#i unpacked like 50 percent of my room

[125storejuice]

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[casspurrjoybell-20]

Fools - Chapter 1 - Part 1

BOOK ONE: The 'Fools Fall in Love' Trilogy

*Warning - Adult Content*

Samuel Moretti

"Mom. Where'd you put my backpack?"

Here's the thing about moving to a new town, you don't remember which box you put your things in.

'Should I have labeled the boxes? Probably but did I? No.'

So, when you have five minutes until you have to leave to go to school, a brand new school and have a nagging older sister yelling at you to 'get your gay ass in the car' and you have absolutely no clue where your book bag is, you might stress out.

Like me, I was at the highest level of stress my body has ever obtained when every area in my room had been searched and... STILL NO BACKPACK.

Coming to the conclusion that my backpack is not in my bedroom, I decided to check downstairs.

"Mom," I yelled once more as I made my way into the kitchen.

"What is it?" my mother questions from the kitchen sink, scrubbing away at the dish that once contained last night's casserole.

You'd think for our first night in a new town, my mom would settle for Chinese food delivery or something instead of cooking but no.

She's a firm believer in always having a home cooked meal where everyone sits around the table.

Which, I guess isn't a horrible thing.

"Where's my backpack?" I asked, looking around frantically.

"You mean that purple backpack on the couch right there?" she questioned, pointing her pink manicured nails to the tv room.

My mom is the type of mom that always has to look put together.

Acrylic nails, classic pink or red, makeup done even then at 6:50 a.m. in the morning.

My mother has her no-heat curlers from the night before, still in.

She wouldn't be caught dead with them outside of the house.

Right now, she has her 'cleaning clothes' on which consists of her purple Lulu-lemon-leggings and a matching tank top.

I followed her gaze and sure enough, my backpack was laying on the couch like nobody's business.

Our living room looked like it wasn't just filled with boxes the night before.

With the two couches and La-Z-Boy clutter free, save for some decorative pillow.

All of our family photos evenly hung up on walls.

Our T.V. and entertainment center ready to be used.

My mom must've stayed up late last night to unpack, she's not one to waste any seconds.

"I went to the store last night and bought you and Haven extra pencils," my mom said with a warm, motherly smile.

I sighed, frustrated that she moved it without my knowledge but ultimately grateful for the supplies 'thank you' I grumbled as I walked over to the couch and swung the notorious purple Nike bag over my shoulders.

I turned around only to find my mother standing next to me with open arms.

"Mom," I whined but hugged her anyway.

"I have to go," I murmured into her hair.

She smelled like rosemary essential oil, the one she uses in her humidifier at night.

People always tell me I get my looks from my mom.

Light, thick curly brown hair, intense green eyes, fair skin, small nose.

You name it.

'Thank God' I got my height from my dad, a proud five-foot, nine but like math taught me, I round up but I'm also skinny.

Not like 'wow, he really works out.'

No, like 'have you ever picked up a weight in your life?'

The answer is no, by the way.

"I know, Honey but you can give your mama a hug for fifteen seconds before your first day at a new school. Stop stressing. You'll have a great junior year, meet good friends, get good grades, meet a nice boy."

"Mom," I said pulling away from her, blushing fiercely which made my mom laugh as she walked back into the kitchen.

If there's one thing I love about my mom, it's that she supports me one hundred percent.

Coming out to her wasn't even a question.

I was excited to tell her about the boy I had a crush on in seventh grade.

My dad, on the other hand, I would not discuss my boy crushes with.

I could do without a third 'you can die from AIDS' speech.

All in all, though, he's okay with my sexuality, so that's all that matters.

"You better go before your sister runs back in here, scolding you," my mom warned me as if it wasn't her who kept me from leaving to give her a hug and I sighed.

"Bye mom. Love you."

I kissed her on the cheek.

"Love you too, Honey," I heard her call before I ran out the door.

Haven scolded me for being late but calmed down once I told her I'd buy her caramel iced coffee.

With cream and liquid sugar, of course.

At school, we had about fifteen minutes before first period.

My sister and I parted ways to find our locker then agreed to meet at hers so we could 'people watch' before class.

People watching is our favorite pastime.

My sister and I would go to coffee shops or malls just to watch people and come up with different scenarios about the people we see or to scope out the hot guys.

Luckily, my locker wasn't like the kid's next to mine, a combination that barely worked and when he finally got it open, it creaked like a door that was made in Hell.

Though, I did not appreciate the dirty look he threw me when my locker opened swiftly.

After putting the books I didn't need until after lunch, in my locker, I headed in the direction my sister said her locker was.

Haven's locker wasn't far, down the hall and to the right, leading into the English hallway.

As I was walking up to her, I almost tripped but luckily caught myself.

"Gah, my new shoes keep making me trip," I whined, glaring down at my new Vans.

They were all white and slip-on.

Haven looked down as well then back up at me and shrugged.

"You just have to break them in but I forgot I gotta find Emily real quick before first period," she told me.

"Emily?" I questioned, taking a sip of my caramel iced coffee.

"She's the Captain of the cheerleading team. I need to ask her about practice today. Oh, there she is. I'll meet you at lunch," she shouted to me as she ran up to a skinny redhead.

I say 'redhead' as in noticeably colored red hair with dark roots coming in.

Usually, I don't like hair such as hers but she's so beautiful, she makes it work, like' model' beautiful.

I sighed and glanced down at my schedule to see what class I have first.

Algebra II with Mr. Pezzementi, room D197.

Math at the beginning of my day?

That sucks, at least I have coffee to keep me awake.

I looked up and saw a sign hanging down from the ceiling that read 'D Wing'.

Might as well get there early, I started walking towards the hallway, eyeing my schedule again to find out what my second class was.

Spanish, I liked Spanish class, it was an easy A for me.

My eyes moved lower on the schedule to see my third period, big mistake.

'Always look where you're going, kids.'

My shoes had me tripping in the middle of the hallway causing me to crash into someone, spilling all of my coffee on them.

I looked up with wide eyes at the person I splashed my iced coffee.

A boy with his arms up, looking down at his shirt with his mouth open in a shocked, pissed off expression.

There was a girl standing next to him with her hand covering her mouth and her eyes wide.

"Oh my God. I am so sorry," I exclaimed, frantically.

"What the actual fuck?" he exclaimed, looking up at me with the deadliest glare.

If looks could kill, I would have been ashes on the tiled floor then.

'Oh, the mess the janitor would have to clean.' '

"Watch where you're going next time," he warned me then bumped my shoulder as he and 'who I assumed was his girlfriend' walked away.

I breathed a sigh of relief and quickly made it to my first class, making sure to walk with my eyes up and not on my schedule.

Walking into room D197, I had five minutes before the bell.

Only a few people had already taken their seats.

I decided to sit in the front, hoping this spot will help me pay attention more.

When I sat down, I buried my head in my arms that laid on my desk.

'You're so stupid, Sam.'

On your first day too, I can't believe you did that.

He was so cute too but he's taken, so it wouldn't matter, plus the fact that he hates me now.

God, I hope I don't share any classes with him or see him ever again.

Luckily I didn't, well at least for my first four classes.

So much relief filled me at the end of fourth period because fifth for me was lunch and man, do I love eating.

[skinsharpenedteeth]

Coming Up Easy - First Sightings

I am *SO* sorry this is so hella late this week. It's been... a fucking week. CW: One mention of a homophobic slur.

You can also read this on AO3!

CUE - First Sightings

Unpacking boxes was not one of Alex’s favorite activities. He hadn’t had many when he’d moved because he hadn’t wanted to rent a truck or deal with shipping things, so the twelve boxes he’d been able to load into the late nineties Ford Explorer encompassed all his worldly possessions. He’d finally gotten a chance to start unpacking the miscellaneous boxes after a trip to Ikea for bookshelves, a bed, and a couch. Furthermore, he’d promised himself he’d explore his new city more and find second-hand shops for other household furniture and accessories, but the bookshelves would be enough to finally clear away the last of his unpacked boxes.

Alex opened the last box and looked inside. His heart softened a little as he saw the small shoebox of photographs he kept. Promising himself he’d look through it later, he unpacked the few other knick-knacks out of the box and took them to the bookshelves to start placing them. The box didn’t reenter his mind until after dinner when he found himself lounging across his new sofa with a cold beer in his hand. The box stared at him from the floor where he’d left it. Setting down his beer on the floor, he quickly got up and grabbed the box, and brought it back over to the couch. He flipped open the top and gingerly picked up the pile closest to him.

Michael and him in the desert with guitars. Liz, Max, Michael, and him at a church car wash. Michael, Kyle, and him all leaning against a bathroom wall in various stages of being phenomenally sick from drinking too much. Him and Michael hanging out at the UFO Emporium. Him and Michael eating pizza and playing video games at Max and Isobel’s. Him and Michael in college at a frat party. Him and Michael. Him and Michael. Him and Michael…

It hit Alex quite suddenly that basically since he and Michael had become friends they’d been fairly inseparable. They’d dated other people and had friends that the other didn’t like, but as a rule, it was always the two of them against the world and it had been since they were fifteen. He picked up his phone and snapped a photo of the photograph he held in his hand where they were sixteen, pimply, awkward, and bent over laughing outside the high school band room.

Me 8:46 p.m.>> Who the fuck are these dorks? <<Picture sent at 8:46 p.m.>> <<Michael 8:50 p.m.>> Holy shit, look at those nerds!! <<Michael 8:51 p.m.>> Though I gotta say, the emo one is pretty hot. If I were sixteen, I’d definitely have a crush on him. Me 8:52 p.m.>> You did not have a crush on me at 16! I was so tragic! <<Michael 8:53 p.m.>> You were not. You were fucking feral. You took exactly zero percent shit from anyone. It was hot as fuck. Me 8:55 p.m.>> You are definitely misremembering the amount of bullshit I put up with. <<Michael 9:00 p.m.>> Do you know what you were doing the first time I saw you?

Alex cast back in his memory. He remembered the first time he was aware of Michael, but not necessarily the first time Michael was aware of him. He always assumed it was at the same time.

Me 9:02 p.m.>> Uh? Scribbling emo song lyrics on my bio lab notebook? <<Michael 9:03 p.m.>> Nope. <<Michael 9:03 p.m.>> You were having a fight with Kyle during gym because he tagged your gym shirt with the word “faggot” in pink sharpie.

“Mr. Manes, you cannot wear shirts with inappropriate text on them. This is the gym. White shirts only,” Coach Heim called at Alex as soon as he walked out of the locker room and started towards where the rest of the class was lounging in the middle of the basketball court. Alex could see Kyle elbowing his football buddies and smirking, barely containing their laughter. Alex felt his face grow hot with embarrassment and fury. He kept walking towards the group.

“MR. MANES! GO CHANGE YOUR SHIRT!” the coach yelled, putting more authority into his deep baritone. He was a fit, balding adult who generally was an alright guy, but Alex was swelling with indignation. He stopped a few feet away from the group so he didn’t have to yell to be heard.

“I don’t have another shirt, sir. This is my gym shirt,” Alex explained through clenched teeth. As the rest of the class got a good look at the words emblazoned across his chest and stomach, he heard them begin to snicker and giggle quietly.

“Well, you can’t wear that one. You’re smarter than this, Alex, why would you wear this out of the locker room?” the coach asked, not sounding unkind. He shot the gathered students a dirty look and they quieted their laughter.

“Because it’s all I had to wear and it’s not my fault it was defaced. Some pink-fingered fucking COWARD of a football player must’ve thought it’d be REAL FUNNY to break into my locker and--” Alex started, voice growing louder as he let the heat behind his cheeks infuse his voice.

“I did no such thing!” Kyle yelled, cutting in on Alex. Coach Heim looked over at him, eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth to say something, maybe to tell Kyle to sit down, but as soon as Kyle stepped forward away from his buddies, Alex pounced. He landed the first hit on Kyle’s cheek, the meaty smack of their skin satisfying to him. Kyle shook it off and came at him. Before he knew it, they were rolling on the ground hitting each other as hard as they could in anyplace visible. The pain was nothing new for Alex and he kept his head clear as he tried to aim for spots that would hurt long after he was pulled off.

Too soon, arms were wrapped around his chest and a much bigger body than his was pulling him back and off of where he’d pinned Valenti to the ground. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, his ears still ringing with rage, but he could see the thin trickle of blood from Kyle’s split lip and he felt himself smile at the shock on everyone else’s face as they watched him get dragged back. He would not take Kyle’s shit this year. He would not take anyone’s shit.

Alex rubbed his fingers across his eyebrows and sighed deeply. He had been so ready to cause someone else pain by then. His dad had only gotten worse towards him when Kyle started to pull away because it meant that his “unnaturalness” was evident to everyone. His fight then and the fights in the following year always had more to do with his dad than with him being ashamed of being gay. He put the photos down in the box and went to grab a bottle of water from the fridge. His phone chimed as he unscrewed the top and after a deep drink, he checked the message.

<<Michael 9:13 p.m.>> Uh oh, you’ve left me on read. You okay? Me 9:14 p.m.>> I’m fine. Sorry. Just got wrapped up in my head for a minute. Me 9:15 p.m.>> How did you see that? You weren’t in my gym class? <<Michael 9:16 p.m.>> I was hiding under the bleachers skipping english. Me 9:17 p.m.>> THAT WAS THE FIRST DAY! <<Michael 9:17 p.m.>> Right? Nothing to do anyway. It was fine. It’s in the past. I graduated high school, didn’t I? No harm, no foul.

Alex laughed quietly to himself, staring at the message screen. He went back to the couch and flopped back down across the cushions with a sigh.

Me 9:20 p.m.>> You did. Even graduated college. I guess you’re right. <<Michael 9:21 p.m.>> When do you remember seeing me for the first time? Me 9: 23 p.m.>> I feel like it was biology when we were lab partners. I was supposed to be with Max, remember? <<Michael 9:24 p.m.>> Yeah, I was with Liz. Max had no chill back then. How the fuck did it take Liz until senior year to notice that he liked her? Me 9:35 p.m.>> Had no chill? *Has* no chill.

“Michael! MI-CHAEL!” Max hissed loudly from his seat next to Alex two rows behind where Liz was sitting. The class period was just getting started and everyone was still milling around trying to find their assigned seats. Michael looked over his shoulder at Max who was looking desperately at him. Michael mouthed ‘what?!’ and gave Max an irritated glare.

“Switch with me!” Max whisper screamed. Alex was smirking into his notebook as he watched the exchange through the side of his eye. He hadn’t really noticed the curly-haired boy before, but the eye roll he gave Max was epic. He started to turn back to the front when Max whispered again. “I’ll pay you!”

Michael turned back around abruptly and narrowed his eyes.

“How much?” Michael asked, not whispering but keeping his voice low enough not to carry to the teacher who was about to start taking roll. Max looked desperately towards the front of the class at Liz’s back where she was ignoring what was happening beside her in favor of actually paying attention. She was about the only one.

“Fifty,” Max called out.

“Seventy-five and you buy my lunch for a week,” Michael countered. Alex was highly amused. Max darted his eyes over to Liz’s back again and nodded. Michael grabbed his stuff and moved quickly towards the back of the classroom while Max grabbed his stuff to go forward.

“Sorry!” Max called out to Alex softly before he left. Alex watched him slide into the seat next to Liz smoothly and take out his notebook. She looked over and smiled at him in confusion, turning to look back at where Michael was now taking his seat next to Alex. Alex looked over at him and was struck full in the face with his mischievous grin.

“That sucker, I would’ve done it for twenty-five,” Michael shared with Alex conspiratorially, leaning closer to him while he spoke so his voice wouldn’t reach Max’s ears. Alex felt himself blushing a little at the somewhat flirtatious smirk Michael was giving him. He’d been aware of Michael, but hadn’t really ever paid him any mind. Now he was near him, he could see the interesting light brown of his eyes somewhere between gold and green. He also smelled a little like lake water and the woodsy, spicy deodorant Alex had smelled on Mr. Valenti. It was weirdly comforting.

“So he has a thing for Liz or is he that afraid of failing bio that badly? I’m not stupid,” Alex asked, clearing his throat and trying not to seem offended by Max’s desperation to switch partners.

“Oh, he has a major thing for Liz. It’s gross. Like, she’s pretty, don’t get me wrong. But he’s been writing Mr. and Mrs. Ortecho-Evans in his notebook since third grade or some shit like that,” Michael revealed, taking out his own bio notebook from his bag and setting in on the lab table in front of him. Alex took in what he was saying and nodded.

“So it’s not cause everyone says I’m gay?” Alex asked, voice low and a little nervous to see Michael’s reaction. Michael looked over at him, eyebrows drawn together and something like sympathy passing over his expression before he responded.

“No, man. Max doesn’t give a shit about that and neither do I. You weren’t planning on trying to date him, were you?” Michael asked, shooting him a grin. Alex grinned back, relieved to hear that someone in the school who was so upstanding and obviously straight like Max wasn’t a complete jerk. Michael didn’t seem too bad either.

“Nah. He’s not my type. I like musicians,” Alex joked, shooting Michael a side-grin.

“You don’t say? Do you play?” Michael asked, eyes forward now in a semblance of paying attention to the teacher. Alex glanced up towards the board, but continued slouching over his lyrics notebook.

“Guitar,” he replied shortly as the teacher started explaining their first lab assignment.

“Cool. Me too,” Michael said. Alex could see him studying him out of the corner of his eye. “We should jam sometime.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

And they did jam together eventually. A week later they’d gotten together and Alex had learned that Michael did not know one end of a guitar from the other. He’d let Michael borrow his brother Greg’s guitar and then taught him everything he knew over the course of the next three months.

Me 9:40 p.m.>> Man. Who knew we’d still be friends this long after. <<Michael 9:45 p.m.>> I did. Once you taught me to play guitar, you were stuck with me for life. There’s an unbreakable bond built when one dude teaches another dude how to finger... Me 9:46 p.m.>> Jesus Christ. That was terrible. <<Michael 9:47 p.m.>> Bet you’re laughing though. Me 9:48 p.m.>> I plead the fifth. Also, I gotta get to bed. Early day tomorrow. <<Michael 9:50 p.m.>> That’s some responsible adult behavior right there. Gross. Me 9:51 p.m.>> You’re gross. <<Michael 9:52 p.m.>> I am gross. I’m going to take a shower and change that, however. When will you be young and fun again? Me 9:53 p.m. >> Shut up. Go take your shower. <<Michael 9:53 p.m.>> Fine. Go to bed. Think about me in bed. Me 9:54 p.m.>> *You* think about me in bed. <<Michael 9:55 p.m.>> Always do. Night Me 9:56 p.m.>> Night.

