#this home is queer as fuck and so is my work! thanks!!

[queenwille]

us resident here - i can't speak for any of the college campus experiences of antisemitism, but i do work in queer art spaces within the california bay area (berkeley, oakland, and san francisco). the most common antisemitism i've seen normalized is petty graffiti - "fuck israel" or "fuck zionists" appears somewhere on every block, most of the stop signs near me have a sticker calling to stop genocide where the "i" is shaped like israel colored in with a keffiyeh pattern, and there's a busy freeway underpass that has been wallpapered with memorial posters for hamas, hezbollah, houthi, and iri members a few times (it gets taken down every 6 months or so)

while it's a little less of an every day occurrence, another common trend is artists who aren't making art about i/p will still feel the need to virtue signal with design elements (just putting a crossed out israeli flag in the background for example), or throw away references to an israeli character being hated, or having a villain character (always played by a goy) use a bunch of yiddish words for no reason

this rise in performative vilification is distressing because it's going hand-in-hand with a culture of silence around being able to actually talk about anything jewish

a play by a holocaust survivor i produced recently had the marketing torpedoed by a lot of common arts marketing groups for vague and contradictory reasons (often weaponized incompetence, like one of them would really rather i think they were all morons who don't know how to open a pdf than admit they didn't want to hang up a poster about jews), and i clashed pretty horribly with a dramaturg who kept trying to bring gaza up in the educational resource materials even though the play was entirely set during the playwright's experience before her brother died on a death march

the isolation has had some devastating effects, like the closure of a jewish art museum because of funding problems - something literally every art and culture org in the state is dealing with. while so many other groups are calling for solidarity and mutual aid, this jewish museum received waves of harassing mail and was protested against twice supposedly for NOT promising to NOT platform zionists. showing the truth of "people love dead jews", the first statements of support from other organizations came after the closure announcement, when other museums could play the victim for their own fundraising and cry about how they could be next

while i can't speak for college atmosphere, i do some work in public elementary schools, and they've been removing jewish holidays from their cultural festivals and de-emphasizing the jewishness of many historical americans. mutliple school districts in the state are involved in lawsuits about toxic work environments for jewish teachers, inaction surrounding antisemitic bullying between students, or school boards being too blatant about the erasure i mentioned above

my personal experience might start with dumbass graffiti, and deal more with microaggressions than targeted harassment (except for what i witnessed at the museum), but it is hitting really close to home for me largely because throughout my childhood my family was kind of the picture of jewish american assimilation. we were the only jewish family in town, and i had to consciously try to regain a connection to judaism when i was in college. i'm seeing so many jewish families becoming more quiet and withdrawn and it's like a reenactment of choices my grandparents and parents made long before i was born. i chose to be jewish as much as i was born jewish, but i didn't fight for it as hard as i'm fighting now, and that's what scares me the most

i’m so sorry you’re experiencing this and please remember you’re not alone and we’re thinking of you!!!

thank you for sharing and i’m sending a big tight and overbearing jewish hug 🫂

[midnightwind]

ngl I'm like 5 second away from giving Renn a love interest from House de Riva that she just mercilessly killed for Viago's rise to Talonhood just to really nail home how ride or die she is for her fucked up big brother

[teaspacebar]

spiced chai

part two

pairing: carmen "carmy" berzatto x reader

summary: you've been living in chicago for about a year, and you're suddenly managing the coffee shop in the well beloved bookstore, nan's. you meet carmen berzatto on a not-so-good day. you're thrust into the everchanging societal landscape that is making friends in your 20s..

word count: ~9.7k

warnings: language, depictions of mental illness, barista!reader, afab!reader (but tried to be as neutral as possible), neurodivergent!reader, they don't kiss, could be read as platonic tbh but there's crumbs in there if you look, takes place over the course of a few months, probably doesn't follow canon fully (i'm not caught up yet forgive me)

a/n: *dumps this here and runs* but actually this piece of writing appeared in my brain and i've been picking away at it for a couple of months. i feel like i've put more of myself into this fic than with anything else i've written, so this is definitely more of a self insert (pls be kind or don't read if that's not your vibe). i'm queer, non-binary, and autistic and i just wanted to insert that into this space. i feel like there's more to explore here, so i might write more for this if i feel so inclined.

Meeting Carmen Berzatto was not on your to-do list for Tuesday morning.

