#Force of habit

[tomboxed]

pspspspsps sillies pspspspsps

[zzz1gzag]

Again

[haryuusart]

SURPRISE another old drawing lol

It feels like a waste not to post some of these again!! This is still one of my favourite drawings I've ever done!

This illustration was made for Timeless Voltron Zine, an old Zine I joined that unfortunately was never published due to some issues that stopped the project :( it was still a lot of fun to draw this! I decided to draw Pidge as a Roaring 20s dancer 💘

You can find me on Instagram 💫

Original version under the cut!

[ink-and-dagger]

WE DON’T NEED ANOTHER HERO

WE DON’T NEED TO KNOW THE WAAAAY HOOOOME

[toxictoxicities]

wuh? guhh? not rw art? no way!

I just like to make sure I can still draw humans SERDFTYGh I draw too many robots- I love em tho

[infiniteeight8]

(Didn't feel like trimming tonight.)

It’s become more or less standard for the pack’s enemies to choose Peter as their first target. Some because he’s the most isolated from the rest of the pack, some because he’s the most dangerous. (They underestimate Stiles.) This means he allows himself to be kidnapped—it is the fastest way to gather intel—on a regular basis. And every time, Stiles comes to get him.

Until now, he’d assumed that Stiles was using magic to locate him, but this particular group had warded against that, and Stiles found him anyway. Peter is still puzzling over it when he climbs into the passenger side of Stiles’ jeep. Stiles’ phone is on the seat. Peter scoops it up before sitting and is startled when Stiles lunges for it. He jerks it back out of reach instinctively, a grin curving his lips at Stiles’s annoyed and slightly worried expression. 

“Oh, do we have something interesting here?” Peter drawls. 

Stiles scowls. “You won’t be able to unlock it anyway.”

“Really?” Peter smirks. Werewolf speed and strength is more than enough to seize one of Stiles’ hands and press his finger to the sensor. Stiles yelps, jerking his hand back, but the phone is already unlocked.

There’s a GPS tracking app on the screen. It’s showing their location, and a blinking dot.

The app is for pets.

“Did you tag me?” Peter demands aghast.

Stiles’ eyes narrow. “Be grateful. How many times has it saved your furry butt by now?”

Peter groans. Tagged. Like a dog. How humiliating.

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Force of Habit Part Four

Previous Part | Masterlist

Pairing: Carmen ‘Carmy’ Berzatto x Reader

Rating: Explicit - 18+ Only

Notes: Hi welcome to the final part enjoy thank you for reaaaaadiiiiing

Warnings: Mentions/descriptions of anxiety; fluff; explicit sexual content—oral sex, fingering, vaginal sex

Summary: Maybe your dry run of the dishes should’ve given you some indication of this, but there’s a little part of you that’s unnerved by how…Easy this all feels. You won’t deny that there’s still some low-level of swirling anxiety in your belly, but it’s assuaged by the fact that whatever happens tonight, you’ve been through way worse. You’re certain that by the end of the night, you and Berzatto will both be a thousand dollars richer, and neither of you will cover yourselves in cold Au Jus and go running into the walk-in. 

“Can you help? I’m like—I am so screwed it’s not even funny.” 

Emma’s voice is tinny and desperate as it comes through your phone. You’re still looking at the menu that she’d sent over before calling. You bite your lip as you consider it. You could swing it, but it would be tight. You can either implore Crispy’s owner to close up early on a Saturday, or leave Steph in charge for the evening. You’re not sure which would be worse. Besides, you can’t cater a gourmet dinner service by yourself. 

“I’ll give you two thousand for the night,” Emma adds, “All cash, under the table.” 

“Christ, Em. Who the hell are you working with?” 

“Oh my god, yes or no, babe, I’m desperate here.” 

“Okay—okay, lemme make one other call, and I will get back to you in—” You glance at the time on your phone before raising it back to your ear, “Like, an hour, okay?” 

“Ugh, fine.” 

You roll your eyes, hanging up and lowering your phone again. You swipe through your texts, tapping on Carmy’s contact and raising it to your ear again. It rings three times, and you think it’ll go to voicemail until he answers—

“Yeah?” 

“Hey. Can you pull a job with me this Saturday? I know it’s super short-notice,” You hurry to add, “But my friend needs a favor. It’s a small wedding service for twenty at this fuckin' bougie hotel. Two thousand, all cash, even split.” 