Alex heaved himself off the couch and went to his room. The apartment always seemed so dark and lonely when he finished talking with Michael. He needed to work on making friends. That would help him not miss him so much.

[sweater-daddiesdumbdork]

Home Sweet Home: Catch ‘Em

Summary- 3.9k Andy Barber x You. You and Andy almost have it all, married and with a jointed family consisting of Andy’s teenage son Jacob, as well as your two younger children John and Cassidy. Looking to add another member, your family is in need of a bigger house, a forever home. You find just the place, 112 Ocean Avenue in Amityville Long Island.    Home Sweet Home

Written for @optimistic-dinosaur-nacho​ Spooky Scary Stories challenge. Divider by @firefly-graphics​

Warnings- Child Endangerment, Hints of Smut (nothing graphic) Swears.

A/N- I chose Amityville Horror for the challenge because its one of my favorite Spook Stories growing up. When reading you will find a lot of similarities to the 2005 Movie, some of the scenarios and dialogue are specifically from that film. Other parts of it are from the book itself. The family name was changed for my own personal reasons. Happy Haunting!  🎃

A/N 2- We’re halfway through! 

Chapter 2 / Masterlist

The family settled and a few weeks later, morning started out normal for the rest of the household , but didn't start that way for Andy. His coughing never seemed to break and he was covered in a light sheen of sweat. You were already up to make breakfast for everyone, and Andy came down the stairs, rubbing at his chest. 

“Coffee Andy?” You ask while holding the coffee pot over his mug but he shook his head. 

“No, I actually came down hoping to find some cough syrup? Or pain medicine? Anything really. We don't have any upstairs.” 

“Oh I tossed out the old stuff. But I will pick some up when I go out today. I told Jacob that I would drop him off at the high school today after I got John on the bus.” 

Just as you were saying this, a stampede of footsteps came down the stairs making Andy wince a bit and all three kids came around the corner into the kitchen. Andy barked out a bit sharply, which even surprised you. “Y’all don’t need to be running on the stairs.” He coughed again and shivered. “Fuck its cold… I'm going down to check on the heater. If you could get that stuff, that would be great.” 

He snapped the door open and disappeared from sight while you were staring after him in surprise. Even all three of the kids seem to be in shock. Jacob just shrugged at his father's weird behavior and went to sit on a stool at the kitchen bar, the other two following him while you set plates with some scrambled eggs on them in front of them. Jacob just took toast nibbling on the edge of it a bit. 

“My phone cant keep any kind of charge whatsoever! I just got this thing to.” Jacob flipped it around to show you, and you saw it was already at 50 percent. You frowned at that, because of course he had one of the better styles of phones. Much better than anything you've ever had. 

“Your charging cord is working and everything?” You question and he nods, slipping it in his pocket. 

“Works just fine. It charges it to one hundred percent, twenty minutes later it is back down to fifty.” 

You shrug at Jacob at a loss and happen to glance at a small clock on the kitchen windowsill. “Shit.” you hiss out and down the last of your coffee. “Come on, time for the bus before we're late. Jake, meet you in the car.” You grab your car keys and open the door to call down to Andy. “I'm taking the kids to school.” 

You heard nothing more than a resounding deep cough and frowned reminding yourself to pick up that cough medicine for Andy on your way home. “Got your backpack John? Alright, lets go.” The whole pack of kids ushered out the door, leaving Andy all alone. 

Andy is pacing downstairs, waiting for the heater to kick on, cursing it out. 

“Spent all this money and the damn thing wont work.” he mutters while pulling the chair from his desk to it to sit in front of it, messing with the buttons on the front till a groaning protest came from the heater, and it clicked on to blast a bit of cool air, and quickly switched to warm. Rolling his chair back to his desk, he pulled out files from the bottom drawer to contact his clients and inform them that he was back in business at his new location. 

He was so tired though, having felt like he was up half the night feeling ill, and within a few moments he simply closed his eyes to rest them, he would use as an excuse to himself. Within moments he nodded off, and the creeping shadow came out of hiding, solidifying in front of his desk. Sharp clicking steps echoed against the cement floor and claws seared when they touched the wood of Andy's desk. It leaned forward to loom over the desk, over Andy whose chin rested against his chest. Forked tongue slithered along Andy's face, making him twitch in his sleep, whispering “Catch ‘em, Kill ‘em” Red eyes watched his victim for a moment, seemingly at peace in this state. It flexed its hands, claws scratching into the wood before giving a hard shake, sending  papers and pens flying, Andy’s laptop skidding across the surface and a picture that you had set on there yesterday crashing loudly to the floor. Cracking the glass into shattering pieces across the floor to glint wickedly. Andy’s eyes sprang open and he tipped forward to grab his shaking desk in surprise to see glowing red eyes and the scream of “Catch ‘em!” 

Then it all stopped, and he shoved back from his desk, pressing his heels to his eyes thinking he was seeing things. “What the fuck, what the fuck.” when he lifted his head, his breathing shaky to look at his desk, it was all normal. His papers were still exactly where he had set them before, his laptop in sleep mode ready to be used, pens all neatly lined up how he liked, and his family looking at him with wide happy smiles and laughs at the beach, the glass shining slightly in the light. 

“Jesus Christ Andy, get it together.” he shivered, cold once more and started coughing again. The door at the top of the stairs opened and your soft footsteps brought you down, Andy glanced up to see you carrying a steaming mug with the string of a tea bag wrapped around the handle and a paper bag that he assumed must have been the med’s he asked for. You reached the bottom and started approaching him, seeing his flushed face, the way he was heavy breathing with the rise of his chest, and you frowned while sitting the mug in front of him. 

“Baby, you don't look so good.” Your hand brushed against the side of his face, and it felt ice cold to him. Jerking out of your touch a bit, he wrapped his hands around the mug and sipped from it, scowling at the taste. 

“Don't talk to me like one of the kids Y/N.” he bit out of nowhere and he could see your face flash in a bit of hurt. “Sorry- sorry… I don't know what's wrong. Just a head cold is all. Are those the med’s?” 

“I got you a bit of everything.” your voice was colder towards him now, turned off from his offhand comment, and you set those down to, Andy knew he had to make it up to you, that was twice in the same morning he had been short, completely out of character for him. His hand wrapped around your waist and pulled you into his lap, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. 

“I’m sorry I have been an ass this morning.” He said, hoping you would ease up a bit. Which you did, he felt you relax on his thigh and your hand lifted to brush through his hair, tilting your head. 

“I know you're not feeling good. Come up soon and lay back down though? I am worried about you.” you confess, and he nods. “I gotta go back up and check on Cassidy.” 

You leave him at his work, and going up the stairs, you leave the door open to let the kitchen's sunshine at least shine down the dark stairs. Maybe it will remind Andy to come back up you think to yourself as you leave the kitchen. 

As soon as you do, the door eases shut, closing him back down in the dark belly of the house. Up the stairs, you walk the long hallway towards Cassidy’s room, gazing along the walls, imagining the photos you wanted to hang along the way when you heard Cassidy’s soft voice seemingly talking to someone. 

“No Jody, I cant. Mommy wouldn't like that, and neither would Andy.” You tilt your head curiously hearing this now, recalling her mentioning someone by that name a few times now since moving in. 

“Well, okay Jody, that doesn't sound too bad. And it is really cool. He took me out on it a few times. Even let me drive it once.” 

You eased her door open to see her standing in the middle of her room, and she jumped when she saw you. 

“Oh mommy! You scared me.” She giggled, and you poked your head around the door to see what she was talking to. Nothing, there was nothing there. 

“Who are you talking to, Babygirl?” You ask, and Cassidy looks once more where she had been talking before answering. 

“Jody, but they are gone now.” she hummed and turned towards her box of toys to dig through it. You come into the room and go to sit on the edge of her bed, watching as she pulled out a few of her dolls and brought out her tea set. 

You wiggle your nose a bit, knowing imaginary friends were not uncommon. You pull up to a stand as she is setting up her dolls around a small table. “Do you want me to have tea with you?” 

“No Mommy, I wanna just play by myself.” She said happily and you lean down to kiss the top of her head. Walking out, Cassidy followed behind you, peeking out to see you heading off to go back down the stairs. 

“Okay Jody, she's gone. You still wanna go down to see the boat?” Cassidy looked over her shoulder to see the closet door easing open on its own. Cassidy giggled, and raced out of her bedroom, one goal in mind. Going to the boathouse. 

You're in the kitchen, unpacking the last few boxes when you hear Cassidy’s feet thumping down the stairs. Luckily Andy is still down in the basement and hopefully can't hear the thumps that seemed to bother him. You were surprised in finding the door, but figured he must have had to shut it if he was talking to a client. Opening it back up to hear Andy was still downstairs, typing away on his laptop now with the clicking noise that worked its way up the stairs. Humming you lift another box on the table and start to unpack the contents. Turning your back from the fridge, you hop up to sit on the edge of the counter so you could fit the dishes together and put them on the upper shelf you couldn't reach. Unnoticed by you, the alphabet letters on the fridge start shifting around, letters coming together to fit together in a couple words. 

When you finish, you hop off the counter and turn back to catch sight of the refrigerator door, your eyes widening at the horrible words spelled on the door. 

Katch ‘em Kill ‘em 

You gasp in shock at them, wondering who would have possibly written that. Thumps on the stairs distracted you half a second and Andy appeared with his mug for a refill. “Andy, did you write that on the fridge?” you say in a slightly accusing voice, and he frowns while glancing at you as he heads to put the kettle on the stove. 

“What are you talking about Y/N?” 

“The magnets on the fridge.” You answer and you both turn to the fridge door to see the letters scattered all over the place, not spelling anything. You scowl in frustration, because you know what you saw and Andy gives you a strange look. 

“What words?” he asks while he's at the sink, filling up the kettle with water and you just shake your head. 

“Nothing, I thought I saw something, but I didn't.” you brush it off, now unsure of what you saw. While you're unwrapping more dishes, you suddenly hear Andy utter. “Oh shit, Cassidy!” and the tin sound of the kettle crashing in the sink while Andy is sprinting to the back door and outside. You drop what you're doing and follow him out, right on his heels as he's running down the wooden deck steps and headed straight for the boat house. “ANDY?” You shout from behind him as he's running full out across the deck. “What's wrong?!” your panicked, unsure what is going on while Andy is trying to wrench the door open. 

“Cassidy, I saw her go in here.” He rushed out as he wrenched on the handle, trying to get it to unclasp. You start pounding on the door now in a frantic way, Cassidy couldn't swim, and the boat house was stretched over the lake, should she slip in, there was a good chance she would drown. Your fear builds as Andy continues trying to get the door open. “What the fuck. CASS! OPEN THE DOOR.” he yells while trying to push it open.

“Oh god Andy, get it open, get it open.” tears start to well up in your eyes as you picture your daughter slipping under the water out of sight. 

Andy growls out and pushes you aside to slam against the door, hoping to wrench it open. “I'm trying Y/N, get out of the way.” 

Your just about to jump in to swim around to the other side of the boat house when the door sprang open and you both race in, looking around the dim interior to see Cassidy standing on the nose of the motor boat just staring out over the lake, you gasp in surprise seeing her like that as Andy made his way carefully along the edge of the deck not to startle her. 

“Cass, Babygirl, look at me.” Andy says softly as he makes his way towards her. Your right behind him. 

“Cassidy, look at Andy.” you whimper out, watching as she gets closer to the edge of the boat, and her gaze was so far away out over the lake, like she never noticed you or Andy trying to get to her.

“Cass!” He says more urgently, and she jumps to look at him, slipping a bit as the boat rocks from her movements. “Take my hand baby.” He stretches his hand out and she shakes her head a bit. 

“I can’t, I gotta go.” Cass say’s with certainty, tilting her head like she was listening to someone else. “Jody want’s to take me to play.” 

“Take his hand Cass!” your panic rushing your voice and Andy stretches out further over the water, his voice turning hard and authoritative. 

“Cassidy I’m not asking again. Take my hand.” When Cassidy heard him this time, she snapped her head to look at him and her eyes grew wide with surprise. She stretched for his hand, her fingers trying to reach for his. Andy is quick to snatch her and pull her off the boat to safety, falling back against the wall from the momentum. You gather your daughter in your arms, giving a sob. 

“Cassidy what were you doing, you could have drowned.” 

Now the girl is caught up in Andy's and yours fear, giving her own sob as tears burst from her eyes while you and Andy rush out of the boat house with her strongly clutched in your arms, stopping just outside as she wails out. “Jody wanted to see the boat Mommy! Jody wanted me to go with them.” 

“Cass, there is no Jody!” your nerves shook so you shout at her in anger and fear, and Andy reaches to take Cassidy from your arms. 

“She's scared Y/N and didn't know any better, yelling isn't going to help.” He turns the little girl in his arms as she sobs into his shoulder, his hand smoothing along her back to calm her down. “Hey Kiddo, it's going to be okay.” He tried calming Cassidy who’s sobs wracked her body in Andy’s arms, and you walked away a bit to take a shuddering inhale. You know he's right, you're just upsetting her more, but your fear outweighed that right now. 

“Just lock that damn door Andy, so this doesn't happen again.” you look back at the door and he nods. 

“I will go pick up a lock at the hardware store, I promise.” He assured you and you nodded, wiping away your tears. Now your daughters crying in Andy’s shoulder upset you, made you feel guilty for yelling at her. You move to press your hand against her back and say her name. She tilts her head to look at you through teary eyes and you try giving her a shaky smile. 

“I’m sorry baby, I didn't mean to yell. You just really scared me and Andy.” 

She gave a sniffle and Andy eased her back so she could wipe her face dry and look at both of them. 

“I’m-i’m sorry. Next time I will ask.” She said, and you nodded. Andy shifted her once more to rest on his hip. 

“Cassidy, the boathouse is dangerous and you know off limits to you and John. If Jody tells you to do something you're not supposed to, what do you tell Jody?” he asked and the little girl lifted her arm to wipe her face again, hiccuping as she tried to catch her breath. 

“I tell Jody no Andy.” she said, his hand still rubbing against her back. 

“That's right, if you're not sure if you're allowed, you come ask Mommy, Me, or Jacob if it's okay.” he smiled at her to reassure her that it was all okay.

She gave a nod and he held up a pinkie finger, which she hooked her finger around and Andy kissed her forehead. “Pinky promise I swear Andy.” 

“Can't break a pinky promise. You know… I think I have some cookies up at the house.” He said, his hand coming up to brush the last tears away with his thumb on her cheeks. “You wanna get a snack before I have to go back to work?” 

Cassidy seemed to consider it. “Oreos?” 

“Of course they are oreos!” Andy winked as you all headed back up to the house. “Best cookie there is, right?” 

Cassidy gave a firm nod, and you let out a relieved breath. Crisis averted. 

Later that afternoon, Andy came back out of the basement just as you were finishing the kitchen, Cassidy coloring at the table while he grabbed his keys. 

“I will go pick up Jacob and stop at the hardware store.” He pecked a kiss on your cheek, and you looked at him. 

“You sure you're feeling up for it?” 

Andy nodded and flashed a smile. “I feel much better Love, those meds kicked in and some fresh air will do me good.” 

You happen to agree since he's been in that basement most of the day, and you wave a goodbye, deciding you should probably figure out what's gonna be for dinner later in the day. “How about tacos tonight Cass?” 

She cheers and  you double check to make sure there was enough ingredients, which there was. No need to send Andy a text to pick up anything. “Come on kiddo, lets go pick John up from the bus stop.” you snap the door shut, bluntly ignoring the letters scattered over the fridge. 

Heading down the driveway, the house groaned, all alone once again. There was a shattering through the kitchen, your finest dishes being flung from the cupboard and against the wall, fine china dust settling in the air as the scattered pieces spread across the linoleum for you to find later. The basement door wrenched open and the yawning darkness going down the stairs turned darker, more ominous. 

When you came back, you stared in shock, stopping both John and Cassidy from going in to save them from stepping on shattered broken shards. “How about you two go on up to your rooms to play while I clean this up?” 

Both children went upstairs, and you grabbed a broom to start sweeping, as you passed the basement door, you slammed it shut in frustration and anger. 

Night fell and you got the kids settled in. Settling in bed yourself to lean against the headboard, massaging your temples while Andy was in the bathroom getting ready for bed.

You were beat after having to help John with his homework and Cassidy suddenly changed her mind and just hated tacos. Andy seemed to be feeling better, helping where he could. Offering to take over the dishes when John called you back to the kitchen table, and afterwards he hugged you from behind, kissing your neck while whispering in your ear that he couldn't wait to put a baby in you before he went back down to the basement to finish up with a few things.  

Thinking back on his idea made you warm up and when Andy came back in the bedroom and stretched out next to you, you looked at him, biting your lip while looking at him.

“You really wanna tonight?” you asked hopeful, since moving your and Andy’s sexual escapades had diminished a bit and you put it all to the stress of moving a whole family to a new house.

“Make you a baby momma? Of course, come on over Pretty Girl.” He reached up to click off the lights and bathe the room in the moonlight when you gently eased into his lap, the two of you starting with gentle affectionate kisses before they turned deeper and needier. Andy's hands slid up and down your back through your tank top, and you would sigh against his lips at how good it felt. Andy chained kisses from your mouth to your jaw and you tilted your head back to let him chain those kisses of his down your neck. He pulled you in closer to feel more of you when his glance lifted to look in the mirror just behind you at the end of the bed. 

At first Andy had no idea what he was actually looking at, a grotesque face appeared above him in the mirror, like it was balancing on the headboard behind him. Crouching in place, its clawed hands dug into the wood, its muscled body flexing as it swayed slightly on the head board. Up to its face, a forked tongue slithered out and red eyes glared at him in the mirror. How could something from a nightmare be here right now? He wasn't asleep, he was just about to make love to his wife. His head jerked back in shock, banging against the headboard with a loud crack as he looked up to see nothing above him. “Fuck!” 

You yanked up in surprise, running your hands down his chest. “Handsome, what's wrong?” your head tilted and you looked where he was staring, feeling his heart starting to race under your hands. 

“You didn't see that?” He grasped your hips, making you go still as you frowned. 

“See what Andy?” his gaze fell back to ours and then back up. 

“There was something there, fuck I saw it in the mirror. I don’t even know what it was. It looked like a- ” He grasped your hips and sat up to look around, your hands grabbing onto the front of his tee shirt in surprise. Looking back to the mirror and then to Andy who was still trying to figure it out. 

“Like what Andy?” You are studying him trying to figure out what he was talking about. 