Not that having to run down to the nearest corner store to grab milk - since the milk fridge was on the fritz…again - at 4am was in your plans either. It always seemed like one step forward, three giant leaps back with the little shop on the corner you basically called home. It was weird, to be thrust into leadership as your manager made an abrupt exit. 

The small bookstore, with an even tinier coffee shop, had been your place of work for the last year or so. You loved it. The people were great, and Nan, the shop owner, was absolutely lovely. She was getting up in her years, but the genuine care she had for the employees made all the difference. She put her trust in you to run the cafe, saying “You have the experience, and the care you have for people shows. I know this. Everyone knows this. Now you just have to see it - have confidence.”

“Confidence my ass,” you mutter, carrying five gallons of milk around the corner.

What happens next might have been considered the beginning of a rom-com, but you’re a realist, and the world is shitty.

There’s a crash, and the distinct sound of three of the five gallons of milk dropping onto the sidewalk. You stare, watching in slow motion as the milk forms into a river, dripping off the sidewalk into the gutter.

The person who ran into you curses, “Shit — fuck, sorry, I—I wasn’t looking where I was…dammit.”

You grip the other two jugs in your arms, blinking out of the haze to let out a hysterical laugh. “Great…cool cool.” Cold plastic bites into your fingers, and you take a deep breath. “Yeah, okay, what else was gonna happen?” You finally look up to see the one you collided with. The man looks extremely uncomfortable, foot tapping like he wants to bolt. Plastering on a smile you shake your head, “It’s fine. I’m the one who thought carrying five gallons of milk would be fine.” You ramble on, trying to ease his nerves, “I mean — why would I drive, like, thirty seconds. Park, get the milk, come all the way back. Seemed stupid…but now there’s milk in my socks.” You grimace, fighting the urge to chuck the remaining jugs of milk in the street so you could also hurl your milk-soaked shoes and socks after them. It makes the ache in your chest sharpen.

“Here, where are you —“

You cut him off, “No, no, it’s okay. I got it, thank you.” You gesture to the door that’s just a few feet away from you. “This is me, anyway.” You adjust your hold on the milk, brushing past the man to pull open the door. You catch it with your hip, not daring to look back as you head behind the counter. You release a sigh, setting the bane of your existence on the black speckled marble. 

“Fuck,” you whisper, pressing the backs of your hands to your eyes. You shake out your arms, biting your lip. “Okay, asshole, let’s get your shit together.” You quickly put the milk into the small fridge below the bar and walk to the back. The squish of your socks curdles your stomach, and you breathe through your mouth to avoid the smell. You take off your shoes, throwing them into a plastic bag to take home. Tossing your socks into the garbage, you grab your replacement sneakers and socks from your cubby. It wasn’t the first time you’ve dropped something on your shoes, it wouldn’t be the last.

You take your time in the back. You had gotten to the shop around 4am, unable to sleep. You were messing around with recipes, seeing if there was a possibility of baking some of the food in the cafe fresh, instead of outsourcing. It was something you put on your own plate, and you didn’t want to disappoint Nan. You had shown up early, looking to try out some muffins, and noticed the fridge had been hovering at sixty degrees all night. You’ll have to grab some more milk before the day starts, but that could be a problem for 8am you.

Walking through the swinging doors, you jump as you see someone at the bar counter. Pressing a hand to your fluttering heart, you finally take in the man that had run into you earlier. A mop of curly hair on his head, white tee, very blue eyes…and standing behind eight gallons of milk.

“Um…” you look between the milk and him a few times.

“The…uh – the door was unlocked. Figured I owed you one.” He rubs the back of his neck.

“How’d you even get it all here?” 

“Made two trips.” His gaze snaps back to you as you laugh, this time more genuine. “Fridge go out, or somethin’?” You’re still staring at him like he has two heads, and he rambles on, “Sorry for just…barging in. I used to go to this place…when I was kid. My sister and I would grab whatever pastries they had left for the day. And, yeah, we’d just sit, read random shit. I work at the restaurant just down the street…’s why I ran into you. Wasn’t paying attention – sorry, again.”

Suddenly, it all clicks. “You own The Bear.”

“Uh, yeah – yeah, I do.”

You feel nervous, out of the blue. Nan hadn’t stopped talking about the Berzatto’s, and Natalie had become a regular while the restaurant was being remodeled. You’re sure you’d seen other employees come in as well, for reading material. You vaguely remember talking to a very sweet man about baking, as he carried a ton of cookbooks in his arms.

