’s not going to open itself Romanoff.

She thinks to herself, but she’s leery of what she may find on there. She both did and didn’t know what Fury had sent her to truly lift off of the Lemurian Star so many years ago now. The flash drive had to be big, custom and she felt a little like Pandora staring at it, feeling the weight of various emotions of what could occur if she open’s it.

“Should’ve picked a hotel with a mini bar…” she itches for a drink, but she’s going to have to be satisfied with just coffee for now.

A breath and then she slides the drive into the dock and waits. Her screen comes to life and the first thing she does, is deal with the tracer programmed into it. Disabling it, she wasn’t going to take chances. Once that was handled, she let it finish loading, rather glad she hadn’t had time to put much on to her new laptop as file after file continued to appear.

While she waited for the transfer to finish, she reached over, small fingers digging through the junk pile on the slightly faded floral blanket until she located a candy bar, unwrapped it and took a bite. Beyond the picture window next to her, curtains drawn closed of course, Natasha could hear the sound of children padding barefoot for the pool area, yelling, laughing and chatting, parents or older siblings tasked with keeping track of their younger brothers and or sisters so Mom and Dad can have some alone time yelling at them not to run and other warnings. A life she will never know and finds that she doesn’t really feel anything anymore about missing out on.

By the time she finishes the candy bar, the transfer is done and she sets up, bare feet on the worn down carpet that somehow never stains, but is rough from being over cleaned. She both did and didn’t know what she was looking for.

“Might as well start with the obvious.”

In the search, she typed in “Burn” which she figured would bring up a lot of things she didn’t need, but she could wade through that to find what she did.

[midnightsun92]

I wrote a quick fic which I added to AO3 and now will be adding to here since it's short. So here you go.

Title: Rocking Nostalgia

Pairing: Dagur/Hiccup

Rating: G

Words: 1,094

Summary: some things, no matter how useless they become, can be hard to let go of.

--+--

It was a simple thing really. It was painted to look like cherry wood and creaked with every rock, the paint rubbing off the arm rests from where his arms, elbows, or hands had rested many times in so few years. It was in the way and hardly used now that their two children were grown and in high school. There was no use for it anymore; the kids too old to be rocked to sleep or comforted when sick. It had become a useless commodity and it was time to let it go.

Yet Dagur found it difficult to part with the rocking chair. Many a nights (and day) he had spent sitting in this piece of furniture, lulling his children to sleep; he was surprised there wasn't an imprint of his rear on the cushion. It had a few dings, stickers, and carved names on it and looking at them made Dagur feel sad at the thought of losing this thing. Nostalgic his husband Hiccup would call him, but he didn't care. He loved the rocking chair as it did its' duty well and Dagur felt as if it deserved better than being given away.

He remembered the late nights, rocking colicky or sick babes while singing his favorite songs softly to them. He remembered cuddling his toddlers on the chair when they needed comforting or when he just wanted to hold them, to feel secure in the fact that they were safe in his arms. It had been years since it was properly used other than to be an extra seat when guests came over. Getting rid of it felt wrong.

Dagur stared at the rocking chair with a grimace, barely moving an inch in the last five minutes since Hiccup told him through the bathroom door that the chair would be one of the things to go during their 'spring cleaning'. This thing had seen some stuff; from the crying of infants to the cry of something less appropriate to even mention. It had seen many battles throughout the years, looking a little worse for wear, and Dagur felt the rocking chair deserved a more for holding up for so long after all the abuse. It had not been treated very kindly over the years.

He sat down in it, the familiarity of it striking him hard as flashes of memories rushed through his mind. Hands settled at the end of the arm rests, where most of the paint had rubbed away, and rocked gently back and forth; the stupid chair creaking annoyingly. It made him become misty eyed. Dagur stilled, but did not get up, and rubbed a thumb on the edge of the rest. He couldn't stand the thought of getting rid of it, but what else could they do with it other than sit in it when all the other, much better, seating was taken. Otherwise, it was just an eyesore. An eyesore that Dagur had come to love...

Hiccup descended the stairs, freshly showered and wrapped in a robe, and spotted Dagur in the rocking chair. A soft, knowing smile grew over his lips as he stopped in front of his sad looking husband, crossing his arms over his stomach. "When I said let's get rid of the rocking chair, it was more of a suggestion. We don't have to get rid of it."

Dagur looked up and took a moment to blink in minor surprise, taking in Hiccup's clean shaven face. Now if only the lanky man would grow out his hair a bit more like he used to so he could no longer look like some Disney king side character... and that was not a compliment. "But we don't use it."

"So? It's not like its' taking up that much room or in the way. We could set it out on the deck if you want to," Hiccup shrugged, taking a step closer to rest a hand on Dagur's shoulder. "We may be spring cleaning-"

"-more like summer cleaning."

"But it doesn't mean we have to give everything that we don't use away," the auburn continued as if Dagur hadn't mumbled anything.

"Isn't that exactly the point of 'spring cleaning?' To get rid of all the useless junk we don't use?"