“Fuck it I know Y/N.” His hold tightened on you a moment, like whatever was going to rip you away while he still looked around the room. 

“Hey hey, Andy.” you cup his face and make him look at you, kissing his forehead and down till you leaned your forehead against his. “It's okay, there is nothing there, I promise.” Your lips brushed against his. His breathing slowly started to settle back down, and your hands rubbed against his shoulders and the back of his neck as he started to sink back against the pillows, rubbing at his face. 

“It was so real though Y/N. These past few weeks, I feel like I'm losing my mind.” 

You tilt your head and brace your hands against his chest. “Stress Andy, we’ve had a lot going on. It will get better, I promise.” 

His blue eyes shined up at yours and softened seeing you looking down at him, his hands going back to tracing your thighs clasped at his sides. “You know I love you right Pretty Girl?” 

You nodded and he twisted you two around till you were underneath him, and tilted your head up to kiss you deeply. “I think I was just about to put a baby in you.” 

You giggled against his lips, wrapping your arms around his neck and whispering. “Yes you were Andy.”

[smarmaladey]

The Bad Touch - (2/3)

Chapter 2 - “nothin’ but mammals”

Rating: 🇪

Fandom: Jojo’s Bizzare Adventure

Relationships:  🐞♡🚺

Words: 4260

Ao3 Link Prev.

(For content warnings and additional notes, click read more)

Things get worse for our “lovely” heroine. 

cw: rape/non-con elements, AU (probably), ooc (probably), break-ins(?)

Enjoy!!

♡🐞♡

Monday.

7:00 AM.

The second incident.

♡🐞♡

If there was one word you'd never use to describe yourself, it'd be "independent".

In other words, you weren't a leader, you were always a follower. You simply took jobs from people, didn't question anything, and always did them the best you could. And you liked it that way.

This always seemed like the best option, as you were, admittedly, not a thinker, so your mentality was always this: do what the higher-ups say and nothing shall go wrong.

Of course, that little philosophy of yours was tested once you woke up to a certain phone call.

A phone call from a voice you couldn't recognize at all, notifying you that you left a couple of your belongings at Giovanna's estate. The man had told you to wait, wait at your home until they could arrive and, as he put it, “smooth things out”.

Like hell I’m going to do that.

While you didn’t think Giovanna was screwed up enough to, say, stick the assassination squad on you for rejecting his advances, perhaps rejecting his advances, destroying his property, referring to him by his first name, and walking out before you were dismissed, all in the span of around 50 seconds could, at the very least, spell a bit of trouble.  

So, you devised a simple little plan, all on your own.

Sneak into the estate. (Easy)

Grab your jacket and folder, and check for stains. (Also easy. Probably)

Leave without being seen by anyone. (Less easy)

Sleep, and/or change your name and move away, depending on the aftermath. (Preferably to the west of America, or anywhere outside of Europe. Not so easy)

You never imagined going back to that place the day after the whole fiasco, but it really was your only choice.

Sneaking into the building would be a piece of cake, being that your entire profession, as well as your ability, Black Hole Sun, was centered around avoiding all kinds of surveillance.

Black Hole Sun, put in the simplest way, allowed you to turn “light” into “weight”. It manifested as a cluster of pitch-black flowers and mushrooms that could sprout anywhere in a 15-20 meter radius, absorbing any light that reached them. This was ideal for creating shadows, blending into said shadows, or turning any light source into a means of vacuum-based destruction. Hell, if given the chance, you could collapse any building from the roof down, given it was daytime.

Of course, collapsing Giovanna’s home would probably be like destroying 1000 expensive lamps at once, but that’s neither here nor there, you know?

By the time you had reached the wide expanse of his property, there were only a scarce amount of people standing around. A few figures were leaving the building, but none seemed to be entering at all.

While threading between the trees around the building, you racked your brain trying to figure out where your belongings could have been. There was a decent chance they were still in his office, but you didn’t want to risk A, walking in on a possible meeting/debriefing, or B, accidentally getting caught by him, so you passed on visiting that room.

Problem was, that was the only room you knew the exact location of.

In the end, you didn’t come up with an exact idea of where your stuff could be, so instead, you decided that you’d simply check every square foot of the building. You ended up at the very back of the building, and while the expansive garden in the back was gorgeous, it didn’t exactly have good hiding spots.

You ended up prying open the largest window you saw, and carefully stepping in onto the floor as carefully as you could. As you looked around, you allowed B • H • S to dissipate, letting color fade back into your silhouette.

The room you ended up in seemed to be some kind of sunroom, the window you climbed in from giving a perfect view of the garden, as well as casting gorgeous light onto the decorated interior.

The walls to your sides were, not unlike Giovanna’s office, lined with bookshelves, this time not hyper-organized. Houseplants of different colors bloomed in multiple different places, and right next to the door was a cushioned red armchair and ottoman.

And here I was thinking he had no sense of interior decor.

Unfortunately, you couldn’t help but get distracted by the overall pleasantness of the room. Unlike the office, the temperature was nice and cool, not absolutely Siberian, and the sunlight felt nice on your flesh. Using that “every square foot” line from earlier as an excuse, you started examining the books on the shelves.

You shuffled down the row on your tiptoes, slowly, still trying to be as quiet as you could. A good chunk of the choices of literature displayed were rather surprising, you taking special note of a few books in English, and some in Japanese, both languages you didn’t realize he was familiar with. The titles you could understand were also interesting-- a lot of stuff about the supernatural, especially as you got near the end of the shelves.

Stowing away your folder in these shelves would probably be a smart move…

“Has something caught your eye?”

You bumped into something warm, stopping you right in your tracks.

Holy fuck.

The sight made your heart freeze, taking near all energy from your legs and causing you to plummet onto the floor.

“If you want to borrow any of them, feel free to ask. Do you know much English?” Giovanna, looking as prime as ever, asked. He was clearly feigning innocence, leaning over you with a glint in his eye.

To you, he looked 10 meters tall.

With your brain short-circuiting, you would've spat out incoherent babbling if you chose to speak at that moment. Fortunately, you took a second to come up with a rebuttal, putting on the fakest expression you could muster.

"Oh, here and there, y'know? Not anything very...advanced...but…"

You forced a laugh and he smiled at you, lips even glossier and more vibrant than yesterday.

He offered to help you up with a simple gesture, but with the grace of a crippled swan, you rose to your feet and backed away.

To your dismay, it only prodded him to get closer.

"So, what brought you here this morning? I don’t exactly remember inviting you." He was still staring down at you, enraging the deepest, most insecure part of your brain because he's fucking younger than me why is he so much taller-

"Uhm," you swallowed a thick clot of saliva in your throat. "I...just wanted to admire your...interior decorating…"

Shittiest excuse I've ever come up with in my life.

Giovanna stepped closer with his left, you stepped back with your right. "Is that so…? Are you sure it wasn't for...this?"

From behind his back, as if it came out of thin air, he pulled out your peacoat and held it out to you. You stifled a gasp, and reflexively reached out to take it, but at the last second he pulled it back again.

“Ah, what do we say now?” He teased, as if you were a child, smiling.

You couldn’t help but smile back at him, rolling your eyes. “Grazie, Giorn--” midway through saying his first name, you stopped and slapped your hand over your mouth. “Shi- Er, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to…”

His expression dropped for a split-second before he started laughing, putting you off a tad. “That’s so adorable...!”  

That last word made your cheeks flush, replaying memories from the previous afternoon that drove you to step away from him. “...Right. Ahem, could I please have my coat back now?”

“Oh, certainly.” Relief.

 “But…” Oh.

The tension in the room felt like it got darker, as he raised the black garment closer to his face. “...I have a couple suspicions of my own…”

He stepped closer with his right, you stepped back with your left. “This morning, I went out of my way to get in contact with my most trusted men, so I could return your things to you safely...then, they tell me you’ve hung up on them!”

It felt cold.

“And when they get to your home, you’re nowhere to be found!”

What?

You weren’t given any time to unpack that, as he continued to go off. “Now you’re here! Without even letting me know, too...” He frowned a bit, but perked up soon enough. “But that’s alright! Because I knew you’d come back to me.”

“Huh…” All thoughts came out as a single hiccup. “What...I don’t…”

He appeared to grow a little angry, but more distraught than anything. “Bella!” he cried, knuckles white and arms trembling. “Didn’t I tell you not to act like that with me? Don’t pretend that you can’t remember what happened yesterday…”

The worst thing was, he was 100 percent right. You were pretending that you forgot what went down, when it was, unsurprisingly, on your mind since it happened. You were feigning (well, attempting to feign) innocence, hoping that it wouldn’t lead to another nightmare.

“But…” Giovanna sighed, switching moods too quickly for your liking. “That doesn’t matter anyways!” His smile was disgustingly, unbearably cute. “Because you came back to me! I knew you would!”

A chill went down your spine, prompting you to step back twice. “I, uh, think you’ve got the wrong idea--” You were cut off by him approaching again, holding his hand right in front of your face.

“See?”

What the hell is he talking about?

“I cut my nails for you last night…” He looked over his own, now shortened and even rounder, snow-white nails, “it must’ve been a bit painful when I touched you, I’m sorry about that…”

You didn’t appreciate his “apology” one bit, instead deciding to take another step back, frantically searching for the window so you could pull off an escape before it was too late. You felt the lukewarm glass on the tips of your fingers, but Giovanna stepped a bit too close for your liking, causing you to shift to the other side, eventually turning around entirely as he refused to back off.

Now the two of you had rotated, with him backing you back into the room, towards the door. The light shining from the back window bounced off the satin material of his clothing and golden accents, glaring into your eyes.

The reflexive need to close your eyes outweighed rational thought, and as soon as you blinked them shut your calves bumped against something, causing you to trip backwards and fall onto the (remarkably comfortable) red chair.

Once more, you were flattened before him, staring up with no idea of what was going to go down.

Well, you had a vague idea.

The golden boy had already made sure you couldn’t get away by just getting up, as he was standing over you in between the ottoman and the chair, one foot on the floor and the other resting right next to yours. You had caught him glancing at the light switch right by the door, making sure it was off.

Without a light source in the room, you had no good method of getting away, and collapsing the window at the other side would be useless if you couldn't even get to it.

Cornered, you dug your nails into the arms of the chair, glaring at him while pushing your head back into the cushion.

The look in his green eyes was strange, a disturbing mix of innocence and lust that made the lower half of your body feel restless. A few seconds of silent eye contact passed, before he reached down and grabbed your wrist.

You attempted to tug it away as he held it up, only to be met with a cold glare. His grip tightened before he transferred it to G • E, reaching down and doing the same to your other hand.

Straightening himself, he flipped his long braid over his shoulder. You watched as he worked off the lowest hair tie, letting the loop at the end fall loose. He stretched out the transparent band and wrapped it around both of your wrists, before tapping it again with his middle three fingers.

You felt your thin binding shift between tight and loose as it swelled and turned green. The hair tie had changed into a tight coil of stems and vines, covered in thin bristles.

When you tried to struggle, to break the botanical bindings, the bristles irritated your skin. He noticed, and pushed your hands above your head.

"Please, it's useless to try and get away from me now. I don't want you to be in pain, you know?" He punctuated his sentence with a gentle caress of your face with the back of his hand, and a peck to the tip of your nose.

He rose up and moved behind the ottoman, all while sliding his warm hand across the skin of your legs. After subtlety clearing his throat, he tried, (keyword, tried) to dip his hand between your thighs, only for you to squeeze them shut in a futile attempt to preserve your dignity.

You heard him quietly cough again, while he squeezed and then gently patted the plush flesh, as if telling you to open up. Still, you didn't give in.

His skin felt so hot against yours, like there was near boiling water flowing through his veins. Giovanna gave up trying to pry open your legs, instead pushing the ottoman right up to the chair, moving in front of it, and pulling you a smidge closer so that you were laying flat on your back.

He started by grabbing the bottom of your thighs, lifting them up then pushing back the bottom of your knees, so both legs were relatively straight, pointing up to the ceiling. G • E took hold of both ankles, keeping your limbs still.

“Wait…” You croaked out as you felt him hook his fingers into the waistbands of your bottoms. “Wha--what are you doing, Gior--” fuck.

He stopped what he was doing to look at you, and scoffed. "You're kidding, right?" Lowering your legs a bit, his lips curled into a cute little smile. "Oh, cara, you know I have much bigger things to worry about than what you call me." He leant down to hold your face in both of his hands. "Besides, we should be on a first name basis now, no?"

One part of your brain was absolutely enraged at the fact that you were still concerned about something as dumb as that, yet it still felt like a lingering weight had been lifted from your chest.

Giorno clearly didn’t like the fact that you were avoiding his eyes, and his solution was to squeeze your face a little tighter and kiss you with no warning, not hesitating to shove his tongue in your mouth.

He pulled away after you whined, drinking in the intoxicating sight of you with your lips ajar, face obviously heated, and your eyes glossy. It confused him a little, everything about your appearance, your body was telling him that you craved this just as much as (or even more than!) he did, yet everything that came out of your mouth was a contradiction!

But he didn’t let that frustrate him too much, as he knew you’d eventually give in completely. All he had to do was get the mood right. Because that’s just how it worked. Right? Right.

Lifting himself off of you, he let out a small sigh while raising your legs again, continuing whatever he had planned in that unholy little brain of his. His fingers returned to the waistband of your pants, digging between both layers of fabric and painstakingly beginning to hoist them off.

The feeling of your underwear peeling off of your crotch was already humiliating, but you knew it was just the beginning.

He let go of your clothes when they were around your ankles, before lowering himself down to “your” level.

"N-no...don't~ ♡ ! " your throat was so clammed up that your voice sounded like a broken squeaker toy, but even if you tried to shout, you knew he wouldn't listen. It was too late, anyway, since now he’s already seen everything you’d previously tried to hide. (Physically, at least.)

After a few seconds of him (presumably) leering at your privates, you felt his touch on the plump, slippy flesh, before he slid two fingers into the cleft and parted it.

"Oh, look~♡" each limb began to quiver at his honeyed, sickly voice. "It's so cute and pink here…"

Out of pure mortification, you brought your hands down and shoved two of your fingers in your maw, biting down. "No! N...not there...don't look at it…♡" Your voice and words sounded callow, but your brain was too fried to mask your true thoughts.

His hands moved to your thighs, right before he placed a pert kiss to the very center of your vulva.

Oh, lord. You could feel the mark his lipgloss left.

Despite yourself, there was a growing pressure in your gut that had you, deep, deep down, craving more. Something wet and hot swept against your inner labia, instantly making your fingers curl into fists. You pressed your knuckles against your teeth, trying to suppress a inadvertent whine.

“You can let your voice out,” you heard him say after pulling away for a second, “I doubt anybody is going to come around here.” Wow, how reassuring! Thanks for telling me, asshole! Ignoring the pain from the bristles, you moved your hands to your eyes, desperately trying to cover them. To an outsider, it’d probably look like you were attempting to gouge them out.

The wet noises that came from him lapping at you bouncing off the walls, almost amplified, taunted you. Additionally, he’d sometimes let out soft little groans of his own, which vibrated the very surface of your flesh. It was needless to say that his tongue felt a lot more invasive than his fingers, (and unfortunately, it also felt better) feeling it probe inside the most intimate part of your body drew ever-loudening wails and whimpers from your stuffy throat.

You could tell his mouth was somehow even warmer than his external skin, even inside of your already warm internals it felt nearly sweltering. Occasionally, he’d pull back for a very quick second to sigh out your name or other 1-word comments, his voice getting more brittle each time.

Something you also picked up on was very, very, subtle swallowing, as if he was drinking the mix of his saliva and your fluids.

That pressure in your gut kept pulsing, falsely building up in a way that could only be described as the physical-pleasure equivalent of a Shepard tone. In desperation, or maybe protest, you wiggled your hips, which only seemed to tempt him to grow more intense.

Your cynical side kept trying to tell you to give up, to accept this and whatever was coming next, to submit to the inevitable. It seemed that you unwittingly listened to it, relaxing your limbs and giving up on trying to muffle your voice.

In the midst of the ever-growing haze, you felt him pull away and move his hand up your thigh. He pushed his thumb between your legs, again silently asking you to open up. This time though, you obliged and spread your thighs, all while trying to press the side of your head onto the cushion, in a vain attempt to “hide”.

He gave no warning, no words before moving up and swathing your engorged clit in his idyllic lips, and that was really where things on your end began to topple.

Near instantaneously, you curled upward, letting out a strained squeal, feeling tears prick in your eyes. You covered your face with your hands, regretting every decision leading up to this point.

Too bad your body wasn’t regretting anything.

"Suh..top...♡ I’ll...I’m gonna…”

You peeked down through your hands and caught him glancing up at you, which just made your body retort in embarrassment again. In a thoughtless moment, you tried putting your hands against his silky, loosening hair, the bindings preventing you from grabbing it comfortably.

As he put more pressure on your tender pearl, your steady stream of tears reached the bottom of your head, dripping down and soaking into the seat. You couldn’t help but tighten your legs around him, at this point, all you craved was sweet, glorious release.

One more stroke of your nub, and it all crash-landed. That ever-growing pressure in your belly burst and spread, making you let out a long, high-pitched wail as your body went limp underneath him. Tears veiled your sight, directed at the ceiling.

Giorno pulled away, panting, before wiping his mouth with his sleeve and moving up the chair, so he could hover above you once more. His long, loose plait hung down and rested on your shoulder, giving you a very faint tickle.

“...was that...good?” You didn’t respond to him, as your mind was flooded with a swarm of fatigue and dopamine, “I...I apologize, I’m still very...new to this…” yet that part was enough to snap you out of your post-orgasm muddle.

“New”?

Fuck’s that supposed to mean?

Don’t tell me he’s…

No, that can’t be right…

“It can’t…” Those two words accidentally slipped out, but they were barely intelligible. Your blondie boss (bloss?) didn’t seem to notice, as he was too busy smiling at how cute you looked, all spent, drooling, and tearing up underneath him.

He straightened up a bit, your legs still wrapped around his hips, tittering. “You’re adorable, you know that?” He got no response. “Ah...I love you. You know that, right?” No response.

That didn’t seem to bother him, as his smile stayed. After a few tense seconds, you turned your head and looked up at him, and his grin seemed to widen.

“Cute...hm, I still don’t understand why you insisted on stopping your voice, I, personally, love the way it sounds.” He still wasn’t eliciting a vocal response, instead you dropped your head to the other side. Your continued silence finally looked like it was beginning to phase him, so he reached down and lifted your face a bit.