There’s a pause on the other end; you can hear the slight scritch of him scratching his head. 

“Menu?” 

“Pre-selected. I can send it to you now,” You add, pulling the phone back from your ear and putting it on speaker. You pull up your email, tapping on the menu and forwarding it to him.

“Time?” He asks.

“We’d be let in for prep would start at four, service would start at five-thirty.” 

“...Even split, all cash.” 

“Yep.” 

“...Caviar-topped canapes…Grains salad…Duck confit spring rolls…Skirt steak with paprika butter…” He mutters, reading some of the menu to himself. He pauses before speaking up again: “…We springing for ingredients?” 

“Nope. Already ordered and paid for.” 

“The hell happened?” 

“The chef has some family emergency. My friend didn’t go into all the details.” You bite your lip. “Like I said, I know it’s super short-notice, but I need an answer like, ASAP—” 

“I’ll do it.” 

“...For real?” 

“Yeah. Are we meeting there, or do you wanna do a dry run, agree on plating?” 

“That’s probably a good idea. Crispy’s is closed on Tuesdays, so if you wanna come by some time then.” 

“You’re closed?” 

“It’s been our slowest day. We don’t even get delivery orders. I usually come in to do a deep clean and inventory.” 

“Okay, Tuesday. Is it gonna fuck you up for Wednesday if we do it kinda late?”  

“Pffft, please, Berzatto. On holiday weekends, we used to get, what, three hours of sleep from leaving for close to going in for prep? I can handle it.” 

“Hey, sorry for askin’.” 

“Forgiven. Lemme know what time is good for you and I’ll circle back with Emma, let her know there’s gonna be two of us.” 

“Sounds good. Thanks.” 

“Thank you.” 

You hang up, drawing in a deep breath and pushing out a long, slow breath through your lips as you look down at your phone. You feel a vague queasiness wash over you—and you’re not sure if it’s the cuisine, or the thought of being in the kitchen with Carmy again, or both. 

-- 

“Where’s the gremolata for the, uh—” 

“Halibat?” You fill in. "Working on it."

“How long?” 

“Thirty seconds, chef.” 

He doesn’t gripe with your use of chef this time; it’s right in this context, at least. You walk around to Carmy’s side, setting the bowl down beside his elbow before walking to the stove to turn the skirt steak. You glance back at Carmy, unable to help yourself. You watch him lower a clean spoon into the bowl and raise it to his lips, taking a taste—and then dip his head in a nod. Some little part of you that had gone dormant goes warm, vindicated. 

“Skirt steak?” He asks. 

“Just turned. Two minutes out, chef.” 

“Heard, thank you, chef.” 

You nod a bit to yourself, drawing in a deep breath and turning back to the pan. You can hear the scratch of Carmy’s pen on the printed menu by his station, no doubt taking stock of how long it’s taking you. 

“Paprika butter?” You ask. 

“One minute out, chef.” 

“Heard, thank you, chef.” 

The kitchen smells fucking delicious. With the restaurant closed, there are no other sounds besides the bubbling, sizzling, and crackling of food being cooked. It’s almost calming—almost. You just have the skirt steak to plate—and then you’re set. 

“Skirt steak is ready, chef,” You announce.

“I’ve got the sauce. Walking.” 

“Heard.” You wrap a dishcloth around the handle of your pan, walking the skirt steak up to the station and setting it down. Carmy takes the steak up, cutting it and eyeing the inside. Your stomach roils with nerves, eyes darting between the steak and his face. 

“This is perfect, chef,” He says, plating it. You have to fight back a grin, mumbling a, “Thank you, chef,” As Carmy spoons the paprika butter over the steak. He jots one more note down on his menu before he stops the digital timer that you keep in the kitchen. The two of you look over the six plates in the window—three appetizers and three entrees. 

“Wanna do the tasting in here?” He asks, glancing over at you. 

“Nah, no point when there’s an empty dining room. C’mon,” You nod, taking up two of the appetizers and one of the entrees. “We can put it out on the bar.” 

-- 

It’s a little surreal, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Carmy and taking bits and bites from the plates of food that you just cooked. In New York, you only ever took small samples of what you’d made to ensure quality. Now, you get to eat the whole damn thing. 

“Should probably make the paprika butter first,” You comment, pushing some chicken onto your fork. “It can stand for, what—Four hours? It won’t be there for nearly that long.” 