Hiccup narrowed his eyes and raised a brow, amusement morphing across his face. "For a man so upset in getting rid of a chair, you act like it's such a problem to keep it."

Dagur rolled his eyes and stood up from the rocking furniture, chewing the inside of his cheek as he stared down at the simple looking chair. "It deserves better," he voiced an earlier thought quietly.

"... What?"

"A battle hardened chair should not have to suffer as it does. Donate it, it'll just sit in a thrift store for who knows how long and just giving it away to the first responder on a Facebook marketplace post is asking for trouble," Dagur grumbled.

Hiccup looked one comment away from laughing if the twitching of his lips were anything to go by. Oh the dramatics of one Dagur Haddock (yes, he did take his lanky husband's last name. Don't judge). "So why don't we give it to a nursery of some sort? It'll receive plenty of action then. The daycare center a few miles from here could use another rocking chair."

The very idea of having another person sit in his chair with someone else's baby was appalling. But it made more sense than having it sit here in their living room doing nothing; furniture without action had to be excruciating if it were a sentient being. Knowing his husband to be right, Dagur sighed and nodded in reluctant defeat.

"Good. I'll call them and let them know when to receive us." Hiccup leaned down to give the redhead a peck on the lips, escaping towards the kitchen for a cup of coffee no doubt.

Dagur watched the other until Hiccup disappeared around the corner before bowing his head to give the rocking chair an appreciative look, patting the top of the back rest. "You did good buddy, but it seems your journey has just begun."

"Dagur, please stop talking to the chair and help me with the kid's school lunches," Hiccup said, trying and failing to hide the humor from his voice.

Dagur soluted the piece of furniture and if he could have, he would be giving it a medal of honor. "Until we meet again brave soldier." With one last pat, Dagur moved away from the rocking chair.

[nostalgiaispeace]

2241.

urvey by lilprincess

Approx. Time you began this survey: 328pm

Describe your mood right now: content

Spell your first name without vowels: shl

Age you will be on your next birthday: 31

Zodiac Sign: capricorn

Do you believe what your horoscope says about your sign? sometimes

What state/region do you live in? kentucky

Height: 5′4″

Do you smoke? no

Do you drink? not really

What’s your ethnic background? white

What’s your religious background? athiest

What’s your natural hair color? brown

What;s your natural eye color? brown

Do you have any bad habits you want to break? well yeah don’t we all?

Name a few of your positive habits. i’m way too negative about myself for this lol

Have you ever lived in a foreign country? no

Did you vote in the Nov. 6 2012 presidential election? i did not

Are you even eligible to vote? yes

Are you right handed or left handed? right

When you write, is your penmanship usually neat or do you tend to scribble? both

Have you ever experienced an accident? (of any type): yes

Do you have/want children? i have a daughter

Are you environmentally conscious? not really

What’s your favorite mode of transportation? car

Do you prefer 80’s - 90’s music compared to today’s music? not really

Are you more of an introvert (quiet/shy), or extrovert (social butterfly)? introvert

What’s your favorite emoticon? :P

Do you miss the good old days of hand-written letters? sure

Do you enjoy receiving or giving more? both at nice

Are you good at keeping secrets? yeah

Do you take or give advice more often? give

Do you have your driver’s license? yes

Would you rather be poor & happy or rich but miserable? idk

Have you ever had a pregnancy scare? yes

Have you ever blocked someone on Facebook? yes

Do you think recreational marijuana should be nationally legalized? yes

Describe your perfect first date. dinner and a movie

Have you ever been high? yes

Have you ever watched a NC-17 rated film? i’m sure i have

If you ever become reincarnated as an animal, what would you want it to be? a cat

Do you remember where you were/what you were doing on September 11, 2001? yes i was in school

Do you ever wish you were of a different nationality/religion? religion yes

Are you more of a junk food addict or health nut? neither

Do you believe Antarctica should be considered the 7th world continent? is it not?

Describe your own sense of humor in 1 word: no

Have you ever quoted the Bible (or any other Holy Book)? yes.

Have you ever completed a Sudoku puzzle? no

Would you rather be a nuclear physicist or marine biologist? no thanks

Do you have a deep, dark secret you’re hiding from every one? no

Would you rather be able to soar like an eagle or swim like a dolphin? swim

If you wanted to learn a foreign language, what would it be? french

Are you bi-curious? No.

Did you watch the Disney Channel or Nickelodeon more as a kid? disney

Name 5 films that were made the year you were born: no

Did you have a lot of friends in high school? not really

Do you rely more on the newspaper, Internet or TV as your news source? internet

True or false: Bigger is better. true

Do you think religion is the primary cause of war? yes

What’s your favorite pizza topping? cheese

Think of your wardrobe. What color do you wear the most? hoodies and tshirts

Have you ever been to a planetarium? yes

Do you feel like you connect more with animals or other people? neither

Do you feel like sometimes you have to lie in order to protect yourself? yes

How often do you exercise? lol

Can you swear in a different language? no

Do you think teachers/doctors deserve to get paid more than pro athletes? teachers yes. doctors get paid enough

From a scale of 1- 5, you would rate this survey: 3

Do you think most of these questions were more original or more ordinary? oridnary

Approx. time you completed this survey: 335pm

[13yearslater]

How my own attitude about being trans influences those around me

To follow up from my post about being stealth I wanted to talk about a very unexpected change in people’s reactions to me being trans.