He tried to kiss you, but missed and got the very side of your mouth. You were once more reminded about how hot (literally...but also figuratively) he was, his face burning with pink and his breath near visible in the cool room.

Losing some of his control, he kept his mouth on you, his actions devolving into repeatedly pecking at your cheek while groaning “compliments”. Eventually, he straightened up again, eyes filled with something that could possibly be described as “love”.

“Well, I don’t see the point of going upstairs, why don’t we move on?” He asked, fruitlessly, before sitting up to work at his pants button. Unbeknownst to him, you watched him do this, part scared, part intrigued, but mostly weary.

He was about to tug down his suit pants the moment before a sudden, firm knock at the door echoed through the room.

“Shit.”   You heard him growl, before you made eye contact with each other, for a very quick moment. In a slight panic, Giorno tried to compose himself, glancing at you again before carefully separating from you.

“Hello?” Came an unfamiliar male voice, from the other side of the door. “Don Giovanna, are you there?” You perked up when you heard him say your name, “...that woman, we’ve looked around her neighborhood and have had no luck finding her, Sir.”

“Oh, is that so…” He was cautious, trying his best to make sure you wouldn’t leave, but to his dismay, you saw an opportunity and took it.

When he had moved out of your direct line of vision, he had let the ever-growing noon sunlight reach you, specifically, your hands. With that in mind, you manifested B • H • S on the vines, causing them to become etiolated, therefore loose, and allowing you to slip them off without fuss.

During a clearly awkward, through-a-door conversation between your boss and a random lackey, you rolled off the chair and sorted out your jumbled clothing. To get it out of the way, you shattered the window across the room. You heard Giorno’s voice go higher when he heard this, but unlike the day before, you said nothing to him, no apologies or anything before rushing to freedom.

Adrenaline was gushing through your veins, so with 0 restraint, after swiping your coat from the floor, you dashed forward, broke what remained of the window and leapt outside.

But, to one’s surprise, you didn’t go home that day. Instead, you remained at that estate, because you had to get to the bottom of something.

You had questions. Specifically: Why? What? Who? How? Me? You? And those questions needed answers. So, instead of retreating, or, say, escaping, you scoured the building for a very specific room.

Because I’m gonna get those answers, no matter what.

Was this a likely horrible decision that you would probably end up regretting and cursing yourself for making? Yes.

Was this likely going to end badly? Yes.

Would this, almost definitely, give you the explanation you longed for? Also yes.

It’s going to be a long, long evening.

♡🐞♡

n: god, whenever i copy stuff over, i have to go through it and re-italicize everything.  maybe there’s an easier way of doing this? btw, i finished a couple of my blog’s pages, so i’d say its no longer wip :D

PS: the last chapter is already 8638 words, and i’m not even done. god have mewcy on my souw. 

[labyrinth-runner]

Meet ugly #2 with fin and poe and rey. But like. Friendship.

50 Days of Fics: Day 9

OOOOo the possibilities. But also, kinda chuckled because this is low-key only a slight spin on TFA events?

Prompt:I bought a house three months ago but I’m finally moving in and discover you’ve been squatting because you’re homeless

Poe and Finn arrived at Poe’s new house. 

“Hey, man, thanks again for helping me move,” Poe told his friend as he closed the door to the moving van.

“No problem. You’d do the same for me, brother,” Finn smiled. It was true. Poe and Finn were always there for each other. Two peas in one platonic pod.

Poe looked up at the new house. He had bought it three months ago, but he had been sent away on a military campaign and hadn’t been able to move in. Finn had offered to do it for him, but this was something Poe wanted to do himself. They made their way to the front door and exchanged a look. The door was open, but propped closed by a brick. 

“That’s unsettling,” Finn commented.

Poe’s years of military training kicked in. 

“Get behind me,” he told Finn as he took out his pocket knife. He quietly nudged the door jam with his toe until he could open the door. He cautiously opened the door, finding leaves strewn across the room. He sighed. Those would have to be cleaned up later. He continued to sweep the house, stopping when he heard a sound coming from up the stairs. 

“Do you think it’s an animal?” Finn whispered.

“Animals don’t care about keeping the door closed,” Poe shot back.

“What if it’s a smart animal?” Finn asked.

Poe turned to look at him. “Are you picturing, like, Yogi the bear in my house?”

Finn shrugged, “I don’t know. I live in an apartment. I don’t have to worry about things in my house that often.”

“Well, excuse me for wanting to own something,” Poe replied.

“We’ve been over this, I’m proud of you for buying a house. It’s a step towards adulthood, and it gives you something permanent to come home to,” Finn said.

They were arguing so much that they hadn’t noticed a woman slowly creeping down the stairs with a bat. “Stop where you stand, or you get a club to the head,” she warned.

Poe stiffened, turning towards the woman. “Doll, put the bat down.”

“I’m defending my home,” she retorted.

“No, I’m defending my home. You are threatening a home owner,” Poe said pointedly.

The woman’s eyes widened. “You live here? It’s been empty for months.”

“I’ve been on tour,” he replied before catching himself. He shook his head. “I shouldn’t have to explain myself to you. You should be explaining yourself to me!” 

Finn pointed at the stairs. “Have a seat.”

The woman sighed, but sat.

“Let’s start with your name,” Finn told her.

“Rey.”

“Alright, Rey, what exactly are you doing in my house?” Poe questioned.

“It was March and there was snow outside. The police were patrolling the park I usually sleep in, and I walked by this house and saw that the door to the basement was open. There wasn’t any furniture in the house so I thought it was abandoned,” she explained. “If I had known it was someone’s house I would never have done it.”

“You’re homeless,” Finn stated sadly.

Rey nodded. Poe ran a hand down his jaw.

“And you’ve been here ever since?” he asked. 

“Yes. I’ll leave now though,” she replied, getting up from the stairs. “Let me just get my things and I’ll go.”

“No.”

“No?” Rey asked in confusion.

“You need a place to stay, and Finn has always told me that this house is too big for one person. Not to mention, it would be nice to have someone take care of my house while I’m deployed,” Poe nodded, mentally figuring out the logistics. “You can stay.”

Rey blinked. She hadn’t been expecting this level of kindness. “Thank you.”

“No need to thank me, just grab a box and help us unpack,” Poe smiled.

“Damn, Dameron, are you sure about this?” Finn whispered as they watched Rey grab a box from the van.

“100 percent? No, but I have a good feeling about this,” he said, clapping his friend on the shoulder.

[pookapics]

Steve Rogers x Witch!Reader - Love is a Curse - Inspired by Practical Magic - Chapter 2 - New Home, Old Curses

(YN) : your name (LN) : last name (HC) : hair colour (EC) : eye colour  (FD) : Favourite Drink (BN): Band Name

Chapter 1 - https://protectthelesbians.tumblr.com/post/185063370563/steve-rogers-x-witchreader-love-is-a-curse

Your POV

“I’m a witch.” you fumbled out and awaited the look of disgust, flinching. You were used to the hatred of kids your age, the rocks they’d throw at you if you even tried to come over to play with them. Those childhood memories had scarred you. They’d marred you and made you afraid to trust again. But you didn’t see the harshness, or the hatred you’d seen in other eyes in your teammate’s eyes, only a faint curiosity which you could see in Steve’s eyes. Shyly, Steve spoke up “What does that mean exactly?” he seemed as if he was treading lightly, wanting to appear not judgmental.

That was nice for a change.

Smiling, you fiddled with your hands for a moment “Well. A witch is an umbrella term really, not one witch is the same. We have our strengths and weaknesses like potion work, divination.” you couldn’t stay still as you told them of your practice, your craft. Tony perked up at this “Wow we have a real-life Harry Potter on our team.” he teased, you rolled your eyes “We don’t have magic wands but hey, I do like the books and movies.” you admitted as Fury encouraged you to return to your original train of thought, which you did.

“I grew up learning my craft and trying to perfect my skills, but in the world of magic and witchcraft, you’ve never learnt everything. Not really.” you noted and smiled “I’m a healer mostly, I hope to do no harm in my craft mostly. I do divination and some level of potion work.” You were somehow now a little more confident, talking about your craft outside of a world filled with judgement meant that your insecurity shriveled up, you didn’t have to fear them. Nat stepped over “Can you fight?” She spoke bluntly and almost cold, you could tell she didn’t trust you yet and that made you nervous “No, in my craft I am told to not cause unnecessary harm.” You looked up at the tall red-head, she looked at you with some intrigue before stepping back “I guess I’ll be teaching you a couple of things” she noted. Nodding, you stood back from Nat and was bombarded with questions from Tony about how it worked, the whole magic thing. You kept things vague, a witch’s craft is usually a very personal one, one fraught with secrecy and personal exploration.

“Well. Though the craft is very personal, I can show you some of the things I can do.” You cracked your knuckles, your fingers tingling in preparation. Walking towards the kitchen counter, you focused and concentrated on what action you wished to put out into the physical realm. Your hand grasped a piece of paper on the counter, you gave yourself a paper cut. The group looked confused by this, wondering why you purposely give yourself a paper cut. You let the cut bleed down your finger a little, for the dramatics, before you leant in and kissed the wound. The blood began to roll back up your finger, returning back to the wound it originated from, it began to seal up gently and your finger was free of any scar from the paper-cut. As if it never happened.

Tony was the first to speak out “Well that definitely is gonna come in handy.” He chuckled, the others simply nodded, a bit surprised that you had ‘magical kisses’ but they couldn’t knock it. You smiled “that’s only one thing I can do, I’m a jack of all trades I suppose.” You felt strangely comfortable with your team, well sure Natasha wasn’t exactly best buddies with you but mostly everyone had been accepting and welcoming to your arrival. Especially Steve, who for some reason made your heart beat a mile a minute, you only just met the man and suddenly you’re fawning over him.

Pushing Steve from your mind, you turned to see your things arriving from your apartment, Fury wanted you to stay here at the Avengers Compound, so you could settle in with the team. Honestly, you were glad to be freed of your apartment which was mouldy and by the look of the ceiling, you constantly feared that Mrs Krook from upstairs would eventually come falling through with her dogs and knitting in tow, maybe even her recliner. So, you were relieved to be freed of that apartment, there weren’t many affordable options in the city so were glad that you’d been given the option which you now gladly took. Steve walked over to you “That must be your belongings.” he noted aloud, you nodded “Yep. I better get this stuff up to the new room.” Your voice was a little squeaky, your body seemed to shrivel up into embarrassment as soon as Steve talked with you. Quickly enough, off you went, collecting a few of your things and leaving Steve just standing there puzzled and wondering if he did something wrong. Steve seemed to shake of the kicked puppy look and walked over to help you “Here. Let me take the boxes.” He took the heavy boxes with ease, you tinged pink “Thanks. I wouldn’t have made it two seconds with that box, its full of my books.”

Steve nodded “Avid reader?” he asked as he walked with you through the halls of the compound, the halls were a lot more quiet than the lounge which was usually booming with voices and clattering from the lab which Tony commonly inhabited. Smiling Shyly, you nodded “Always have been. My aunts made me into a bookworm. Their house is 50 percent books with the rest full of plants and cats.” You joked, though the nerves in your stomach from being near him still lingering. He laughed “So the whole cat thing is true?” he asked innocently, you nodded “Well they’re great companions, especially when it comes to the craft.” Steve couldn’t help but smile at that, you smiled back and kept walking your way down towards your new room.

The door to your new room was wide open, somewhat empty as the hired workers for Tony moved some essential furniture into the empty room such as a bed, chest of drawers and a desk. You were somewhat planning the things you wanted to do with the room, some of your tools in your craft such as your herb pots would help this place seem homey right away. Steve put some boxes down “Shall I leave you to settle in, Ma’am?” He still acted so polite around you, compared to the others who simply called you by your name. You turned to look at him “Yeah, I’ll start unpacking” but as Steve started to walk out you spluttered “Oh! Steve! Uhm… please call me (YN).” Steve was looking at you, his cheeks tinged red, he was stuck in one spot for a moment but got moving when some of the workers who worked under Tony helped carry your things past the threshold of your room. You thanked them before getting to work, you used your phone to listen to your favourite songs, you were more productive when you listened to (B/N). With the music blaring, you unpacked your books onto the bookshelf, you’d set up your altar last, the area where you’d keep all your tools for your craft. The room began to seem more like yours as soon as your belongings inhabited the space, your books on the shelf, the photos on the table of you and your aunts.

When most of the boxes of books and knick-knacks had been unpacked, you moved onto your clothes which you had packed into a suitcase, picking up the folded shirts and bottoms, you gently placed them into the chest of drawers. The more fancy attire was hung up in the wardrobe such as your dresses and clothes which you kept for extremely special occasions, occasions connected with your magic and family.

Witchy holiday clothes, that was the layman's term of what the clothes represented and were used for. As the music continued to play, you finished unpacking your clothes which were only a little crinkled from transport which you didn’t greatly mind to be fair. You only had 2 more boxes to unpack, these were the important boxes. These were all the equipment you used in your altar, all the tools of your trade. They needed to be carefully unpacked and placed upon an area of your choice, you decided on the small table by the window. It was small but it was enough for what you needed it to do. You put your potted plants on the window-ledge before placing your crystals and tarot cards on the table, you positioned things so it was practical but still pretty in its own right. The room looked so different than it did before, the small box-like room now looked or resembled something fantastical, with tapestries strewn across the blank, white walls and with your plants bringing some life to the lifeless room you’d been given. You were proud of how you’d decorated, the room no longer felt daunting and not a place you could call your own. But now, the room felt like yours. And you were happy about that.

With a moments silence, you looked around your new room but was rudely interrupted by your growling stomach, you were starving. Walking back through the halls, eventually you reached the kitchen which was empty surprisingly. You took advantage of this and started to make yourself something small, not wanting to waste a lot of food on one meal. “Where is everybody?” You muttered to yourself, since the lounge seemed abandoned, suddenly you heard a loud voice above you “Everyone apart from Miss Romanoff and Mr Barton are still on the compound, Miss (LN).” You squeaked and looked up and tried to find where the voice came from “Who are you?” you were slightly on edge till the voice spoke again “I am FRIDAY, I’m an AI designed by Tony Stark.” You nodded and looked around, as if still looking for the voice “Okay…” FRIDAY spoke up “Is that all, Miss (LN)?” FRIDAY asked, you cleared your throat “Uhm yes and please call me (YN)” You returned to the hob to make some scrambled eggs, a simple dish but filling enough as a dinner. You dropped 2 slices of bread  into the toaster, as you put the eggs away, you used some of your powers to move the spatula, tending to the still cooking scrambled egg.

Multitasking at its best.

Reaching into the cupboards, you pulled out a small porcelain plate as the bread popped out of the toaster, toasted to your liking. With the toast toasted, you added some butter before placing the cooked scrambled egg on-top, drizzling some of your favourite sauce on top for some flavour. You realised you’d need a drink of sorts for your dinner, you searched the cupboards and searched for a glass, and there they were… on the highest shelf. Even for a tall person, reaching for the glasses would be a feat, you climbed atop the kitchen counter to try and retrieve a glass. With your fingers grasping at the rim of the glass, your arm extended as far as it could go,  you’d just reached it when a voice called out “You need some help there?” You squeaked and lost your hold on the glass, the glass toppled over and fell from the shelf, you heard a quick shuffle across the room, obviously the person who’d startled you was trying to help. You reached your hands out and focused, though your mind was scattered at this moment in time. The glass froze mid-air, your powers had caught it mid-fall. With this realisation, you let out a big sigh of relief, reaching out and put the glass down on the counter, your mind now focused on who had startled you. You turned to see Steve standing there, his expression had some guilt laced in it, knowing that he’d been the one to cause this near-catastrophe. Steve rubbed the back of his neck “Hey there…” there was a sense of awkwardness, you couldn’t help but smile shyly  “Hey. I should’ve been more careful honestly, I’m easily spooked.” looked up at the blue-eyed blonde with a joking look, though your heart was pounding, your chest tight. Steve let out a smile “Yeah. We never use those glasses, we just use the ones that are washed and then reuse them.” Hinting to why the glasses were atop the highest shelf “Well why are they on that shelf to begin with?” Steve smiled at your question “That’s a long story.” You smiled and picked up your dinner “Well as soon as I get myself a drink, you can tell me the story as I have my dinner.” Your cheeks tinted pink as you picked up your glass and walked to the fridge, you reached for (Favourite Drink) and poured yourself some into the glass.

With one hand holding your dinner and cutlery and one hand holding your drink, Steve walked with you to the table to sit down, you put your dinner and drink on the table. Sitting down with Steve, you settled and started to eat your dinner as he started the story you wanted to know about. As the two of you sat together, you both laughed over the story and you nearly choked on your dinner a few times due to how hard you were laughing. This small moment with Steve stirred up unknown emotions within you, on one hand you didn’t know this man one bit. But on the other hand, you felt something stirring, it felt uncontrollable, it felt like something pulled you to the avenger, it felt natural but yet constructed. It felt like fate, uncontrollable and often unable to escape from. Steve and yourself chatted, long after you’d finished your dinner and your drink, though the butterflies didn’t cease as you heard him laugh and chuckle. Without controlling it, you felt a yawn escape your lips, it had been a long day after all.

“You’ve had a long day, better let you get to bed.” Steve looked at you from across the table, you stretched “But I’ve still to clean up the kitchen!” You rose to your feet to clean the kitchen, not wanting to leave it a mess, though you were practically dragging yourself around the kitchen. You felt an arm on your shoulder “Let me do that, you’re tired and you’ve entertained me with your presence far longer than you should’ve.” Pointing to the clock, it was midnight now. You tried to retort but when you looked into his eyes, you felt your response just disappear, mind blank.

‘What is this man doing to you? One minute you’re fine and the next moment you’re a bumbling mess!’ You thought to yourself as your mind was no longer blank “Uhm.. Okay.” You gave in, but you swore to yourself that next time you’d not give in, though your heart and gut told you otherwise. Steve led you to your room, he walked you up to the door and smiled “Goodnight (YN).”

It was the first time he’d used your name, you liked it.

You nodded tiredly “Goodnight Steve.” You sneaked into your room and when the door closed, you put your hand on your chest, the feeling of your heart pounding against your chest could easily be felt through your fingertips. It felt like you could feel the blood pumping to your ever-pounding heart.

Deep down you wondered if Steve’s heart was feeling the same way, but unbeknownst to you Steve stood in the kitchen, his own hand upon his heart, he felt the heavy pounding of his heart too. Almost as if the two of your were in some way…

Connected.

END OF CHAPTER 2 ~~~~

[deeeelightfuldee]

surveys 047.