“Mhm,” Carmy nods, still chewing. “Prep the spring rolls, drop them as people get in…Put the farro on right after we make the paprika butter.” 

“Give it time to drain and cool. And the gremolata after that.” 

“Yeah.” Carmy reaches out, snagging his beer and taking a pull from it to wash down the caviar. “I think the chicken scarpariello’s gonna be the biggest hurdle.” 

“Agreed,” You nod. “It needs the most handling.” 

“Garnishes should be easy. Oven-roasted vegetables and sauteed spinach—” 

“Just need the odd look-in and turn.” You reach across him, plucking up the last spring rolls and biting into it with a sigh. “These are fuckin’ good,” You mutter around the mouthful as you set the second half down on your plate. 

“You know the chef that canceled?” 

“Nn-nn,” You shake your head. “I think they’re a friend of Emma’s.” 

“How do you know Emma?” 

“We went to college together. She was a business major. She started her own event planning business, like, right as Covid hit.” 

“Fuck.” 

“Yeah. She’s keeping her head above water,” You shrug. “But it was touch and go there for a while.”

“...Why’d you ask me for help?” 

“Because I needed it.” 

“Why me instead of one of the other chefs you know?” 

You glance over to find Carmy’s eyes wandering you, though he doesn’t meet your gaze when you look at him. You shrug, turning back to your plate.

“I knew you’d take to the menu quickly,” You admit. “It’s the kind of stuff you’re used to.” 

“The kind of stuff we’re used to.” 

You smile a little. “I don’t know if I’m that used to it anymore.” 

“The skirt steak and I both disagree with you. Your instincts are still there.” 

Your smile widens, unable to help the bubbling of your flattery. 

“Well. Thank you to you and the skirt steak.” 

Carmy’s smile widens as he straightens up and reaches out, taking the last of the duck confit spring roll off of your plate and popping it into his mouth. 

“Dick,” You grumble. Carmy grunts in agreement, sitting up and plucking the last piece of skirt steak with his fingers. Before you can stop yourself, you lean in, catching hold of it in your teeth and slurping it into your mouth. Your lips, tongue and teeth brush against the swell of his fingertips as you lean away again. You raise your thumb to your lips, swiping away the stray sauce as you lean back. You swallow your embarrassment along with the steak, swiping your tongue over your lips. 

“Payback,” You slide off of the barstool and begin to gather up the dirty plates. “Never steal my fucking spring roll again.” 

“Heard,” Carmy chuckles. You try not to overthink the way he smiles—or the fact that he raises those same fingertips to his lips to lick off the remainder of the sauce. 

-- 

On the day of the wedding, you half-expect Carmy to turn up with his hair slicked back, like you used to see—slicked back hair, and a pristine white uniform. But Carmy is in the clothing that you’re slowly becoming more accustomed to seeing him in: dark jeans, a white t-shirt, and a blue apron. Between the two of you, prep goes smoothly. You speak little, save for asking what one or the other is doing, or may need help with. By the time service starts, you’re beginning to tingle with nerves. But Carmy’s call of, “I need two orders of spring rolls, one grain salad, one order of canapes,” Starts your engine. 

“Heard,” You call back, rounding to the frier. 

“How long on the spring rolls?” 

“Eight minutes, chef.” 

“Heard, thank you, chef.” 

Maybe your dry run of the dishes should’ve given you some indication of this, but there’s a little part of you that’s unnerved by how…Easy this all feels. You won’t deny that there’s still some low-level of swirling anxiety in your belly, but it’s assuaged by the fact that whatever happens tonight, you’ve been through way worse. You’re certain that by the end of the night, you and Berzatto will both be a thousand dollars richer, and neither of you will cover yourselves in cold Au Jus and go running into the walk-in. 

By the time the last appetizers have gone out, you feel yourself beginning to settle into an easy rhythm with Carmy. You’re each flurrying around the kitchen, in near-perfect sync. Sure, now and again you’ll get in your own head about something, but Carmy usually snaps you back out, asking for a time on an item, or murmuring, “Behind,” and resting his hand on your lower back to keep you steady as he passes. 

That’s new. Carmy has the same officious speed and manner in the kitchen, but there’s never been a consistent level of close proximity. And you’ve never felt so calm in a kitchen with him before—well, not a professional kitchen, anyway. Your personal kitchen is another matter. 