To recap a little, I feared and almost expected rejection from others, I feared being treated and seen differently, I expected ridicule even if it was not done openly. I lived in a small town at the time and would go through cycles of finding a friendship group and after a while there would be gossip and rumours and a tension in the atmosphere; I knew they had heard something and it made me uncomfortable; I didn’t want to talk about it, I didn’t want to explain myself, I didn’t want being trans to be the forefront of who I was, I didn’t want to deal with people’s ignorance or intrusive questions, I didn’t want to have to explain it all yet again to people who just don’t understand, I didn’t want the attention, I didn’t want to deal with any of it. I just wanted to be seen as me and not through the lens of misconceptions and prejudices. Either I’d be outed, or I’d distance myself from that group before I was confronted or it became too uncomfortable for me. I felt stuck between being the novelty trans person or living stealth with the inevitable prospect of having my privacy snatched from me at any given moment. Not only did I hate being outed, but I hated that I had no control over the means that it was done, the language used, the explanation given. 

The attitudes of those around me at this time were not pleasant. I’d start to pick up on little comments and in-jokes that were told, not to me directly, but in my presence; a thinly-veiled nod to the fact they knew I was trans. There was a sneering hostility to it, a sense that they felt they had some sort of power over me. There were always people around any given corner who knew me from years gone by that were all too eager to either call me out directly in front of people or who felt it their duty to secretly inform those who knew me that I, fully male-appearing, sounding and bearded by this point, was “really a girl, I knew her at school and her real name is x!”. 

People rarely ever confronted or explicitly asked me about it but preferred to try and out me by force. There were two occasions I was held down by people as another rummaged through my pockets for my ID to confirm or deny their suspicions. There were times when friends would ask a question of the whole group, a question that was manufactured for me, that was unnaturally misplaced in the usual theme of conversation, with the intention of backing me into a corner, of observing my reaction, to see if I’d ‘confess’ or give anything away. There were times people grabbed my junk, times people touched my chest. There was an incident where someone used the handle of a walking-stick to hook between my legs, pull me to the ground and I saw as they watched to see if my reaction was proportional to having my testicles crushed. There were camping trips where I had to go home because every time I had to pee, someone would also have to pee and insist on following me; every time.

Of course, there were the rare more respectful people who would catch me alone and explain they’d heard something about me and ask if it was true. At which point I was able to say that something along the lines of yes, but I don’t like to talk about it and I’d appreciate if you could respect my privacy. Of course, they’d still tell others of their findings and the cycle of gossip and secret conversations would continue. 

It felt like a dirty secret, it felt like people wanted to catch me out. It was like a game to them and it was a big deal when they had finally managed to get the confirmation they were seeking and they had share this exciting information and compare notes with others. My humanity was completely lost in their quest to ‘expose’ me. 

Years later and in a new, similarly sized town, I am no longer strictly stealth. Me being trans doesn’t really come up and is rarely relevant to mention, but I won’t go to any effort to hide it. Those close to me know, others may or may not, I don’t care. I have no issue speaking of my experiences where I see fit to do so. I might repost a trans related news story on my Facebook wall or I might casually mention experiences in a conversation that only a trans person would experience. Whether that leads people to think I’m trans or just an ally, whether they ask, whether they don’t ask, I don’t care. If they want to know, I’ll tell them, it’s not a big deal.

The most striking thing I have noticed since I have stopped caring and stopped treating it like a big deal (and I don’t doubt that a change in times has had some part to play in this) is that no one else sees it as a big deal either. I set the tone. I control how I am outed, the language that is used and the way the message is delivered. When me being trans is not prefaced as a shameful secret but rather nonchalantly and casually disclosed mid conversation the reaction has always been similarly nonchalant. People rarely have invasive follow up questions and are far more respectful. The majority of reactions are generally along the lines of “oh ok, cool" and carrying on with the previous conversation or a shocked “wait, what, you’re trans!?” for which my reply is a casual “oh yeah, didn’t you know?”. The confusion of thinking I’m planning to transition to female is a common and funny one that I have to clarify. The way I disclose leaves little room for opinion or judgement, it is just a fact about me. It’s just not a big deal and it is no longer treated as such by anybody else.

Strangely, as a side note, I’ve also found men tend to share their insecurities with me more. From things about their appearances (are my ears too big, is my nose weird etc) to insecurities about their dicks; from embarrassing cysts on their penises to micropenises and more. Since having surgery on my own penis I’ve suddenly become the person to disclose all your penis worries to which was certainly unexpected.

[sidskywrote]

Ugh, Why am I suddenly getting a flood of right-wig ultra-conservative Facebook ads, and why is it not giving me the “Why am I seeing this ad?” option when I go to hide the ad? I want to know what’s making it think I want to see that junk so I can wipe it from my Facebook.