What was the last thing to upset you? just kile changing. it shouldnt upset me, it’s obvious we are changing and growing apart. it just bothers me, nonetheless.

How’s the weather been today? It’s going to be a high of 76 today

What was the first tattoo you got or what would be the first tattoo you’ll get? when I was younger I wanted those white tattoos. I don’t want anything now. I’m good with au-natural skin lol. I do wonder if Kile will ever get one.

What was the last store you went into and did you buy anything? I can’t recall what store I last went to

Have you ever been late for school or work? never for school. Work I was one time because of an accident ahead of me but that was nbd.

Do you prefer to shower in the morning or at night? morning typically if I want my hair to be decent.

Do you dip your pretzels in anything? gosh I miss pretzels.

What is your favourite kind of fruit cobbler? uhhhhhh no real preference

Is there a basement in your house? If so, what is it used for? yep yep. its got a spare bedroom, a laundry area, a bathroom, and a storage closet. It also leads out to the garage.

When was the last time you were intoxicated? my birthday

Have you been swimming today? No. I really would give just bout anything to swim.

Is your phone fully charged at the moment? No, it’s at 81 percent

Have you driven a car today? yes

When was the last time you felt extremely nervous? tonight when waiting for responses from kile regarding questions. When was the last time you cried? Tonight. I hard sobbed, which I thought maybeeee, maybe just maybe I was past this stage with Kile but I’m so not. He maybe?? thought or realized I was genuine about leaving, given the fact I am more and more and more withdrawn. So he asked about us talking, since that’s the big thing we could tackle instead of just harshly cutting ties. He has avoided talking about this since I found out about everything.. I think it gives him a lot of anxiety to unpack just how much hurt he’s caused. I can empathize with that. But I can’t just gloss over this huge trauma like it meant nothing. So we talked a little bit and he assumed I was judging (which is one of my absolute least favorite things he accuses me of) and then when I explained I wasnt, he said he was just being sensitive and he was sorry. for whatever reason, I just.. i feel like a balloon that’s been popped. my heart just desires him so badly but he has these barriers and now I have a million of my own barriers and I hate having barriers with him. ive worked so hard for so long to break those down and now theres more than I can count and I just.. i want to understand. I want to stop the feelings that I’m not worth the truth. Like i’ve been kept in the dark for 6+ years and now that I’m told some things, I’m still kept in the dark. I just can’t win. there’s nothing left for me and it just wrecked me. I sobbed, I couldn’t breathe. my heart hurtssssssssss. i just want him to be here and fix it and he can’t. what do you do when the one person who could stop the hurt, causes it?

Do you have a small, medium or large bedroom? My room is extremely small. I have hardly any room on either side of the bed.

Where was your first job and how old were you? nannying at 15

Have you eaten soup this week? no

Have you ever made your own survey? years ago Do you know your birthstone and if so, do you have any jewellery containing it? ruby. I have no ruby jewelry sadly.

What colour is your hairbrush? uhhh black and blue

Do you hear any other people talking right now? max just proposed to lorelai in gilmore girls.

Are you a fan of The Office? yes. I just have no desire to watch it rn cus I am not in a humor mood and I think it would ruin it for me.

When was the last time you started a new medication? years.

What is your favourite type of nut? pistachios

Where did you eat the best pizza you’ve ever eaten in your life? aurelios in homewood

Do you know what year your parents married? if I stopped and did the math. 

Did you ever watch The Rugrats when you were a kid? only when I was at someone elses house. we didnt have cable til i was 17

Would you ever shave your head to raise money for cancer? maybe

Did you watch Breaking Bad as it aired or did you catch up later on? never watched

Is there anything you’re looking forward to at the moment? i would give just about anything to repair things with kile but that looks like its over.

Do you know anyone who doesn’t have a middle name? Yup. my brother, nephew, dad, and his late dad all have the same name and it contains no middle name.

What is your fast food place of choice? buona

How close is the nearest Starbucks from your house? like 5-6 mins

Have you ever played in the snow? errrr year

Do you know anyone who was adopted? mhmm

Do you write shopping lists on paper or just remember it in your head? paper. I would never get all the items for all three of us without visuals

Have you put your phone on silent today? yeah. so this is embarrassing but hey, it is what it is. I changed kiles notification tone to something loud and noticeable so I would be alerted that it wasn’t just another blah text. but then I would be devastated to not hear it. so now for my own sanity it’s on silent. just as well, i’m not hearing anything from him.

Can you name all 50 US state capital cities? MANY of them. if not all.

Have you been to the mall today? I don’t think i’ve been to the mall since maybeeeee.. 2016?

Have you ever watched Scrubs? If so, did you like it? no

Do you prefer loose leaf tea or teabags? Teabags.

How often do you check your emails? like every day or every other day.

Do you read John Green novels? I’ve read a few of his books.

What was the last thing you purchased at a supermarket? diabetic socks lol

Have you ever used a lawnmower? yes

Have you ever played QuizUp on iOS? I don’t have apple.

Have you ever consumed so much alcohol that you vomited? once. it was worth it tho

Have you ever been to Thailand? No.

Have you ever been to Universal Studios? Yes.

Have you had a bath this week? no, our bathtub is broken.

Do you like pumpkin pie? very much so.

Do you know anyone who smokes in their car? Yeahhhhhhh. blegh.

Have you ever seen a shooting star? I have

Can you tie balloons? I can. I can do it quite fast, which is convenient. every year we blow up these enormous balloon arches for the kids bdays, its about 200+ balloons and i hand tie every single one. my fingers ache for days, but hey.

What is your favourite place to get Chinese food? number 1 chop suey or pf changs

When was the last time you were at a pet store? its been a minute. i would give my left lung to get a golden retriever puppy. 

Do you do a big weekly shop or just shop for groceries as you need them? it usually is weekly.. ish?

[fem-mem-mine]

It’s common. It’s cringeworthy. And it’s been documented, some might argue, since at least the 17th century. It happens on Twitter. It happens at work and at Thanksgiving dinners. In barrooms and in classrooms. Famous men do it. Uncles do it. Politicians, colleagues, bad dates, bureaucrats and neighbors do it. (Some of you may do it, ironically, in response to reading this.) Yes, we’re talking about mansplaining.

The portmanteau describes the act of a man’s unsolicited explaining, generally to a woman, something he thinks he knows more about than she does — occasionally at anesthetizing length — whether he knows anything or not.

The apt articulation of this phenomenon began with Rebecca Solnit’s 2008 essay, “Men Explain Things to Me,” which describes a conversation with a man at a party whose “eyes were fixed on the fuzzy far horizon of his own authority.” After he discovers that Ms. Solnit’s latest book was about the British photographer Eadweard Muybridge, he cuts her off, to pontificate, relentlessly, on a “very important” Muybridge book he thinks she should read.

Turns out, it was her book. And he hadn’t read it.

By Ms. Solnit’s telling, it took three or four interjections by her friend to get through to the mansplainer that Ms. Solnit was indeed the author, before he finally heard it. Tellingly, it also took time for Ms. Solnit to recognize the book he was referring to was in fact her own: “So caught up was I in my assigned role as ingénue that I was perfectly willing to entertain the possibility that another book on the same subject had come out simultaneously and I’d somehow missed it.”

“Mansplain,” a word that reaches far beyond the borders of the United States, was inspired by that essay. Today, an ever-evolving list of international iterations exist. In German, it’s “herrklären.” In French, “mecspliquer.” Italians have “maschiegazione.” There’s a Spanish version of mansplain, and there’s a word for it in Russian, Arabic, Hebrew, Hindi, Mandarin, Ukrainian, Japanese and dozens of other languages.

Mansplaining illuminates a much deeper problem than the bore of patronizing monologues. As Ms. Solnit notes, it “crushes young women into silence” by telling them “that this is not their world.” She adds, “It trains us in self-doubt and self-limitation just as it exercises men’s unsupported overconfidence.” More than a decade on, why is men’s interruption of women to explain things — often things they know less about than the women to whom they’re explaining — still so common?

Kate Manne, an associate professor of philosophy at Cornell University, explores the issue in a chapter of her new book, “Entitled: How Male Privilege Hurts Women.” On a recent call from her home in upstate New York, where she lives with her husband, their 8-month-old and a corgi, she unpacked the problem.

How did we arrive at the idea that men are the authorities of knowledge?

Mansplaining may be recently named, but it’s most likely a phenomenon as old as time. Inherent in patriarchy is men’s entitlement to all valuable human goods: things like love, care, adoration, sex, power — and knowledge. When it comes to knowledge, especially of a prestigious sort, the idea that men have a prior claim to it is as venerable as the patriarchy itself. Sometimes it’s connected to the idea that women are incapable of being authority figures. In “Politics,” for example, Aristotle wrote: “The slave is wholly lacking the deliberative element; the female has it but it lacks authority.”

We know from the classic “John vs. Jennifer” study at Yale that both men and women hold biases that women are less competent. Is this an essential part of mansplaining?

Absolutely. Part of what’s going on is the presumption that a woman will be less knowledgeable, less competent and somehow in need of a man to explain things to her.

That doesn’t explain the fact that mansplaining often also involves men’s resistance to evidence that the woman is more knowledgeable on the subject than he is, and sometimes, the anger when that turns out to be the case.

Why do some men mansplain even when they know of a woman’s qualifications?

I connect it to the sense of entitlement of certain privileged men to be the expert, the knower in the exchange. Whereas, paradigmatically, the expert woman is the ingénue, in need of his injection of information, as Rebecca Solnit put it.

You say “privileged men,” but men who are less privileged, aside from their maleness, also mansplain.

While it tends to be worse with men who are more privileged, there’s a powerful gender dynamic where he’s often been socialized to feel like he’s the authority.

Girls, on the other hand, are socialized to be pleasing and polite, to not embarrass men …

Absolutely, there’s a very strong sense in women that she should provide a pleasant audience to him, one that doesn’t interrupt him. Correcting someone is an inherently hierarchical act. It’s saying “You’re wrong; I’m right.” Jumping in when he’s mistaken or less expert is inverting the gender hierarchy. Even though a woman is perfectly entitled to intervene, it’s perceived by men who feel entitled to a smooth exchange as socially abrupt, rude and even a form of violence. Because it disrupts the status quo and overturns his position as the default authority in the exchange.

Does interruption go hand in hand with mansplaining?

Yes. It’s linked to the sense of entitlement to be the knower and the one who issues explanations. That sense of epistemic entitlement makes it very natural to speak over others, and to hold the floor for longer than is proper. It also makes men more willing to assume the floor. A 2004 study of Harvard law students found that men were 50 percent more likely to offer at least one comment in class, and nearly 150 percent more likely to volunteer to speak three times or more.

What’s an example of mansplaining in culture?

In Ernest Hemingway’s short story “Hills Like White Elephants,” a man and his pregnant girlfriend sit at a bar, waiting for a train. He tries to convince her that having an abortion is “perfectly simple.” As well as making no space in the conversation for her own reservations, desires and plans, he keeps repeating himself. Finally, the woman has enough: “Would you please please please please please please please stop talking.” As a reader, it’s hard not to echo her sentiments.

“Himpathy” is the idea that we feel sorry for men even when they’ve behaved abhorrently. How do himpathy and mansplaining go together?

Himpathy is what I think of as the excessive or undue sympathy given to men over their female victims in cases of misogynistic behavior, like sexual assault. Himpathy and mansplaining interact by making us feel sorry for men we would otherwise sharply correct. We feel preemptively sorry for him if he would feel humiliated, or even chastened, by being corrected. And it makes us feel guilty, or even ashamed, for thinking of it.

To avoid being a mansplainer, what should a man ask himself?

Is she interested? Did she express some desire to have this information imparted to her? Do I know this? Is she more expert than I am? Might she be asking a merely rhetorical question?

Maybe look at her face?

[Laughs] Yes, read the room. If other people are registering profound discomfort, that might be a sign that you’ve made a misstep in the dialogue.

[ravishankarsivasubramaniam]

A Dispatch From the Fast-Paced, Makeshift World of High-End Catering

Matt Lee & Ted Lee | An excerpt adapted from Hotbox: Inside Catering, the Food World’s Riskiest Business | Henry Holt and Co. | April 2019 | 19 minutes (5,059 words)

  I have one job — building the Pepper-Crusted Beef on Brioche with Celery Root Salad, an elegant little bite to be passed during cocktail hour at the Park Avenue Armory Gala, a black-tie dinner for 760 people. In theory, it’s an easy hors d’oeuvre, a thin coin of rosy beef on bread with a tuft of salad on top. It’s 4:50 now and the doors open at 6:30, so I’ve got some time to assemble this thing. The ingredients can be served at room temperature — any temperature, really — and they were prepared earlier today by a separate team of cooks at the caterer’s kitchen on the far West Side of town, then packaged on sheet pans and in plastic deli containers for a truck ride to the venue. All I have to do is locate the ingredients in the boxes and coolers, find some space to work — my “station” — and begin marshaling a small army of beef-on-toasts so I’ve got enough of a quorum, 240 pieces or so, that when serve-out begins I’ll be able to keep pace with replenishment demand through a forty-five-minute cocktail hour.

Jhovany León Salazar, the kitchen assistant leading the hors d’oeuvre (“H.D.”) kitchen, shows me the photo the executive chef supplied that reveals the precise architecture of this bite: a slice of seared beef tenderloin, rare in the center and the size of a Kennedy half-dollar, resting on a slightly larger round of toasted brioche.[1] On top of the beef is a tangle of rich celeriac slaw — superfine threads of shredded celery root slicked with mayo, with a sprinkling of fresh chives showered over the whole. This is New York–caliber catering intelligence at work: take a throwback classic — the beef tenderloin carving station — to a higher, more knowing plane in a single bite. Here, the colors are lively, the scale is humane, the meat perfectly rosy-rare and tender, its edge seared black with ground pepper and char, the celeriac bringing novelty, though its flavor is familiar enough. It’s a pro design that satisfies the meat-’n’-potatoes crowd without talking down to the epicures.

The kitchen tonight — like every night, no matter the venue — is as makeshift as a school bake sale, a series of folding tables covered with white tablecloths and fashioned into a fort-like U. Since there are two warm hors d’oeuvres on the menu, our crew has a hotbox standing by — the tall, aluminum cabinet on wheels that both serves as transport vehicle for food and, once it’s on-site and loaded with a few flaming cans of jellied fuel (the odor-free version of Sterno is favored), becomes the oven. Imagine the most flame-averse venues — the New York Public Library, City Hall, the Metropolitan Museum of Art — even there, the ghostly blue flames in the hotbox pass muster with the fire marshal. In fact, this one fudge, this unspoken exception to the no-open-flames rule, is the secret to restaurant-quality catering in New York City.

Our hors d’oeuvre kitchen is at the far end of a vast hallway, partitioned into a series of open rooms stretching the crosstown length of the fifty-five-thousand-square-foot Armory, a former soldiers’ drill hall, now a coveted New York venue for seated dinners where attendance runs into the high hundreds or low thousands. You could say we’re in one of the wings, in theater parlance, and it’s as dark and dank as a bomb shelter. We share this bunker with a sanitation team[2] (one of three scattered throughout the venue), which at this point in the evening is furiously ripping open a mountain of plastic-wrapped pink crates and unpacking, in clinks and clatters, the rented glasses, cutlery, plates, and linens and shuttling them to the waiters. The servers are directed by their captain, a fleshier George Clooney type in a gray suit, talking intermittently into a mic on his lapel, to ferry their matériel either to the bars (if highball glasses or flutes), to the tables in the dining room (if wineglasses, cutlery, or linens), or to the kitchens (if plates). Clad in black pants and black oxford shirts, the servers shuttle briskly back and forth, quiet, looking like well-dressed movers; when it’s time to drop the main course on this party, they’ll resemble stressed-out mimes.

This unspoken exception to the no-open-flames rule … is the secret to restaurant-quality catering in New York City…

I had arrived at the front entrance of the Armory for my 3:30 p.m. call time and found Bethany Morey, the executive chef’s assistant, standing in a band of sunshine breaking through the chilly afternoon. She was a six-foot oracle, guarding an enormous, coffered wood door.

She tapped a pen down her clipboard, scanning the page. “You’re in the H.D. kitchen, with Jhovany,” and she pulled open the massive door. “Into the drill hall, then a hard right and keep going, behind the black curtain.”

I was nervous, as always, and somewhat disoriented, but relieved to be assigned to the hors d’oeuvres kitchen. I’d learned over the last few years there’s something comforting in the tight focus on small bites at the start of the evening, when there’s freshness and motion, and noise and chaos building in the air — this thing is on! Make no mistake, an H.D. kitchen can go to shit readily: canapés are typically twelve pieces to a platter, and if you’re behind in assembly from the start, you’ll never catch up. A service captain and the head chef will berate you for the duration while you flail and sputter like Lucy and Ethel at the chocolate factory conveyor belt. But despite being much younger than I am, Jhovany is a seasoned pro — a guy who tells you exactly what he needs in very few words, and never fails to flash a smile or a thumbs-up and a bueno! when he sees that you’ve understood and can get the job done. I know enough after these two years in catering not to do the math, but I’ve done it since and I’ll tell you now: feeding one beef-on-toast to each of the 760 mouths at this party would require sixty-three platters’ worth of effort. Fortunately for me, a group that large will typically consume less than half that amount with several other hors d’oeuvres available.

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When I strode into Jhovany’s kitchen, everything was dialed in: white cloths on the prep tables pulled taut, dry packs and coolers laid in neat rows underneath. I was the last of his kitchen crew to arrive and all the other kitchen assistants were already on task. Wilmer ferried sheet pans of food — the brioche toasts; tiny, boat-shaped pastry shells; blistered cherry tomatoes; shrimp on skewers — from the hotbox to the open shelving unit called a “speed rack,” emptying the hotbox cabinet so he could fire it up with Sternos. Roxana minced long bunches of chives. Dutch pulled half-pint containers of flaky Maldon salt and coarsely ground black pepper from a red plastic tote called a “dry pack,” meaning there’s nothing perishable or wet in it. Gustavo unwrapped two chef’s knives from the layers of plastic they wore for safe shipping to the site — even a bundle of dish towels gets cocooned in plastic wrap in this way, to keep them together, compact and clean.[3] Manuel dressed each station with boxes of purple food-service gloves and rolls of paper towels. Saori unwrapped cutting boards and distributed them.