By the time the two of you send out the last round of entrees (three halibut, two steak, two chicken scarpariello), you shut the burner under the cast iron skillet off and sigh softly. You scrub the heels of your palms over your eyes, loosing a sigh that turns into a yawn. 

“...Doin’ alright over there, chef?” You hear. 

“Yep. Just taking a breath before we start clearing up.” You tip your chin up, lowering your hands and giving him a small smile. “You go ahead and have your cigarette,” You add, nodding to the back door. “I’ll get started in here.” 

Carmy seems to consider for a moment, glancing over in the door’s direction as he fiddles with the tasting spoon in his hand. 

“I’ll wait,” He finally says. “I’ll get started with the sauce station if you start with garnishes.” 

You’re surprised, but you nod, straightening up and turning. 

“Heard.” 

“...Think we’ll get any cake?” 

“Fuck, I hope so. Did you see it when it came in? It looked fuckin’ good.” 

-- 

“You gonna gripe at me if I want a drag of that?” 

Carmy chuckles, pushing the smoke out as he does.

“No,” He shakes his head, holding the cigarette out. You plop down beside him on the bench outside of the venue, taking it from him and drawing in a drag. You damn near groan as you tip your head forward, smoke pushed out through your nostrils. 

“Haven’t gotten a new rubber band yet?” He asks. You smile. 

“I have, but…I don’t know. This was always kinda our thing, right?” 

Carmy doesn’t answer right away, leaving you to stare at the smoldering tip of the cigarette in silence. But after a few nerve wracking moments of quiet, he offers, “...Yeah. Was.” He reaches out, fingers pressing against yours as he gently pries the cigarette from your fingers. You bite your lip, looking down at your empty hand and wiggling your fingers a touch. “Could work out a new thing if you’re tryin’ to quit, though.” 

“New thing like what?” 

You see Carmy flick the cigarette away. You frown, watching the half-finished butt fall to the ground. 

“Dude, what the hell, that was a perfectly good—” As you turn your head, your argument kicking up, Carmy’s hand raises to cup your cheek. The way he draws you in feels so effortless—like every action you’ve ever seen him make in the kitchen. His hands are warm, and smell like smoke and garlic—there’s a hint of the cake icing as he slips his tongue between your lips. Your eyes blink in surprise once before sliding shut. You lift a hand to hook in the collar of his shirt, tugging him closer. The two of you scooch closer on the bench, knees knocking as your kisses deepen. 

You lean back first, tongue brushing against Carmy’s lip as you lick your lips. You give a short dazed nod, meeting his gaze. 

“Yeah,” You manage. “Yeah, that could work.” 

--  

You feel tired as hell. Usually after a service like this, all you want to do is take a long, hot shower and curl up in bed. Now, nothing of the sort is on your mind. Your hands fumble with your keys as Carmy presses up against your back. 

“Having some trouble there, chef?” Carmy teases, nose nudging against the hinge of your jaw.  You let out a shaky laugh, shaking your head. You force yourself to focus up, looking down at the keys. 

“No trouble at all, chef,” You bat back, finally slotting your key into your apartment door lock and shoving it open. It whacks back against the wall with a bang that’ll surely annoy or alarm your neighbors, but you can’t bring yourself to give a shit. You half-stumble into the room, turning and pulling the key from the lock as you turn to grip Carmy’s shirt. He wraps his arms around your middle, just managing to keep you from toppling over. You slide your hands up into his hair, curling your fingers in the strands. Carmy tips his chin up a touch, catching your lower lip between his teeth and giving it a tug. You whine softly at the sting. You reach back ,unwilling to let go of Carmy or break your kiss, absently whacking at walls to find your bedroom doorway. 

You lean back just enough to kick your shoes off and tug off your shirt. You reach for Carmy’s shirt, too, but he takes hold of your wrists before you can pull his shirt up and off. Your breath catches in your throat as Carmy tucks your arms behind your back, holding them there and forcing your chest against his. You shiver as his thumbs sweep tenderly across your wrists. Carmy tips his head from side to side, giving you darting, quick kisses. You lower your eyes to his lips, tracking their movement, as if you can anticipate which way he’ll lean next. Carmy intertwines  your fingers as he dips his head, pressing a kiss to your jaw before slipping his lips down further. You close your eyes, tipping your head, as if you need to entice him further. The shifting sensation of  his tender brush of kisses blooms into a sharp heat as Carmy nips and tugs at the skin there. 