You knew Carmen Berzatto, but only through the words of others – and the research you did late one night because you were nosey. To have him standing in the bookstore you worked at, for him to have gotten you milk, is sending you for a loop. Swallowing a lump in your throat, you begin to put the milk in their new home. You really need to call the refrigerator guy again. 

“That’s so cool,” the words fall from your mouth, others staying in your head. 

It's insane that someone like him is even speaking to you. He’s around the same age as you; He owns a restaurant and you’re barely able to run a tiny coffee bar in a bookstore. You’re an idiot who dropped milk onto the sidewalk. Why didn’t you just take the car? You should’ve just taken the car. Now Carmen fucking Berzatto has bought you milk at 5am because he feels bad for you. How pathetic. Call the fucking refrigerator guy.

“Thanks…for the milk.” You back away from the counter, gesturing behind you, “Lemme grab some money from the cash box real quick.”

“No, don’t worry about it.”

“It’s really fine, you didn’t have to go out of your way. I’ll be right back.” The itch creeps its way up your spine, and you push through the door as a shudder passes through you. You shake out the twitch, going and grabbing the cash box. You do mental math, trying to see how much you should give him. Did he even need the money? “Idiot,” you chide yourself. Today was not the day for your brain. 

Snagging a twenty and a ten, you rush back out to the bar, only to find the store empty. A groan escapes through your teeth, and you clench the cash in your hands, crumpling it. You walk to the front door, peering out to see if you can spot the chef. He must’ve made a quick getaway. As you turn to get prepped for the day, you spot a brochure on the counter, far away from its home of the stand at the front of the bookstore. Eat Your Way Through Chicago! 

Scribbled on the front is a phone number, and the words:

Fridge  Ask for Fak Say Carm sent you

“Fucking fuck.” You whisper, a smile creeping on your face against your will, “Asshole.”

It’s later in the week when you hear the bell attached to the front door – ding! You poke your head up from where you're arranging some alternative milks under the counter, seeing a familiar blonde.

“Hey, Natalie!” You pop up, an easy grin appearing on your face. “Half-caff?”

She nods, “Please.”

“How are you?” 

“Oh, you know.”

You ring her up quickly, then grab a pitcher to steam some milk for her latte. Natalie walks away from the counter to browse some books. The steam wand whirs, and you watch the vortex inside the pitcher. You touch the sides every so often, waiting for it to get to the right temperature. Making drinks is all muscle memory now, and you tamp the espresso grounds into the portafilter with precision. Wiping the excess from the lip, you lock it into the machine and press the shot button. As the shot pulls, you wipe down the steam wand with a wet cloth. 

“Is this any good?” Natalie has come back over, holding up a book with a half-naked man on the front.

You laugh, “It’s a Nan recommendation, so…” The shots are poured into the paper cup, and you swirl the milk into it, doing a quick tulip design. You sprinkle a little cinnamon over the top, before placing it in front of the woman.

“Smutty then, for sure.” Natalie laughs, then does a little excited gasp when she sees the latte art. “It looks so good every time!” 

“Thanks,” you reply, “Gets covered by the lid, but it’s fun to practice.”

“Too bad you don’t have for-here mugs,” she says thoughtfully.

“Ever the idea-haver! There'd be more spills to clean up – Nan would lose her mind if any books got ruined.” You point to the book still in her hand, “You want me to ring you up for that?” It was early enough in the afternoon that the only other person here was a part-timer, Jack, somewhere between the shelves stocking books. You had convinced Nan to upgrade to a different register system (which ended up saving money in the long run), so you’re able to ring up both books and café products at your register. 

She shakes her head, sighing. “I barely have any time to read, these days. I was thinking about trying out audiobooks? I used to listen to them at my old job, but it’s way too loud in the kitchen for that to work out.” The latte goes to her mouth, a pleasant hum leaving her as she takes a sip. “You’re the best.”

“Thanks, Natalie.”

She squints at you, “It’s Nat, c’mon.” A big conspiratorial grin makes its way onto her face, “So, I heard that you got some help with your fridge.”

A sharp pain twists in your chest. “Oh, um…yeah.” You let out a soft chuckle, “It’s working, which is great. Neil was a big help.”

“He said you made him the best hot chocolate he’s ever had,” Natalie taps the counter with her pointer finger twice. “Said he didn’t know how you got his number, though.” 