In that first hour, before Jhovany doled out the station assignments, he delegated tasks rapid fire. Soon as I’d finished one, he’d have another instantly. Heading to the venue on the subway, I’d read through the menu Bethany emailed me the day before, but with six hors d’oeuvres, each with four or five components to assemble, the big picture was still a total blur. I got paired with Saori to pick the smallest, brightest-green tarragon leaves from a half-dozen gnarly bunches, maybe 20 percent good stuff. We set up next to Roxana, who was now mincing flat-leaf parsley. At another table, Manuel and Wilmer sliced asparagus into thin coins. Once we’d finished picking tarragon, Jhovany told me to locate and unwrap the pans of brioche toasts, which had been packed with small envelopes of a silica gel desiccant to keep them crisp. The air in the kitchen seemed dry enough and I was thinking serve-out would be soon enough that the brioche wouldn’t go soggy, but I’d been wrong about details like this before.

“Jhovany,” I said, holding up one of the tiny silica packets. “Basura?”[4]

He checked the time on his phone. “Si, señor.”

Jhovany assigned each kitchen assistant a station, and things began to come into focus. He posted at the entry to the floor[5] an 11 × 17–inch sheet of paper listing in all-caps English all six hors d’oeuvres (more for the servers’ benefit than our own), but I was grateful for the executive chef’s salesmanship, his bon mots adding some gloss of culinary idealism to what was beginning to feel like a kitchenful of well-manipulated slop.

So, to the left of me, Saori corrals the elements for Poached Gulf Shrimp with Chili Dust and Squid Ink Aioli. To my right, Roxana snips the tip off a ricotta-filled plastic bag and sets it tip-side down in a quart container for her Heirloom Tomato Crostini with Lemon Ricotta and Fresh Basil. Dutch is on Tandoori Chicken Skewer with Red Curry, Orange, Achiote, and Crispy Phyllo, and Manuel lays out ranks of pastry boats on a sheet pan for his Smoked Salmon Crisp with Caviar, Lemon, and Chive. Behind me, Howard, Wilmer, and Gustavo collaborate on Sunny-side Quail Egg with Tomato and Asparagus on Brioche because it requires the most finesse, skill, and hands: Wilmer will run the hotbox, calibrating the flickering Sternos to ensure that the raw quail eggs on their sheet pan — each egg cracked into its own tiny individual foil cup sprayed with oil — bake just enough that the yolk is thickly runny and warm but not hard-cooked. Gustavo will invert each perfectly cooked egg onto the blistered cherry tomato that Howard’s gently flattened on the brioche and then top it with two slivers of asparagus.

Jhovany hovers around the kitchen, watching as I assemble my station. He pulls a piece of beef from my aluminum pan, tastes it, then pulls another. “Necesitas Maldon,” he says. I’ll need to shower the beef with flakes of crispy Maldon salt before the celery-root slaw goes down.

Now the blob of celery is not enough. So I dip again, drop again. Now it is too much. I look at my watch and I feel my pulse quickening.

I pull a pan of brioche toasts out of the speed rack and line an empty sheet pan with paper towels. I take handfuls of the toasts, stack them like poker chips halfway up my left forearm, then lay them down on the pan with my right hand in neat rows — boom, boom, boom — reaching for more when the stack is gone. I fill the sheet pan readily (and note that the piece count is 140) before moving on to the beef layer. Each tenderloin fits perfectly in my left palm and I peel off the thin slices and lay the beef on top of the brioche, dead center. When the sheet pan’s full, I remember the Maldon, sprinkle it gingerly over the top. I look to Jhovany. “Esta bien?”

“Poquito mas,” he says, and reaches into the container for a small handful. He showers a few more pinches, lightning quick. “Like that,” he says.

I pull the top off the container of celery-root slaw — still chilly and stiff — and pick up what I think is just the right amount of slaw on the end of the spoon, guiding it onto the beef with a fingertip. But it flops over the dark edge of the beef and slumps over the side of the toast. For the next, I try pinching a smaller amount with just thumb and index finger. The slaw sticks to my rubber-gloved fingertip, and when I try to shake it off it lands entirely out of range of the target. Next attempt, instead of using the bowl of the plastic spoon, I use the tip of the spoon handle. This is more promising, but now the blob of celery is not enough. So I dip again, drop again. Now it is too much. I look at my watch and I feel my pulse quickening, my face flushing with color.

Jhovany appears. “Mi amigo. Menos grande,” he says, and picks up the plastic spoon to demonstrate. “Like this,” he says, dipping the tip of the handle in the slaw and teasing with his index finger a fingernail-sized dollop into the center of the beef, so a ring of the beef’s pink center is just visible around the edge of the slaw. It’s perfect, exactly as in the photo. He picks up one of my pathetic examples and eats it, then hands the other sloppy one to me. “Flavor is good.”

It is good. But the flavor has nothing to do with anything I did to these ingredients, and I still have yet to assemble a single Pepper-Crusted Beef on Brioche with Celery Root Salad that looks the way it should. I have Jhovany’s live sample to go by, so I try again with the tip of the spoon handle, and … close! But then the next is a disaster — too much slaw again, slumping over the side of the beef. And the next one is too little, so I dip again, which means that getting one of these looking correct is taking me half a minute. At this rate, I’ll be lucky if I have one hundred pieces by show time, and I need at least two hundred. I look at my watch again. My mouth is parched.

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I step away for a quick second to get some water from a table near the sanitation area, where there are gallon jugs of water and plastic cups for staff. I have to pee already, but there’s no time for that; the venue’s so big that the restrooms in either direction are nearly a ten-minute round-trip. Through the entrance into the next bunker, I can see one of the three dinner kitchens dispersed among the wings of the Armory tonight. Each is staffed with ten kitchen assistants and a head chef, and each will serve 255 guests tonight, divide-and-conquer being the only sane strategy for serving 760 people warm and tasty food that should remind no one of the cold, overcooked, and damp meat-plates-under-domes, skins forming on the sauces, that once defined a catered event.

I see a few familiar faces in the far kitchen — Jorge Soto, Marilu, Geronimo — a hive of white coats and black beanies. I know from the menu that they’re plating up the first course, a tapas assortment, a preset.[6] At 7:15, once cocktail hour’s over, Jhovany will leave two of us behind to shut down the H.D. kitchen and distribute the rest of the team among the three dinner kitchens to help plate up the main course. But here, drinking this water in my state of stress, that moment seems impossibly far away.

Back at my station, I get to work. In ten minutes, I’ve got six examples of this beef — half a platter — worthy of being sent to the floor, and I’m sweating through the T-shirt under my chef’s coat. Saori’s experimenting with swooshes of squid-ink aioli on her plate. She sees me struggling with the spoon and offers up a fine pair of stainless culinary tongs — like an over-sized set of tweezers, from the pocket of her chef’s jacket. For a split second tears well in my eyes, I’m so grateful to her. The tweezers give me much more control over the amount of slaw I pick and, the more I make, I learn to fold the pinch of slaw onto itself as I drop it, to circumscribe the nest, make the threads less scattered, more mounded. I find I’m still double-dipping, but I’ve brought the execution time down to about twenty seconds, and I’ve brought down my failure rate, too, to nearly none. I’ve got eighteen now. Twenty-seven. I get a nod from Jhovany. Thirty-two.

I’m thinking about the miracle of repetitive gesture and cognition, the coordination of hand and eye, and how the mind remembers the weight of the pinch of slaw, the feel of the tongs’ resistance, when Jhovany’s voice cuts through the trance.

“Mira!” he says. “I need three guys on the floor, rapido!” He points to me, Gustavo, and Howard in turn. Something’s happened. “Go find Chef. Now!”

I look at Jhovany. “Plàstico?” I ask, thinking I should cover my station with plastic wrap if I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. He shakes his head firmly. So I just lay Saori’s tweezers down next to the incomplete sheet pan of peppered beef and I go.

Catering has more in common with a mobile army surgical hospital than a restaurant.

Two years in and I know this moment well — it’s the instant when whatever critical task you’re performing, on deadline, is superseded by a demand for labor so much more pressing that you have to drop everything and run to where you’re needed now. This culinary triage, re-prioritizing ever-escalating emergencies on the fly, is a state of being for successful caterers, for whom every night is a dif­ferent venue and a custom menu tailored to a new client. And for all the attention, all the preparation brought to bear in the previous ten months on every detail of that night’s party — the minute-by-minute run of show, the mapped-out site plan, and the cook time of the potato-crusted halibut — none of that envisions the crazy contingencies that arise when the resources are summoned to prepare and serve a three-course dinner simultaneously to 760 people in a space that was empty at 2:00 p.m. and must be empty again and swept clean by midnight.

*

Catering has more in common with a mobile army surgical hospital than a restaurant. The tent campaign of loading and unloading the kitchen infrastructure and the delicate, squishy food involves so much travel, a factor that rarely disturbs the tight calculations of a restaurant chef, comfortable in her own familiar kitchen. In “off-premise” catering (as distinguished from banquet-hall catering or corporate cafeterias), there’s the expanse of actual miles the food must traverse: packed from the prep kitchen into rolling hotboxes, coolers, milk crates, and plastic bins, and onto the box truck for the journey to the venue; then unloaded from the truck onto elevators or carried up staircases to whatever hall or back room is designated the “kitchen.” Just as important, there is also the cognitive distance separating the minds of the kitchen prep crew that par-cooked and packed the food from those on the team receiving it in their makeshift party kitchen, unwrapping and setting up everything, finding every item — or not, forcing the dreaded (and inevitable) re-run.[7] And lastly, there are the servers, the cater waiters, those warm bodies from staffing agencies, typically freelancers who may work for a handful of competing firms from one night to the next, entrusted with moving and handling the food once it’s left the kitchen, to be presented to the guest. With rare exceptions, a catering chef hands his food to a total stranger.

All this discontinuity and travel geometrically multiplies the hazards standing in the way of a catering chef aiming to serve what was originally intended, that perfect plate, whose stunning flavors and stylish presentation clinched the deal at the client tasting many months prior. And in this context, time becomes a presence as tangible, fungible, and daunting as the weather — more so when the scale of the event is factored into the equation. While an epic fail at a restaurant table might cost the house a few customers, when there are eight hundred hungry guests on the event floor waiting for dinner to be served, havoc-wreaking scenarios — an electrical brownout blows power to the fryers and the stage lights; the host’s toast runs twenty minutes too long, condemning the lamb to overcooked toughness; a server faints and takes down with him a jack stand[8] of 120 plated desserts — may become apparent only at the moment they happen, and have greater consequences.

True, the stakes for the caterer are not nearly as high as for the army surgeon, but the vast majority of events that top New York firms cater to are pretty significant — charity galas, weddings, product launches, milestone birthdays, annual board meetings, political debuts, and movie premieres in one of the biggest, richest, most competitive cities in the world. As the minutes tick down to the serve-out of the first hors d’oeuvre, there’s more at risk than just the hundreds of thousands of dollars a client may have spent on the evening’s food, booze, and labor; there are the emotions of a bride and groom on their big day, the reputation of a top movie studio, or the longevity of an esteemed, hundred-year-old nonprofit. There are the memories of people celebrating some of the most momentous nights of their lives.

Considering all that these catering chefs are up against, and regularly conquer — their nerve-rattling tightrope sprints through A-list celebrity territory, the exquisite food torture, a season’s worth of MacGyver-y kitchen rescues that throw propriety, food safety, and convention out the door because “we have to make this work right now!” — the fact that they don’t get the attention or respect afforded restaurant chefs is astonishing. There’s no James Beard Award for them, yet the food that catering chefs create is often every bit as succulent and dazzling as what’s served at the gastronomic temples of the nation. And they’re cooking with handicaps a restaurant chef couldn’t fathom.

*

Called to the unknown emergency, I leave Jhovany’s kitchen and pass through a dark, curtained-off concourse of the Armory packed with enormous black crates of lighting and sound equipment, electric cables snaking along the floor. I jog under a thirty-foot-tall wooden archway and into the vaulted drill hall, washed in streams of majestic light from high above. Waiters and service captains scurry like a colony of ants between two rows of long tables — arranged parallel to each other and angled in a chevron pattern facing a stage, where a technician performs a mic check: “One TWO! One TWO! TWO!”

I spot Chef at the center of the commotion, standing next to a speed rack, and a dozen or so K.A.s like me streaming toward him in their white jackets and black beanies. The tables are glittering with all the cutlery and glasses, and the presets — square china plates of what look to be an assortment of small bites — are down. Fitting with the gilded theme, the curtains defining the perimeter of the room seem strafed with gold leaf. The nature of the crisis still isn’t evident.

“All right, listen up!” Chef shouts, pulling one of the white plates from a speed rack. “You see this beautiful tapas plate? Look carefully how it’s arranged.” The group closes in around him, murmuring. He talks us through the geography. The square plate is divided into three rows. Bottom row, left to right: a Smoked Whitefish Toast with Beet Relish, a Grilled Shrimp Toast with Lemon Aioli, then four bias-cut grilled crostini[9] in a compact pile. Second row, left to right: two thin rods of Manchego cheese, one resting on the other, forming an “X”; two pitted dates stuffed with herbed chèvre, one leaning against the other. The top row of the plate is empty, because the servers would soon be placing three shot glasses filled with more menu items across the top: Smoked Duck Rillettes with Pickled Cippolini; Black Olive Tapenade with Toasted Fennel, Chili, and Orange Oil; and Five-Spice Roasted Almonds with Cayenne and Sea Salt.

“But,” Chef says, “they can’t even begin setting the shot glasses down until we clean up the mess they made when they dropped these.” He picks up a plate on the nearest table, which appears to have been dropped from a height of a couple of inches. Cheese and dates have toppled off each other and rolled around the plate. One of the toasts is facedown atop the other and the crostinis have skidded everywhere.

“We’ve got seven hundred and sixty plates to make perfect in the next ten minutes. So divide up, swarm the room. Do what you need to do. Make every plate perfect!”

I try not to think about how far behind I am now on my peppered beef, how reamed I’ll get during hors d’oeuvres serve-out.

I set out for the tables closest to the stage, so I can sweep in one direction. Gustavo’s at the far end, closest to curtain, and I work toward him. Only about every third plate is wrecked as badly as the one Chef showed us, but every preset needs at least fifteen to twenty seconds of handwork. I avoid doing the multiplication or thinking too deeply about how much time and labor might’ve been saved with a short sermon to the service captains about the importance of a gentle drop. I try not to think about how far behind I am now on my peppered beef, how reamed I’ll get during hors d’oeuvres serve-out. Instead, since the primping required so little cognition or skill, I begin to revel in the vaguely disconcerting thrill of simply being on the main floor.

Unless a K.A. or chef is working an event with an action station — omelets, say — guests will never see a chef jacket on the floor. A head chef might allow kitchen assistants to steal a peek at the dining room if it’s really impressive, or if an uber-A-lister like Beyoncé or the Dalai Lama is there, but to spend a stretch of time like this out here happens only once in a blue moon — usually when someone’s fucked up, like now. The longer I’m on the floor, the more I can glean what’s happening beyond the kitchen. Who will be eating these serrano-wrapped logs of Manchego we’re setting in beautiful crosses, just so?

On the stage, a woman rehearses the beginning of a speech, introducing the charity the event will benefit. Public funding of the arts is imperiled, and her organization raises money to educate children about the visual arts, theater, music. She introduces a film about the charity. The light in the room dims and those gold-streaked curtains turn into video screens on which a short documentary begins. Teenagers from public schools all over the New York area testify that learning about the arts from this organization has inspired them to dream big.

The film ends, then starts at the beginning again. I have one table down and have started the next when a team of servers follows in behind us, working a speed rack stacked with sheet pans of shot glasses holding the rillettes, the tapenade, and the almonds to set down on the plates. The children are inspired all over again. Two tables done. The film stops and the house lights come up. A man in a suit steps forward and introduces a performance artist, who will be honored. Tall, dressed in many black floor-length layers, the artist steps to the microphone: “My mother and father were war heroes in Yugoslavia, in World War II …”

We finish fixing plates and the servers have set down all their shot glasses. The floor is emptying — of the production technicians, the kitchen assistants, the servers rolling speed racks back toward the kitchens. Only a few captains remain as I sprint through the archway, down the dark back hallway, to return to the kitchen.

“It was crazy!” I tell Jhovany. “The servers mangled the preset! I had to redo hundreds of plates!” He just shakes his head slowly, shrugs. Each of his hors d’oeuvre stations now has four platters ready to go, and the servers gather around, idling, chatting with their captain. At my station somebody has set up four platters with perfect examples of the beef-on-toast, and Jhovany shows me a near full sheet pan of backup on the speed rack — not enough to cover the duration of the cocktail hour, but I’ll be okay if I can keep up. A sigh of relief settles in my shoulders. The captain says, “Go!” The servers descend, and the first platters disappear, toward the early birds in their tuxedos, ambling into the hall.

I reach for a sheet pan, pick up the brioche toasts, and start laying them down. Boom, boom, boom. Saori sets up another platter of her shrimp. Jhovany hovers, tells her the stripe of char powder on her plate doesn’t look right. The team’s in crunch mode. We’re not the ones saving kids with the arts, nor are we war heroes. Earlier that day, I learned there’s been a flood in South Carolina, a town an hour or so from where Ted and I grew up. A childhood friend’s father has lost his home, but at least the family is all safe. Others have drowned, and I hunger to connect with friends there, to find out more. But in these unraveling minutes, the size of the celery-root slaw, the direction of the crostini on the plate, and the angle of the Manchego cross are my world. Because that’s why I’m here: to cater.

*

1. “Brioche” is the kindest word for this favored delivery platform — a thin toast-cracker.

2. The caterer’s on-site crew in charge of miscellaneous tasks including rentals distribution at the beginning of the night, setting up the coffee percolators, and handling all refuse removal at the end of the evening.

3. By the end of your first few parties, after ripping open a hundred triple-wrapped bundles, you get a precise feel for the tolerances and breaking points of industrial-strength plastic wrap

4. “Trash?”

5. The dining room, in cater-speak.

6. A plated dish that’s already waiting at each guest’s place when they sit down to dinner. This is a pro move, merciful to guest and staff alike, shaving at least a half hour off the event. But the food must be designed to survive an hour or more at room temperature with texture and flavor Intact.

7. Ordered by the executive chef, a return trip of the truck to the prep kitchen to pick up something that’s been either left behind or hopelessly lost at the site.

8. A tall but compact four-sided metal stand on casters, for holding and moving large numbers of completed plates.

9. Close cousin to “brioche toast.”

* * *

The Lee Bros. are the authors of several bestselling cookbooks: Charleston Kitchen, Southern Cookbook, and Simple Fresh Southern. They have written for The New York Times, Food & Wine, Travel + Leisure, The New York Times Magazine, Gourmet, Saveur, and other publications, and have appeared on many TV shows, including Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations and The Today Show. They have won six James Beard and IACP Awards.