“Fuck,” You shiver, fingers twitching around his. Carmy grunts against your skin, pulling away with a final kiss before he lifts his head. He rests his chin atop yours, lowering your heads and guiding your gaze back to his.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” he murmurs, “You pull any’a that yes chef shit in here and you’re gonna get it.” 

The warning sends an intrigued chill down your spine, and makes you smile wide. 

“Well sorry in advance, chef,” You murmur. “Force’a habit.” 

Carmy groans low in his chest. He teases his tongue across your lips before he lets go of your hands. You can feel him working at pulling off your bra, but you’re more focused on taking off his shirt. You scrabble at the fabric, nails scratching slightly over his side as you pull. He moans, sinking his teeth into your shoulder before he tugs and snaps your bra strap against your back. You wince, reaching back with one hand and deftly undoing the clasp before leaning back to shrug it off. Carmy doesn’t gripe at the assistance, just tugs his shirt up and over his head before flinging it aside.

Carmy shoves at your hips, pushing you back to the bed. When your knees hit the mattress, you sit almost obediently. You lean in, pressing gentle kisses along his belly, and over the thin trail of hair tracking down to his pants as you undo his belt, button and zip. Your hands smooth down, massaging his hardening cock through his jeans. 

You grin as you hear Carmy hiss a swear out under his breath. You shove at his waistband, grasping his cock as it bobs into view. Taking him in hand, you tip your chin up, peering at him from beneath your lashes as you swipe your tongue along the underside of his cock. Carmy draws his lower lip between his teeth, his hand lowering to rest on the back of your head. You fight off a smile, focusing on bobbing your head and teasing him with your tongue. 

Carmy’s fingers flex against the back of your head as you hum around his length. Your hands shift away from him, pushing his pants further down around his thighs. Carmy wriggles a touch as he stepped out of his shoes, nudging them aside. You draw off just enough for Carmy to shove his pants down the rest of the way before he steps up between your legs again, his hand back on your head. You begin to bob your head, taking hold of the base of his shaft and twisting your wrist. 

“Fuck, just like that—Don’t say it,” He warns as you turn a mischievous eye up toward him. You grin wide, drawing off of him and lapping at the head of his cock. He pushes out a shaky laugh, eyes bright as he watches you. You lean up, pressing a kiss beneath his belly button before you tip your head up, your hand still working over Carmy’s length. 

“Lean back,” He urges, nodding you toward the mattress before crouching down and gripping at your leggings, “And get these off.” 

You scooch back, wriggling out of your leggings and undies and kicking them off. You squeeze your thighs together, honing in on the slick throbbing between your legs. He slides his hands up your legs, pushing your thighs apart as he kneels down on the bed. You groan softly as he shoves your leg up to bend at the knee. You let your thighs splay, elbows propping yourself up to watch as Carmy slots himself between your thighs.

He trails his knuckles over your wet, plumped cunt. Your pussy throbs as he leans in and teases the tip of his nose along your slit, then tracks the same path with his tongue. You want to tip your head back, to sink back into the mattress, but you keep your eyes on Carmy. He meets your gaze so rarely, but now he holds his eyes steady on yours. Your gut swoops at the sight—at the way his eyes are bright in the dark room. Carmy parts his lips, lapping broadly along your cunt.

You bite your lip, quieting a moan as you push your hips down against his lips. Carmy flicks his tongue against your pulsing clit. He groans against you, tipping his head to and fro, laving your lips. You hiss softly, reaching down and sliding your fingers through his hair. You give his hair a harsh yank, pushing your hips down against his questing lips and tongue. Carmy’s eyelids flutter at the pressure and sting. His groan muffles against your skin before he draws off with a slick suck. He raises two of his fingers, teasing them along your opening. He takes your clit between his lips, sucking it harshly as he sinks the fingers down to the knuckle. You whimper, back arching up off of the bed. You slide one of your hands from his hair, thumbing and tweaking your hardening nipples. 

“Oh, my god,” You breathe. You roll your hips down into his mouth and hand, cunt fluttering as he stretches your aching hole. Carmy pumps his arm steadily as he swirls his tongue teasingly around your pussy. Carmy presses impossibly closer, sloppily sucking and lapping your pussy as his nose pushes against your mound. You can feel a familiar coiling sensation in your belly—one that you want to chase—but you reach down, gently pushing at his forehead. Carmy leans back, blinking up at you. You push yourself up and lean down, nudging your nose against his. 