You shrug, wiping down the counter, “Nan had it. And the usual guy wasn’t calling me back.” Neil had told you the exact same thing, both about the drink and the number. Something had held you back from saying where you got the number from. Embarrassment, maybe? It felt weird, feeling like you owed anyone favors, or that things would be unbalanced. People usually never give without looking to receive.

“Frankie, right? He’s an asshole. Overcharges for everything.” Natalie doesn’t push you for answers, something you’re grateful for.

“Right! He disappeared one time and said he’d ‘be right back’ and then was gone for like, two hours! And he added that to his hourly!” The two of you giggle at the shittiness of people for a minute, when a ping causes Natalie to pull her phone from her pocket.

“I should run.” She reaches into her purse, and puts a five into your tip jar. “Thanks again!” 

As she turns to go, you call out her name. “Would you - maybe - I have some extra muffins. The place we get them from gave us some of the wrong ones…or they’re a tad over baked, or something. I can’t sell them. Would you wanna take them with you?”

“That’s so sweet of you! Yeah, I’m sure they’ll get eaten up.”

You grab the box of muffins, handing them over to her, “Thanks.”

“Thank you, babe.” She leaves with a smile, and you look down to brush the flour off your apron. 

“Hey, guys, I got some goodies!” Natalie sets the box of muffins on the table, where everyone is seated for family meal. 

Neil immediately grabs the box, pointing to the sticker on the top, “You went to Nan’s? Man, I could use a hot chocolate right now.” 

“I’m sure you can walk over there and order one, my love.” Natalie replies, waving for him to put the box back on the table.

Marcus snags two muffins, handing one to Sydney who is sitting on his right. Taking a bite, he stops chewing, eyebrows raised. “Dude,” he nudges the girl next to him.

“Dude,” Syd parrots, popping some muffin into her mouth. “Wait, woah.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” 

“Nat, where did you get these?” Sydney calls to the woman now sitting at the end of the table. The muffins are passed down the rest of the table.

Marcus has started dissecting the muffin, “Macadamia nuts, sick.”

“Oh they’re from Nan’s just down the corner!” She tells them how you offered them to her since they were the wrong ones from a vendor and possibly over-baked.

Syd snorts, “Over-baked? These are perfect!”

“What’s perfect?” Carmy walks out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel.

“Bear, come eat!” Natalie waves him over, pulling him into the seat next to hers. “You’ve been at it all morning, take a minute, okay?” She gives him a look that tells him not to argue, and he huffs in response, but does as she says.

“What’s perfect?” He asks again, taking the muffin box from Sweeps as it’s passed to him. As the cinnamon crumble topping hits his taste buds, he leans back in his chair. “Shit.”

“That’s what we’re saying!” 

Syd and Marcus begin talking over one another, the dull roar of family making its home in Carmy’s ears. He has another bite of muffin, thumb swiping over the sticker atop the box.

Nan’s Books & Brews

Simple lettering, surrounding a doodle of a coffee cup sitting on an open book.

“When did they,” he clears his throat as he leans closer to Nat, “when did they start doin’ stuff like this?”

Natalie purses her lips, “Not sure, honestly. They only had that small coffee machine and that plastic pastry case when we were growing up, remember? I think they added the actual coffee bar right before Covid?” Carmy nods, looking out the windows, a curdle in his stomach.

“A lot’s changed,” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” Nat sighs, a hand over her stomach, “a lot has.”

A few weeks go by, as uneventful as they can be. You try out more recipes, and the staff of Nan’s is always sent home with one treat or another. Muffins, cinnamon rolls, croissants (which were a bust), and the like. Natalie is still a regular, and Neil has shown up to save your ass more than once. The brochure with his number on it taunts you from where it’s stuck up on the corkboard in the back.

Which is what has led you to standing in front of The Bear, a joe-to-go in one hand, paper bag in the other. An envelope burns in the inner pocket of your flannel jacket. Steeling your nerves, you knock on the door. Some yells are heard from inside, nicknames getting passed around like it’s a holiday dinner. You see a man walk towards you, in a nice suit, and he opens the door.

“Can I help you?” It’s not said unkindly, but there’s a look in his eyes that’s making you nervous. 

“Coffee delivery?” You say sheepishly, holding up the coffee traveler by its cardboard handle.