Longreads Editor: Dana Snitzky

[keywestlou]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY ROE v. WADE

The Supreme Court decision Roe v. Wade is 46 years old today. It was decided this day in 1973. Roe legalized abortion throughout the United States. It established a woman’s right to abortion. Recognized a woman’s right to privacy.

In short, a woman’s body was her own and her’s to decide what could or could not be done with it as regards reproductive rights.

It seems the nature of Americans never to give up. Political battles unending. Roe remains at the forefront of such battles.

Abortion somewhat like the black/white issue in America. A Civil War was fought more than 150 years ago to free slaves and give them equal rights. The battle continues into present day with legal chicanery involved. Making it difficult for blacks to vote an example.

The Roe battle will be with us fifty years from now, unless a conservative Supreme Court decides to overturn it. Then it will be a return to back rooms, hangers, and disease.

A great Dueling Bartenders last night. Surprisingly, Aqua was packed. I had to sit alone at the side bar.

Rick Dery his usual magnificent self. A voice!

Cold outside and inside. Sixty two degrees outside. I wore my leather jacket even inside the bar.

Liz and her friends were there. Always good to see Liz. Wish I had met her 20 years ago. Her health continues to slip.

A group from Hot Dog Church in attendance. Love the ladies! We have become friends. Several came over to say hello. Some a hug and kiss.

I was not meant to be lonely. In came Dan and Lisa. Friends from Skaneateles here for a month. We drank together.

We talked Syracuse basketball. Decided to have dinner saturday evening at Berlin’s.

Dan and Lisa left. I noticed Mary at the end of the other bar. A while since I have seen her. Enjoyed a drink with her. Following which we were off to La Trattoria for dinner.

Tiffany bartending. Got us 2 spots at the bar in a matter of minutes. La Trattoria crowded also. Chatted with Dink a few minutes. We shared recent war stories about almost hitting a child while driving.

I ate wrong. Carbs big time! A large dish of pennes buried in bolognase sauce. I paid for it on the scale this morning.

The government shutdown is in day 32. A shame! Does not seem to bother Trump. Government employees in food lines, a mother who cannot afford her next chemotherapy treatment, a woman who sold her blood for $50, etc.

My America? Your America? No way!

Madness. It has to stop.

I mentioned yesterday that Trump and Pence had no plans to visit the Martin Luther King Memorial. It was all over the news.

Trump especially looked bad.

Later in the morning, Trump and Pence changed their minds and made the visit. Obvious it was not planned. No great crowd. They placed a small wreath in front of the King Memorial. They were accompanied by someone from the Memorial who was not properly dressed for the occasion. Further indicating the visit was unplanned.

Pence recently has been referring to everything he does not like as “an attack on Christianity.” A quiet unassuming Trump. A person in disguise waiting his turn to disrupt our country further.

I do agree however that much happening today is an attack on Christianity. The border incidents, children taken from their parents, government employees waiting in food lines, a woman selling her blood for $50 to put food on the table, etc.

George Washington may have been the last President not to tell a lie. Recall…..”I cannot tell a lie. I chopped down the cherry tree.”

Donald Trump without question is the President who has told and continues to tell the most lies. I would describe his “lies” as false or misleading statements.

The Washington Post Fact Checker issued a report re Trump lies.

In his first 2 years as President, he has lied 8,158 times. In his first year, 5.9 lies per day. Better in his second year when he lied 16.5 times a day.

He improves with time.

My podcast show tonight. Tuesday Talk with Key West Lou. Nine my time. Join me. Much is happening that I do not agree with. I will be raving and ranting. www.blogtalkradio.com/key-west-lou.

My friend Anna continues to vacation in Athens.

The first time I visited Athens, I stayed at the Gran Britannia Hotel. An exceptionally fine hotel. Service exemplary. My room came with a butler. He was in tails. Unpacked and packed my suitcase. Made reservations. Exceptional service.

The hotel is across the street from Parliament. My room faced Parliament. The room had a small terrace.

One morning, I woke to huge shouting. Went on the terrace. Across the street were thousands protesting about something. Parliament is surrounded by a huge concrete area.

This I could not miss! Threw some clothes on and headed for the demonstration.

I walked into the crowd. Walked around. No one bothered me. I was ignored.

Unable initially to understand what the protest was about. Finally figured it out. The Greeks were broke and the Euro Union was pressing them for payment. Germany’s Angela Merkel was leading the Euro Union against Greece.

Every time a speaker mentioned Merkel’s name, the people spit on the ground. Young and old alike.

The event was terrific from my perspective. I went back the next morning. They were still at it.

Anna e-mailed me yesterday with photos. Another protest at Parliament Square. This time with 60,000 persons. This one not only bigger than the one I walked through, also more dangerous. Rocks, flares, firebombs, and paint being thrown at the police.

The issue was prespes. Ran it through Google. Could not find anything about it.

AXIOS this morning ran an article by Mike Allen. Titled “Big Thing: 7 Letters Disrupting Politics.”

He discussed what is perhaps the changing face of politics. Zeroed in on Alexandria-Ocasio Cortez and Beto O’Rourke. Two individuals not representative of traditional politicians. Two who demand authenticity from government officials. Both speaking directly to the public and telling them what they believe will connect with the public.

Compared both to Trump. Solely in what is said and the manner of delivery.

Trump has disrupted politics. Allen believes Cortez and O’Rourke are/will also. A sign of the times.

A new politics? It should be called what it is. Pure and unvarnished. In the face dialogue. With one difference. Cortez and O’Rourke do not appear to lie as Trump does.

At least, not yet.

I close with Starbucks.

Starbucks soon will be providing delivery service for 95 percent of its products. Planned for 25 percent of Starbuck’s stores. Tested last year at 200 Miami locations.

A Uber Eats mobile app required. Uber will charge a $2.49 booking fee.

What a world! Everything changing! No need any longer to go to a retail store to buy clothes, cooked food delivered to your home, etc.

Enjoy your day!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY ROE v. WADE was originally published on Key West Lou

[wrestlewriting]

#50 [Cesaro]

#50: Is it just me or is it cold as hell in here? from the list here. 

Moving was hectic, no matter which way you looked at it. Packing up everything from one place, the physical act of actually moving it, only to unpack it all again…it was exhausting every time. While you had done it enough in your life to have a bit of a method to the madness, that didn’t really make it too much easier.

Especially not when this particular move also included combining your items with your boyfriend’s. It had taken weeks to go through your apartment and his, deciding what would be brought to the new house you were sharing, and what wouldn’t. The process was slowed down even more by the fact that your boyfriend traveled regularly, while you stayed home as a middle school English teacher.

To his credit, Antonio did awesome while he was in town. He was, not surprisingly to most, the far more organized of the two of you. He had lists, he had plans, and he definitely had motivation. If it wasn’t for him, you knew you wouldn’t have half the furniture you now had in the new house around you.

When it was officially moving day, he was the one giving out directions to your friends, and making sure boxes were near the right places to be unpacked in the future. He helped move the heavy items, put together the bed, and give you both a space you could live comfortably in until it was fully finished.

It was now two weeks since the big move, and the house was still in a good amount of disarray. A lot of the rooms were seventy to eighty percent unpacked, but definitely not more. Nothing was hung on the walls yet; pictures and artwork just leaning against the places they’d eventually be. You felt like nothing was getting accomplished, even though you knew logically a lot had been. You were just ready for it all to be done, for your home to be settled and complete.

You found yourself standing in the living room, Antonio thankfully with you today, as you decided to tackle finishing the kitchen. The essentials had been brought out when you first moved in, but as an avid cooker and baker, a lot of your specialty items had not been. You’d had no cause to use them lately either, living off of basic, easy to make food, or takeout.

“Is it just me, or is it cold as hell in here?” You asked, pulling your sweater tighter around yourself, so the front overlapped, as you stood in the living room.

“…well, considering hell isn’t cold…no, it’s not,” Antonio replied, causing your head to turn quickly in his direction, allowing you to glare straight at him.

“I was using ‘as hell’ as a descriptor, to aid in explaining the amount of cold that I am feeling,” you explained coolly.

“No need to go complete English major on me,” he muttered, picking up a box, before walking in to the kitchen area with it. He set it on the counter, causing the items in it to rattle.

“You were being a smartass,” you pointed out, your voice louder so it carried to him in the other room.

“And you are being cranky,” he countered, walking out of the kitchen and over to where you were still standing. Stopping in front of you, he slid both of his arms around your waist to your back, where he linked his hands, before pulling you so your bodies were lightly pressed together. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” you answered, setting your hands on his upper arms, leaning back enough in his hold so you could look up at his face.

“Tell me,” he demanded gently, applying slight pressure to your back with his hands as a means to cajole a response of you.

“…it’s just a lot,” you admitted.

“What is?”

“THIS,” you declared. “Moving, and stuff. And I only get to have you so often to help, so it falls on me. Which, I’m not saying I don’t understand, I do. Obviously I know you’re gone, it’s fine. But I just…I feel like it’s taking forever, and I’m losing my mind in an unpacked, unorganized house.”

“It does take time,” he agreed. “But even if I was here more, it would still take time.”

“Not as much,” you argued.

“How do you know?” Antonio questioned. “We both know I get distracted easily.” You rolled your eyes, doing your best to suppress a smile, which in turn caused him to chuckle. “C’mon. Don’t stress yourself out. I know it’s a lot, and I know it’s going to bother you that the house is not put together right away, but that’s not how moving works anyways.”

“I know,” you sighed.

“We will just, do what we can now, while I’m here. And then while I’m gone, you do whatever you want to, but don’t force yourself to do everything, OK? It’s not going to bother me any to come home and find all these boxes still in here,” he said.

“It’s going to bother me.”

“Well, that I cannot help you with,” Antonio stated. “But I’m sure a lot of wine can.”

You laughed outright, before leaning your head forward to rest against his chest, closing your eyes as you breathed in. He tightened his arms around you, kissing the side of your head, before setting his cheek there.

“I love you, sweetheart. And I promise, it will all work itself out.”

“OK,” you conceded.

The two of you stood in the silence, letting the moment settle around you. You knew he was right; it was just going to take time for your house to come together. In the interim, you would just have to deal with it, and do what you could on your own.

“Hey, want to go break in the new couch downstairs?” Rolling your eyes to yourself, you leaned back in his hold, causing him to lift his head from yours. He looked down at you, amusement swimming in his eyes.

“And how is that going to help me with being stressed over things not being unpacked?” You raised an eyebrow.

“Consider it an alternative stress relief method,” he offered, grinning. You looked at him blankly for a moment, appearing as though you were annoyed, before you let a smile come to your face.

“Let’s go.”

[wfitvacations]

This Dog Friendly Fitness Retreat In Canada

Get back in shape with your furry best friend

Looking for a dog friendly fitness retreat or weight loss camp?

It’s a hard search on google to find a health retreat where you can bring your dog without compromising the benefits of your stay. Most people enjoy active travel as a way to get a fresh start on their wellness. They want ‘pet friendly’ to actually mean it… no extra charges and a sense of freedom for both of you.

With this level of hospitality extended to my four legged guests, I’m proud to have built a unique dog friendly fitness retreat experience in B.C., Canada.

In this article:

The pros and cons of bringing your dog with you on your trip

How to travel with your dog into Canada

Comparison of wellness retreats for dogs in North America

How to make your dog feel at home and not stressed.

VANCOUVER ISLAND RESIDENTIAL WEIGHT LOSS CAMP (BIGGEST LOSER STYLE) – 1-4 MONTHS

First, a little introduction.

There’s nobody in this world that will be more THRILLED that you’re getting back into top physical condition than your beloved fur-baby. You can probably already imagine the circles they will spin when they learn that Mumma is going for yet-another-walk on this rainy Tuesday afternoon.

My name is Cat Smiley – I own West Coast Fitness Vacations – a wellness retreat travel company in B.C. Let me tell you about my puppies! The little guy is Paco, he’s really not suited to join me at work, so only Bear works with me. More than a handful of times, I’d been packing my bags for an exciting trip with bitter-sweet emotions. My dogs, Bear (now) and Manchas, my trustee trail dog of 12 years… they’d either crawl into my bag, curling up into my unpacked clothes. As fun as the dog boarding was, they just felt so CRUSHED that we were going to be spending time apart. I felt so guilty to not take them with me.

VANCOUVER ISLAND RESIDENTIAL WEIGHT LOSS CAMP (BIGGEST LOSER STYLE) – 1-4 MONTHS

Comparison of dog friendly wellness retreats in North America

Sparkling Hill Resort allows small dogs only, $25 per pet, per night.

Red Mountain Resort charges $30 per pet, per night.

Fit Farm in Tennassee have a kennel facility onsite.

West Coast Fitness Vacations:  A one time $35 fee will be charged per reservation – not per pet, not per night.

VANCOUVER ISLAND RESIDENTIAL WEIGHT LOSS CAMP (BIGGEST LOSER STYLE) – 1-4 MONTHS

The pros and cons of traveling with your dog!

According to Market Research, 32 percent of pet owners take their pets on trips two nights or more. That’s almost half of the 80 million families in America that own pets. Exercising together makes your bond even greater, slimming you both down and making you feel healthier. They love a good chase around the park, as you know… and new parks? Oh boy! Even more fun!

Peace of mind is probably the biggest benefit of having your dog with you. There can be anxiety wondering if the sitters are being responsible, or the boarding kennel is nice. When in a new town, having pup with you can motivate you to get out more and explore! What restaurants have dog friendly patios? Let’s find out!

Dog friendly travel is about as common as free wifi now, with the hospitality industry expected to be on board with four legged guests. Yet bringing your dog on a trip usually gets them lots of attention from flight attendants and hotel staff. They’ll usually be totally spoiled, with gourmet cookies, extra blankets and lots of belly rubs.

VANCOUVER ISLAND RESIDENTIAL WEIGHT LOSS CAMP (BIGGEST LOSER STYLE) – 1-4 MONTHS

Cons of bringing your dog to a health retreat

Some hotels that advertise themselves as pet friendly really are not.

If I’m traveling with my dog, I don’t want to crate them in the room when I’m not there. Or walk for miles to the nearest grass area. There shouldn’t be an extra ‘cleaning fee’ for guests who stay with their dog, but often there is. Look for hotels where pets can stay for free.

Pet airline travel can be expensive, usually its over $100 one way for an in-cabin pet. Larger dogs (like my Bear) are too big to travel in a carrier bag. Some airports don’t have very good pet facilities to relieve themselves. Dogs love routine and sometimes unfamiliar territory and people can make them nervous. Excessive barking is a no-go with hotels as you’ll disturb their other patrons.

WEST COAST FITNESS VACATIONS – OUR SAFETY PLAN FOR REOPENING

How to travel with your dog into Canada

Dogs older than 3 months need a rabies certificate. Below is the official statement from the immigration website.

Domestic or pet dogs may enter Canada if accompanied by a valid rabies vaccination certificate. A licensed veterinarian must issue the certificate in English or French and clearly identify the dog by breed, color, weight, etc.

The certificate must state that the pet is currently vaccinated against rabies and indicate the trade name of the rabies vaccine used,  including serial number and duration of validity (up to three years). The vaccination will be considered valid for one year, unless otherwise indicated.

There’s no quarantine for pets coming into Canada, from any country however check the airline requirements carefully. Sometimes they also need a current health certificate.

VANCOUVER ISLAND RESIDENTIAL WEIGHT LOSS CAMP (BIGGEST LOSER STYLE) – 1-4 MONTHS

Packing your dogs suitcase

Here are the essentials:

Collapsible dog bowls. Bring a spare in case you lose one. This will save you from spending valuable vacation time wandering around trying to find a place that sells them.

Two leashes, and a harness for comfortable walking. Nobody likes to be choked!

Enough dog food, so that you don’t have to switch brands.

Favorite toys and blanket.

Vaccination records

First aid kit

Poop bags

Other things! Get your dog microchipped before you travel. Your vet will painlessly insert the chip, so that the shelter can help return your pet to you. This is their permanent ID. Also make sure you’ve always got your phone within service range, in case you need to call a vet.

WHY WELLNESS RETREATS IN B.C. ARE WORTH STAYING LOCAL FOR

How to make your dogs vacation happier

Definitely bring your dogs food from home, changing their meal routine might bring on some anxiety and/or stomach upsets. Bring also your dogs favourite toys and blankets – the hotels will provide a comfortable bed and feeding bowls.

Read: 7 Tips To Keep Your Dog Comfortable in Hotels

Most hotels don’t allow you to leave your dog in the room unattended, and there’s usually a hefty fine for anyone found breaking the rule. Yet even if you’re allowed to leave your dog in the room it’s a good idea not to. It’s an unfamiliar surrounding, and the housekeeper coming in might be quite scary for them.

If your dog is nervous they’ll pant more, and this will make them drink more. Make sure you’ve got portable water bowls and extra water on hand, especially if out hiking or driving.

DID YOU KNOW THAT YOU CAN LIVE AT A WEIGHT LOSS RESORT FOR 2-6 MONTHS?

“Hola, I’m happy here. Love Manchas.”

Manchas was a street dog on his last few weeks of life, that we found in the garbage on a back street in Mexico. The sweet boy was severely underweight and had extreme anaemia. My partner and I took him to the vet to give him some shots, and miscommunicated that we wanted to adopt him (Spanish is no bueno). 

With the paperwork back-dated to meet airline requirements for an extra 50 pesos, and the vet ringing up the crate he had on the counter, the split second decision of ‘yes, credit card’ was one that would change the course of our lives.

I could not have asked for a better fresh start, for myself or him. Flying back to Canada was easy, with Alaska Airlines baggage handlers giving me a note that read “Hola, I’m happy here. Love Manchas.”

Everything made sense in that moment.

VANCOUVER ISLAND RESIDENTIAL WEIGHT LOSS CAMP (BIGGEST LOSER STYLE) – 1-4 MONTHS

Manchas – the stud muffin- with one of our guests, Christine from Texas.

Beautiful brown eyes, that you cannot say no to

For the next 12 years my beautiful boy came to work with me everyday – either to boot camp, personal training or on the trails.

SIDE NOTE: He had a facebook page (now deleted). When he said his goodbyes to the friends he’d met along the way, he had over 30,000 views of his video and over 1500 comments from folks he’d touched along the way. Special guy.

I didn’t have the heart to bring him on a plane again. I felt like he might think I was bringing him back to Mexico. He was forever stressed whenever he saw the crate, or saw our suitcases. Instead, we traveled without him when we went on trips. Pet friendly travel wasn’t as popular back then as it is now.