“You gonna fuck me?” You murmur, and grin as Carmy hurriedly pushes himself up to kneel over you. 

“Condom?” He asks. You twist to the side, reaching into the drawer of your bedside table and rummaging around for a moment. Carmy’s hand lowers between your thighs, thumb teasing gently over your clit. You lean back with the foil packet. You rip the packet open with your teeth, taking the condom out and rolling it down over his throbbing cock. You grin as he twitches in your hand, your eyes lifting to his. Before you can tease or sass him, Carmy cradles your jaw in his hands, catching your lips with his. The two of you groan as he slips his hot tongue against yours, sharing the taste of you. You lower yourself down onto the bed slowly, a tingle running down your spine as you feel the head of Carmy’s cock brush against your tender pussy. 

Carmy breaks your kiss as he lowers his head, mouthing and sucking kisses to your breasts. He takes himself in hand, tapping the head against your clit. You whine, wriggling down against him. 

“Cut it out,” Carmy murmurs, slapping your hip. 

“Fuck me.” 

“So fuckin’ impatient—” 

“You’re right there, Berzatto, c’mon, just fu—” 

Your demands go quiet as Carmy shoves his hips forward. Your lips, parted from complaining, push into an o at feeling of him filling you so completely. 

Oh my god, and, move, and right there all sit on your tongue, but you can’t bring yourself to say a damn word. You just heave in a deep breath, eyelids fluttering as Carmy lowers himself down over you. His chest brushes against your sensitive breasts; his hips press flush against yours.

“Nothin’ to say now, huh?” He murmurs against your jaw. You huff out a harsh breath, cunt fluttering as Carmy shallowly rolls his hips. “Smartest fuckin’ mouth off the line, quickest fuckin’ hands in the kitchen and you got nothin’ to say?” 

You whimper, turning your head into Carmy’s shoulder as he begins to fuck you with short, harsh thrusts. Your hands curl around his shoulders, nails sinking into his skin. Carmy slides his hands beneath your head, cradling your head. You press your chest up against his, tipping your head back into his warm, steady hands. 

“Hmm?” He hums, right up against your ear. “Still nothin’?” 

You curl your legs around his, a hand sliding up into his hair as you give it a tug.

“Harder.”

Carmy’s expression goes stony at your order, and a smile flickers across your lips for just a moment before his hips snap harshly against yours. 

-- 

You sigh softly, shifting your head on your arms. You’re belly down in bed, sleepy, and sore. You smile as you feel Carmy slowly trail a finger down your spine before he palms one of your ass cheeks. You give a little wiggle, and grin when you hear Carmy chuckle. He presses a gentle kiss to your shoulder before nuzzling the same spot tenderly. 

“So, just so I know,” You mumble, turning your head toward him, “Is the post-job tradition just gonna be the making out, or all’a this?” 

“All of it,” Carmy answered steadfastly, lips brushing your skin. “You do a real good job, we’ll do it twice.” 

You scoff a laugh, rolling onto your side. 

“You telling me I didn’t do a really good job tonight?” 

“‘Course not,” Carmy coos, palming your hip and easing you back onto the bed as he covers your body with his. “I’m giving you a heads up for round two.”

Tag list: @missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ;  @paintballkid711 ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight; @recklessworry ; @amneris21 ; @ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage​​​ ; @lorecraft ; @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ; @nolanell ; @millllenniawrites ; @chattychell ; @dihra-vesa​ ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices​ ; @missswriter ; @thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @buckybarneshairpullingkink ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; @winchestershiresauce 

[k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9]

Exodus - Thorn In My Side

[ross-hollander]

how did you even get up here?

[cleabellanov]

“Did force of habit finally let you go? Are you stepping over my footprint in your soul?”

[aeolianblues]

I remembered suddenly that when I was 10, in the very early days of social media, when things were way more lawless and casual, and social media did not link to real life, for all intents and purposes, I did not have internet, save for to be able to do a school-assigned summer project every summer break for which I’d hand-write info from Wikipedia (and other sites) and select some pictures to print out and paste into a scrapbook. In those days, my only real exposure to America was through television. I wasn’t really into sitcoms and whatnot, which are often American, and of course we had Hollywood films. But we also had (have) a lot of indigenous cinema, and so of course I heard a lot of media in my own accent and languages, and read a lot of work written in my own English. Owing to a long and tedious history, our English was British English. Our books were either the English editions, English imports, or occasionally Indian editions. And of course, we had a rich literature of local English-language and Anglo-Indian authors (I hadn’t read The Room On The Roof aged 10! But I would have read it by 15, which honestly is the right age).