“Richie, who’s at the - hey!” Natalie immediately smiles when she sees you, and you sigh a breath of relief. Things were easy with her; she had this amazing way of comforting you without even trying.

“Hi,” you wiggle your fingers, still keeping hold of the objects in your hands. “Wanted to say thanks for all the help Neil’s been giving me, and when Nan found out, she insisted I bring over some coffee for the team, so…”

“You workin’ at Nan’s?” The guy - Richie - asks.

“For the past year or so, yeah.” You reply, thanking Natalie as she grabs the paper bag from you.

“Let them in, Richie, c’mon.” She presses on his chest, causing him to back up with his hands in the air. “Come in! I’ve been meaning to ask if you wanted to come by for a tour.” You follow behind her, taking in the layout of the place. It’s absolutely gorgeous, and a sense of awe falls over you. She has you set the coffee traveler on the bar, letting you take the paper bag from her hands. You pull out a cup holder with two cups in it.

“One half-caff french vanilla latte for you and…a hot chocolate for Neil.” As if by magic, Neil pops through the door to the kitchen.

“For me?!”

You chuckle as he pulls you into a hug. When he pulls away, he grabs his cup with a happy sound, rushing back into the kitchen when “Fak!” is yelled.

“The fuck Fak get a coffee for?” Richie frowns, causing you to bristle. Natalie swats at him, beginning to explain as you continue to walk around the restaurant. As you pass by a wood table, your fingers tap on it, the sound echoing in your ears. It sends a shiver through you, and a small smile appears on your lips. 

Natalie calls out to you, tearing your gaze back to her. People have begun to swarm around the bar, placing food on it, and your coffee is suddenly surrounded by things that smell amazing. “Did you want to eat with us, babe?” Attention turns to you, and the itchiness in your limbs reappears with a vengeance.

 A tall man, wearing a beanie, grins, “Hey, those muffins were amazing, by the way.”

You sputter, “Oh. Um—“

“Tell the chef, or baker — whoever,” he laughs at himself. “They were fire.”

Warmth rises in you, “Yeah, I’ll pass it on.”

“Babe, lunch?” Natalie says again, louder this time. More of the staff have begun digging into their meals.

“No, it’s okay!” The corner of your mouth curves up in a small smile, this one less genuine than before. You begin to back up towards the door, a gnaw of guilt in your gut as Natalie frowns. 

“Cousin! Food!” Richie yells out, followed by laughter from everyone else.

“I’m coming!” A familiar figure bursts through the kitchen door, “You don’t gotta yell like an asshole.”

Carmen Berzatto stops in his tracks when he sees you; the envelope in your pocket burns hotter. You look down at your shoes, but they just remind you of the milk dripping down the sidewalk.

“Carm,” Natalie introduces you, “they work at—“

“Nan’s.” Everyone chimes in, and you have to stop yourself from flinching. You look over at Carmy, eyes meeting.

There’s a moment where you feel like you’re going to get swallowed whole. The pipes are going to burst and water will fill up the room and you’re going to drown.

You walked straight into a den of hungry beasts, and you’re just a measly rabbit.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay?” Natalie’s words are muffled in your ears, but you manage to shake your head.

“I have someone from books covering me, and they barely know how to work the espresso machine.” You force a laugh. It grates against your vocal chords. “It was nice meeting you guys, though.” With a meek wave, you turn on your feet and speed out the door. Rounding the corner, you keep walking until you’re sure they can’t see you. Veering into the alleyway behind the restaurant, you let out a shaky breath, leaning against the brick. 

You press your thumb into the palm of your hand. Inhale, hold four seconds, exhale. Inhale, hold four seconds, exhale. It’s over before it starts, but your chest remains tight. A reminder, which will eventually dissipate once you're back in the shop.

The coffee bar, your shield; apron, your armor. 

A door opening causes you to jump, startled. Your eyes meet blue, widening like you’ve been caught. “Sorry! I was just–” You push off the brick.

Carmen seems just as surprised as you, “No, s’fine.” He clears his throat, as the two of you settle into silence.

A fwip of a lighter. Four seconds. An exhale of smoke.

You’re unsure if you should leave, but it’s like the bottoms of your shoes are stuck to the ground. “Did you-” He starts, lifting up his hand that holds a lit cigarette.

You shake your head, “No, but - um, thanks.” Your fingers twitch, and you reach to pull the envelope from inside your jacket. Something that appears so insignificant, held out in the space between you. When he just stares, you wave it a bit, until he takes the envelope with his free hand.