Thankfully travel trends for active travel that is pet-friendly is at an all time high!

As a health retreat owner, I’ve take my responsibility seriously to provide a comfortable environment for all our guests. This includes those who don’t like dogs, those that love them (or have them), and those that are them! 

That’s Bear, below – very similar looking to above, without the brown markings. He’s a certified support animal. This makes it easier around guests as he’s trained to be ‘at work’ (the cue word) when at work.

VANCOUVER ISLAND RESIDENTIAL WEIGHT LOSS CAMP (BIGGEST LOSER STYLE) – 1-4 MONTHS

Teaching your dog not to chase wildlife

Whistler is not as populated with wildlife as some other mountain resorts simply because we have so much tourism on the trails. However training your dog to be reliable is definitely important, including coming when called. Even though our Whistler hiking tours are dog friendly, they need to be on a leash. And if the dog is pulling you to chase a bear up ahead on the trail… well, it’s not so good.

Read: How to Train Your Dog For the Hiking Trail

Chasing is normal behaviour for dogs. The best way to deal with it is to give dogs an opportunity to chase toys whenever wildlife is around. Teach your dog that if she sees an animal (deer, crow, squirrel etc.), they should expect that you will throw a toy to chase instead. It’s easier to teach a dog, “chase this, not that” than it is to teach a dog not to chase at all. Use a squeaky toy and squeak before you toss it. Karen B. London, PhD, Certified Professional Dog Trainer.

Benefits Of Exercising With Your Dog

Often overweight dog owners have overweight dogs… it’s somewhat connected. Getting in shape with your dog increases the bond between you along with a host of other benefits:

Slows the dogs aging process

Improves their metabolism

Regulates their sleep and appetite

Makes them happy!

Prevents obesity related problems

People have always enjoyed health retreats, taking time away from their home life to focus on shaping up. Now, more than ever, bringing your best friend and personal companion along will increase the longevity and fun of your fitness benefits! Think about it, when you go home, guess who’ll want to go for a walk!? Right now, come on, let’s go! What better personal trainer.

VANCOUVER ISLAND RESIDENTIAL WEIGHT LOSS CAMP (BIGGEST LOSER STYLE) – 1-4 MONTHS

The post This Dog Friendly Fitness Retreat In Canada appeared first on West Coast Fitness Vacations.

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[onlinemarketingcourses]

Going head to head with Google Smart Bidding: The good, the bad and the weird

Google Smart Bidding, the search giant’s machine learning bidding strategy, has ruffled more than a few feathers in the industry. And for good reason. It commands thousands of real-time bidding signals at its (virtual) fingertips. It can analyze 70 million signals in 100 milliseconds. For retailers casting longing glances at its results so far, things look tempting.

Especially its Target ROAS (tROAS) approach. After all, if you’re merely seeking better return on ad spend, why do you need to put together a complex search solution? Why hire expensively paid search managers, bid technologies and agency services when you can hand your budgets off to Google and let them do their magic? Well, as with all things that seem too good to be true, the right approach to working with Smart Bidding is much more complex.

With the help of a client, Crealytics (my company) went head to head with Google’s tROAS bidding. We saw a spectrum of results, but now we’ll discuss the findings from a drafts and experiments set up. (In the next article, we’ll discuss the results within a geo split environment.) For context, these were the rules:

A control bidding approach, tested against tROAS bidding, within a drafts and experiments set up.

We set the test environment up as an auction split, A/B comparison. However, we’ll see later how this approach was inadvertently changed, and not for the better.

Our target was to maximize revenue and new customers at a specific ROAS.

Our first round of testing yielded results across the spectrum. Some showcased the strengths of Smart Bidding, some showed where it still has room to grow, and some were just downright odd.

The Good: Auction time bidding – more clicks and lower CPCs

I mentioned that Smart Bidding benefits from a powerful engine. If you look under the bonnet, you’ll see the second set of signals that other bidding platforms don’t have. Matter of fact, Google freely claims that no other bidding platform will have access to a significant portion of these signals. Target ROAS draws on moment-of-query-time information for precision bids. As a result, it knows exactly where on the S-curve it needs to bid; and will never bid a cent higher than necessary to win the auction.

Such findings require some caution, however. We still aren’t sure the degree to which drafts and experiments (in conjunction with tROAS) shift volumes around internally. Pre- vs. post-comparison shows little movement; revenue only increased when spend increased. The pie shifts around…but the overall click volume and resulting revenue don’t grow much larger.

Both test markets saw marked increases in both clicks and ROAS…

…while maintaining low CPCs at the same time

The Good: More balanced bids

Google’s tROAS can also aggregate all segments at the same time. As a result, it derives the most optimal bid. Our findings bear this out: tROAS achieved more consistent performances across different segments, like devices and locations.

The Bad: No ability to optimize for advanced metrics

We always encourage clients to work towards more advanced KPIs. As an example, identifying new customers helps pave the way to judging their lifetime value (CLV). But in the current environment, Google’s Smart Bidding doesn’t seem to optimize for incremental value. New customers offer a case in point. Because the platform can’t account for this group, acquisition costs shoot upwards, and existing customers are targeted with equal value as new customers. The net result is that using new customer acquisition rate as a KPI remains a challenge under Smart Bidding.

Testing found that Smart Bidding’s algorithm overrode RLSA bid modifiers…and failed to exclude known visitors in the NC campaigns.

We also discovered that tROAS inadvertently focuses on users with high conversion propensity (i.e., strong site interaction and high recency). Audience exclusion – Google’s efforts to exclude existing customers – failed to work during the test period. Instead, it was bidding in the campaign that focused on users with more incremental conversions.

The Bad: In a race against dynamic promotions, Smart Bidding will lose (for now)

With any major account change (new product groups, new targets), tROAS regresses to its learning phase. As Fred Vallaeys mentioned previously, certain unique factors still cause machine learning to slip up. Targets will often change in respect to sales promotions, news coverage, etc. So be warned: Advertisers with highly dynamic promotional calendars should always keep an eye on proceedings (bidding manually) to avoid automated getting left behind.

The Weird: Smart Bidding tends to overwrite overlapping conversions

Drafts and experiments can use either a cookie-based or search-based split. Either drafts and experiments didn’t work with tROAS properly, or the auction eligibility changed the moment tROAS activated.

In shared customer journeys spanning both A and B campaigns (i.e., the same user was exposed to auctions won by both tROAS and our bidding approach sequentially), tROAS won the conversion 40 percent of the time. We won the conversion 21 percent of the time.

In other words, tROAS is more likely to overwrite existing cookies when a conversion is going to take place, which makes no sense given it should be a 50/50 split test.

The Weird: Decent ROAS, lower profits

Testing in a drafts and experiments setup simply can’t compare to a geo-split test environment. As noted above, campaign interference gets in the way of concise results. So, it’s no surprise our tests delivered many ambivalent results.

Top-line results promised a lot, even with a loss of efficiency in new customer acquisition.

On the flip side, our approach appears more profitable than tROAS bidding. Despite relatively small ROAS differences in Market A, we saw a wider ROI gap. Why, exactly? Because the ROI figures follow the New Customer percentage tendency as well as overall efficiency.

A lower new customer rate, particularly in the final weeks of our testing, widened this gap:

Conclusions

Ultimately, we determined that the shift in settings and the resulting change in volume settings meant a new test needed to be run. Yet there were still significant learnings to be had:

Google drafts and experiments is a complete black box. There’s no way to unpack the selection criteria, optimization signals or decisioning systems. Retailers testing using drafts and experiments need to be prepared to lose all visibility into what makes their campaigns tick.

If ROAS is your main KPI, you’ll likely see an upswing in performance. However, there is a strong case to be made for moving towards a more advanced metric. (See here for our POV on margin and customer lifetime value.)  Gaining access to bidding signals that are uniquely available to Google indeed yields benefits to the advertiser.

Smart Bidding still has some growing to do to be useful for complex advertisers. We saw latency when reacting to dynamic promotional calendars and felt constricted when bringing in third party and attributed data sets.

In my next article, I’ll explore how Smart Bidding competes in a more transparent and open testing environment. Stay tuned…

Opinions expressed in this article are those of the guest author and not necessarily Search Engine Land. Staff authors are listed here.

About The Author

Andreas Reiffen is a thought leader in data-driven advertising. His company Crealytics works exclusively in the retail sector, and offers a holistic approach to search, shopping and paid social campaigns. Andreas is a regular speaker at industry events worldwide.

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My District Wanted to Build Trust, So We Started a Black Student Union

When I first became a teacher, people said to me, “This is so great! We need more Black teachers.” At the time, I thought, “Don’t we just need good teachers, period?”

I was raised in Round Rock, Texas, the only Black student in my elementary school. I remember how hard my parents fought to get me and my brother into accelerated math, how my mother was the only parent of color on the school’s steering committee, and yet I was brought up to believe that race didn’t matter. Today, I teach marketing at the same high school I attended. Only 9 percent of students and 4 percent of teachers are Black district-wide.

In 2012, as a new teacher, I recognized what I believed to be a lack of positive campus culture. Many students referred to the school as “ratchet Round Rock.” Round Rock High School celebrated its centennial in 2013, and while our school buildings were not quite 100 years old, it sure felt that way to some students. Our campus has since been beautifully renovated, but back then some students didn’t feel their physical environment was at the same level as other schools in the district.

At the same time, the same small percentage of students participated in multiple activities, while much of the student body seemed disengaged. Although I taught only a few Black students I started to notice that students of color across campus often sought refuge in my room.

I wanted to better understand the roots of these issues, so when a group of students put together a new spirit council to address a negative campus culture, I volunteered to be their sponsor. I will never forget the day I arrived at school early for a Dragon Nation meeting to find two sweet Black girls waiting and eager for the meeting to begin. The girls sat on the left side of the room and by the time the meeting had started, 48 white students had filled in and sat opposite of them on the right side. Though Dragon Nation was ultimately a success at building community, this visual representation of racial division was a painful awakening that I will never forget. I saw the enthusiasm fade from the two girls’ faces as each time they raised their hands or spoke, white students talked over them. I remembered that feeling from my own education.

I started to notice similar behavior everywhere I looked. I got to know a mixed-race friend group of three boys. “When I’m with my friends, I get stopped everywhere,” the white student told me. “But when I’m by myself, teachers don’t notice when I break the rules.” He felt it was especially unfair because the majority of the time he was stopped with his friends, they weren’t doing anything wrong, he said. I encouraged them to document disciplinary differences over time. They used an assignment in their advanced quantitative reasoning class to conduct a racial equity audit of our campus.

Then, in the summer of 2017, another student, Micah Moore, approached me. She had attended a women’s leadership camp and left wanting to form a Black Student Union (BSU), an organization that had not existed at Round Rock High since a six-month attempt back in 1982. Micah needed a faculty sponsor. I agreed immediately and brought an additional sponsor on board.

“This space is open to everyone, it just prioritizes Blackness for 50 minutes at a time,” Micah said at the first BSU meeting, to a full room of students. At our weekly community circle, we cover hot topics like the recent college admissions scandal. In our first year, we printed 217 posters of lesser-known heroes in Black history and provided one per classroom in our school. We plan viewings and discussions for films like “Black Panther” and “The Hate U Give” and bring in guest speakers like Rodney Page, the first Black head coach of a collegiate team in the South. We partner with organizations like Texas Appleseed, Undoing Racism Round Rock and the Round Rock Black Parent Association.

We are raising a new crop of leaders. Students have advocated at the district level to hire more teachers of color and more counselors than cops, and at the state level to address disproportionate discipline. Parents of color have come together to learn and support. When students were not being provided information about Historically Black Colleges and Universities at school, parents decided to put on an HBCU fair to fill the gap. There are now five active BSUs across our district and several more campuses who are interested in forming their own Black Student Union.

My involvement has fundamentally changed how I think about race and inclusion in our education system. Black students need to see people who look like them in positions of authority and white students need to see people who do not look like them in positions of authority.

At the start of every BSU meeting, I take a moment to observe the faces around the room. Students usually start out full of joy as we laugh and eat our snacks. Sometimes though, the world gets heavy as we are forced to confront some of the realities of today. We unpack these things. We talk about how best to support, to advocate. We come together in community. That’s something that’s needed everywhere.

Learn more about the story of Round Rock’s first BSU and how it got started. My District Wanted to Build Trust, So We Started a Black Student Union published first on https://medium.com/@GetNewDLBusiness

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2018 Fantasy Football Mock, RDs 9-10: Multiple upside rookies highlight selections

Nick Chubb is one of several rookies the Yahoo Fantasy “experts” had their eyes on in Rounds 9-10. (AP)

It may be early, but with the NFL Draft now in the rearview mirror, it’s time for some fantasy football drafting. We recently held a 10-team, 0.5 PPR mock to get things started. The 2018 fantasy football season is officially underway.

SEE ROUNDS 1-2 HERE SEE ROUNDS 3-4 HERE SEE ROUNDS 5-6 HERE SEE ROUNDS 7-8 HERE

ROUND 9

Pick 81: Corey Davis, Ten, WR36 – Davis didn’t get the reps he needed early in the season, but down the strech he often dazzled. Fully healthy and with an entire offeseaon under his belt, the fifth overall pick in the 2017 draft has massive breakout appeal. (Liz Loza 2)

Pick 82: Kirk Cousins, Min, QB7 – A top-five producer in back-to-back seasons, Cousins will receive a massive upgrade in both weapons and protection. Thrilled to snag him here. (Loza 1)

Pick 83: Emmanuel Sanders, Den, WR37 – He averaged 138 targets, 1,190 yards and seven touchdowns over his first three seasons in Denver before last year’s down campaign, but expect a bounce back with the Broncos’ improved quarterback play in 2018. (Dalton Del Don 2)

Pick 84: Nelson Agholor, Phi, WR38 – He scored eight touchdowns last year and should finally eclipse 100 targets for the first time in his career. I’ve now drafted Agholor, Alshon Jeffery and Jay Ajayi, as I’m happy to collect pieces of this Philly offense. (Del Don 1)

Pick 85: D.J. Moore, Car, WR39 – For me, Moore was the top rookie receiver in this year’s draft class. He landed in a spot where targets should be guaranteed. (Andy Behrens 2)

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Pick 86: Rex Burkhead, NE, RB33 – Yes, Rex is a committee back. But this is a pretty awesome committee. New England’s offense is a buffet of fantasy points and Burkhead should see 10-14 touches per game. . (Behrens 1)

Pick 87: Kerryon Johnson, Det, RB34 – Another year. Another crowded backfield in the Motor City. However, if there’s one exotic sports car bound to come off the assembly line, it’s the rookie from Auburn. He’ll likely surrender power-back work to LeGarrette Blount and Theo Riddick will steal some receptions, but he’s a legit three-down slasher who excelled in pass pro and receiving with the Tigers. Initially, he should register 10-12 touches per game with room to grow, provided Ameer Abdullah is kicked to the curb. (Brad Evans 2)

Pick 88: Delanie Walker, Ten, TE8 – He’s quietly averaged a 22.6 target share the past two years converting those opportunities into 65 and 74-catch campaigns. Also a favorite red-zone weapon of Marcus Mariota, Walker possesses a higher floor than most believe. (Evans 1)

Pick 89: Matthew Stafford, Det, QB8 – Somewhere along the way, he became deliciously underrated. Stafford has five Top-10 QB finishes in his last seven years, and the odd years weren’t that bad (11th, 15th). No Megatron, no problem — he’s been even better in the post-CJ world.  (Scott Pianowski 2)

Pick 90: Kyle Rudolph, Min, TE9 – Looks like I’m the Vikings sympathizer here; while others are looking California, I’m feeling Minnesota. Rudolph is coming off TE3 and TE6 seasons, and just got a presumed upgrade at quarterback. Sexy, no. Reliable, hell yes. (Pianow 1)

ROUND 10

Pick 91: Carlos Hyde, Cle, RB35 – A lot to unpack in the Cleveland backfield, and maybe I have the wrong guy. But it’s Round 10. Hyde can play in all packages and game situations. (Pianow 1)

Pick 92: Robby Anderson, NYJ, WR40 – Anderson was WR16 in standard last year; only his off-field issues are pushing his price down. But in Round 10, I’m all about upside, and he offers it. (Pianow 2)

Pick 93: Nick Chubb, Cle, RB36 – A surprise addition to a Cleveland team that shelled out considerable cash for Carlos Hyde, Chubb figures to enter into a strict timeshare immediately. He’s a sensational one-cut runner with the size, patience, power (3.77 YAC/att in ’17), balance and build (5-foot-10, 228 pounds) to pound lines on early downs. If Hyde sprains an eyelid, the rookie suddenly becomes a sure-fire RB2 on a much improved Browns team.(Evans 1)

Pick 94: Trey Burton, Chi, TE10 – One of my favorite acquisitions of the offseason, Burton will finally get an opportunity to showcase his wares week-to-week. When he logged at least 50 percent of the snap share from 2016-2017, a span of six games, he averaged 4.3 receptions and 48.0 yards per game totaling three TDs. Extrapolate that output over 16 games and he was essentially Evan Engram from last season. (Evans 2)

Pick 95: Michael Gallup, Dal, WR41 – Dallas’ receiving corps is perhaps the league’s worst, so it wouldn’t be much of a surprise if Gallup were to see triple-digit targets in his first season. (Behrens 1)

Pick 96: Anthony Miller, Chi, WR42 – Five Bears skill players have been drafted through ten rounds. NAGY FEVER IS REAL. (Behrens 2)

Pick 97: Carson Wentz, Phi, QB9 – He tossed 33 touchdowns over 13 games and might’ve won the MVP had he not gotten injured. Wentz should be ready for Week 1, and he’ll helm one of the best offenses in football. (Del Don 1)

Pick 98: Patrick Mahomes, KC, QB10 – Given his rushing ability, the Chiefs’ offensive weapons and system combined with their losses on defense, it’s an ideal setup for the exciting sophomore. Waiting on QB remains the way to go. (Del Don 2)

Pick 99: Marshawn Lynch, Oak, RB37 – Gruden wants to run his offense like it’s 1998 and that means good things for Beast Mode. Sure, the backfield is crowded, but right now Lynch figures to lead the pack. (Loza 1)

Pick 100: Dez Bryant, FA, WR43 – I’ll take a flyer on a three-time Pro Bowl talent who’s motivated to show up his old team.  (Loza 2)

Follow the Yahoo fantasy football crew on Twitter: Brad Evans, Liz Loza, Andy Behrens, Scott Pianowski and Dalton Del Don

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