There was some exposure to American* English and voices through Cartoon Network and Nickelodeon shows, and through American dubs of kids’ anime, however. So I grew up loving Pokémon, Beyblade, a bunch of other series that my generation at least, watched in English. (*yes I’m aware the Beyblade dub is Canadian. Only Canadians know the difference between a Canadian and an American accent.)

So here we are in around 2009, 2010, all I know about America is: it's vast, very clean (my mum’s dust allergies did not flare up for the first time ever when we visited family there, and so America must be dust-free. As an adult, I maintain my own house now and laugh at the notion that *anywhere* could really be dust-free; my mum visited me and sneezed once. Yet, I do have to concede that she sneezes more in her own house, which shall always be 10x cleaner than mine, and saying this even is a compliment to my house. I try to be my mum. I fail, regularly. (<- was sweeping at 2 am last night because I’d rather have the dust IN the dustbin that I had to take out for garbage collection the next morning. Also it’s!! the hair!!). It has Disneyland, President Obama, Pokémon and Beyblade, mindful of the knowledge that two of these were actually Japanese. No obstacle.

This is my view of America. Sounds quite nice, doesn’t it? And they speak differently to us, but the only people I’ve heard speaking like this are 1. my cousins (very sweet) 2. ‘YES WE CAN!’ A+, inspiring 3. ‘Go Pikachu!’

So I warm to this little novelty. I can still do Ash Ketchum’s voice, and at one point aged like 11 everyone thought I was going to be a voice actor because I could do accents. Never mind that my range was very limited, and I had never been ‘y’all’ed at. All I had was ‘GenAm.’ Southern exposure would come later in life.

I couldn’t just speak American, that would’ve had me cast out immediately. No way. We were harsh on ‘snobs’ that pretended they were from elsewhere, who had a ‘posh upbringing’, went to the international schools, or spoke with an accent we recognised as from the foreign English(-first language) world (read: British or American. Australians were our cricket sledging rivals: we’d done their accent a million times and they’d done ours. They were the reason why Indians have an odd propensity for the word 'mate' despite not being British. The Aussies didn’t count. Also we didn’t really have Australian schools in the country, international schools were usually IB or IGCSE, which usually produced one of two accents). But almost as a little nod, as a token of admiration, I could spell just a handful of words differently.

And so I could declare the color of pH indicators on my tests and then go home to watch my favorite animated series. It was seen simply as a mark of internationalism: what a well-read kid! You were clearly reading outside the curriculum if you were reading American editions. I don't particularly ever remember being taken aside for my spelling or discouraged from it, besides the occasional circling of 'bad' spelling in my work with a red pen by a teacher. The world continued to turn. I volunteered with organisations, my documents were notarised, my sentences ended with fullstops. My sums pointedly ignoring the 'hundred thousands' and 'millions'. I'd come home and sit in the bathroom, furiously scribbling away my Pokémon ideas, telling my mum I needed longer to shower, mental tyres screeching to a halt when she'd turn off the light in frustration. But true to character, at least the scripts retained their proper geographical localisation (localization?), albeit spoken through the mouth of a 13 year old who certainly did not live in the USA. But could put on a damn decent voice in a few specific situations.

I don't remember when exactly this stopped, it likely faded away like many childhood enthusiasms do, aided by a resigned fear of being marked down by external examiners on important tests, and the subsequent need to standardise language for the widest possible readership, but it was long enough ago that I had forgotten I ever wrote like that in the first place. I think it was definitely gone by 2016, for both reasons. I'm not sure 'American' was really 'cool' to anyone anymore. And we were coming up to 15, 16. That was when I first got a phone.

In a few short years, you'd got to a point (not gotten, note) where you had to be connected to the internet: emails from school, class whatsapp group chats, worksheets up on Google Drive rather than wasting 5 minutes of class time distributing printouts in class. Wifi was now a must, as were laptops at home, rather than just the occasional logging onto the family computer. You had to have a phone, silly. (Mine honestly was because my mum would often be an hour late in picking me up from places. We tried the rubber-button Nokia for a while, but it was increasingly becoming obvious that the trajectory for me and anyone around me still without a phone was to eventually get one. I inaugurated mine with beginning listening to the Smiths on Youtube, reading a PDF version of one of the Bourne series books, checking my email regularly, starting a Wordpress blog (which felt very antiquated at the time) and eventually ruining my eyes. Tumblr wasn't even in the picture yet).

We got on social media too. Suddenly, America was everywhere. Suddenly, there were a million casual references to things we'd never heard before. We were taken, up close and personably, into the very houses of Americans we'd never otherwise have met. It was exciting, wasn't it? You could have friends in America! And unlike the chatroom days, there was a chance you'd see them again, because you could follow them. I personally was pretty much only on the cricket and Muse sides and of social media (remember when you didn't need an account to see everything happening on a website?) So I still think I was seeing fewer Americans than usual. The Resistance and 2nd Law periods felt like the first times a lot of Americans were discovering Muse: there were the Grammys in 2009, Kate Hudson and the resulting press hounds, Undisclosed Desires to some, and finally Madness that broke them to many. The fanbase around Muse felt largely European at the time.

But then there were memes. Memespeak. I think today with a more critical lens on what we were consuming (and notice how what used to be 'conversation' in the 00s slowly became 'consumption' of ideas), we realise that a lot of 'memespeak', 'twitter speak', and now 'gen Z talk' and 'tiktok speak' was AAVE that got removed further from its context with every new corner of the world it reached. It's happening right now! Have you heard the latest: 'very demure, very mindful'. I chanced upon the original video. She's talking about her workday makeup. People have now applied it as a lifestyle choice. It came from a black woman and now sounds like tradwife-tok. What on earth were kids in India doing occasionally imbibing their speech with AAVE? Regardless, it was still an Americanism entering our lexicon and consciousness.

Back in 2016, I was very firmly of the belief that the online did not affect your offline life. We lived so far away from it all! Once you log off, it's a different world. It's also kind of why cyberbullying had never really bothered me. What's an American troubling me online going to do, get on a 17 hour, $1000-flight about it? Even if I ever slipped up and narrowed it down to one city, was this hypothetical American going to come and find me specifically amidst 12 million other people? Get out of here. The threat of someone angry driving five hours to cause me harm was simply not the kind of reality for me compared to, well. The Americans that made up like 80% of the internet at the time and dominated the conversation.

Still we learned. Emergency helplines in the US. Safety tips in the US. What to do on the highway. We crossed the highway once in two years. For the longest time, despite all the online awareness being spread, I simply knew that my biggest path to safety was 1) to be in a group that included our guy friends 2) wear jeans rather than skirts and tops that went all the way up 3) get home by 10. (And of course, know that that would still fall woefully short. I saw friends get catcalled at 1 PM, and all I could do was wag a finger in their face and drag my friend away.) The online and offline worlds were different places.

Nonetheless, as time went on, it got a little harder to stop thinking about America in our logged-off time. American politics filters through. Initially, it's just the laughing along with late night hosts on YouTube clips. Then it's the shock and disgust at the actual headlines that would begin to overtake national news as top headlines on the front pages of the news. Slowly, you begin to see the parallels. We cannot point and laugh the way Europe does, unfortunately. We see too much of our own reality reflected in you. The ugly bits. We don't like to see them because we want to think of ourselves as progressive, but we are like you. Or are we? 'Hindus for Trump'. The Americanisation continues apace.

I think we did eventually put our foot down to occupy some floor space. To make our presence felt. To talk about a life that was not American. Deliberately looked for the things that marked us out as non-Americans. We say we are not like them. We say they are nothing like us. But you know, perhaps we don't have to be alike. But there are reflections of each other as people within ourselves. They're not always pleasant to recognise.

[catdays]

cain 😁

[angst-is-love-angst-is-life]

When talking to/about Steve out loud while watching this; I have called him Barry so many times💀

[junkyard-gifs]

Skimbleshanks has acquired a kitten under his arm.

... Mistoffelees. Sir. Must you really shoot electricity bolts at the kittenxSkimble huddle?

Okay fine, they will adjourn to a less chaotic part of the scenery until he gets it out of his system.

Gerben Grimmius as Skimbleshanks and Susannah Murphy as Electra. Vienna revival, 19 June 2022, filmed by @falasta.

[misscromwellsmonocle]

Force of Habit (1960) by René Magritte

[halalgirlmeg]

Me, after my prayers: Love you bye *clears throat* I mean, InshAllah Ameen