“What’s this?” 

“Cash, for the milk you bought.”

“You didn’t have to-“

“I did.” You bounce on your heels, “I should actually get going this time. Just wanted to give you that but…” He doesn’t respond, something you’re getting used to. You wonder where the man who rambled about reading with his sister at Nan’s went, but decide now is the best time to make your escape. As you start to walk toward the street, you turn, “The restaurant looks great, by the way. Good luck with the opening.”

“Good luck with the opening.”

Inhale. Four seconds. Exhale.

"Let it rip, Bear."

Inhale. Four seconds. Exhale.

“-a complete waste of fucking time.”

Inhale. Four seconds. Exhale.

“I’m really sorry you feel that way, Carm.”

Natalie invites you to Friends & Family.

You don’t go.

The next month flies by. Marcus, Richie, and Syd have joined your little group of regulars. Richie even brings his daughter, Eva, whenever he’s able. She’s a joy and absolutely hilarious to have around. Richie has grown on you, the rough edges of him softening after a few cortados.

One night, he had rushed into the shop, Eva in tow, all but begging you to watch her for a few hours. He was supposed to be off for the day, to spend time with his daughter, but they’re understaffed at The Bear. A few weeks in, which confused you, but questions weren’t asked. You said yes - obviously - and had Eva help you with little things around the shop, until you close. The two of you bonded over a shared love of Taylor Swift while making muffins. By the time Richie came to pick her up, Eva was tuckered out in a loveseat, patchwork blanket tucked up to her chin.

“I owe you one,” Richie had whispered, holding his daughter in his arms.

You shook your head, “You deserve to have time with her.”

He scoffed, rolling his eyes, “Yeah, bring it up with the Bear himself.”

You weren’t planning on it. The man is barely on your mind. Except for every time someone from The Bear walks in. They look drained, more and more each day. It’s a certain type of pain, to watch people – that once had so much life in them – lose the light that you felt so harshly the first time you walked into the restaurant. You hear inklings; mentions of a changing menu every night, nonnegotiables, and the like.

It worries you. It’s not your place - you’re more than aware of that. But you’ve come to care for these people. And by extension, some part of you wants to see how he’s doing. It’s an odd - biting -feeling. How strange it is, to know someone through everyone else’s eyes but your own. You have to fight back the urge to force yourself into the places you do not fit. You’re resigned to watching from afar, providing comfort behind your coffee bar. It’s what you’re good at. It might be all you're good at.

Some sick twist of fate decides to upturn it all one Friday night.

Carmy had stayed late, to nobody’s surprise. He’d been adjusting the menu, preparing it for tomorrow, when the flashes hit him. He decides to walk it off, popping another thing of nicotine gum into his mouth. He walks aimlessly, trying to push the overwhelming thoughts out of his head. The street is dark - most places being closed - but light pours onto the sidewalk, just a few feet ahead of him. Almost a reflex, he peers into the windows.

A laugh of disbelief - more a huff of air through his nose - leaves him.

You’re dancing, headphones over your ears, as you mix something in a large bowl. It’s unlike anything he’s seen - from you or otherwise. There’s a sense of freedom in your movements, so different from the few times he’d seen you before. The tightness in his chest lightens, some, at the sight of you so obviously in your element.

And you're looking right at him.

“Shit,” he mumbles. You tilt your head at him, doing a little wave. He lifts a hand in reply, and you point haphazardly at the door. Before he can respond, or walk away – anything, you’re heading around the counter. A click of the door unlocking, and you pull it open part way.

“Hey,” you say, a little loud. With a wince, you pull the headphones off to rest around your neck. Music can be heard – a muffled, upbeat song that he doesn’t recognize. “Hey,” you say again, quieter this time. Silence passes between you, and he watches your nose twitch. “…did you wanna?” You jut your thumb behind you. You’re almost unrecognizable from the first time you met, calmer, somehow.

“Yeah, sure.” The words come out, easier than he thinks, and slips through the door you hold open. You lock it behind him, turning back around to slide behind the counter.

You grab a muffin tin, beginning to fill each one with a scoop of the batter you had been mixing. You make quick work of it, pushing them into the small commercial oven, wiping your fingers on the towel that’s pulled through a loop in your jeans.

Leaning against the counter, you finally look at him, “Okay, Pick your poison.”

“What?”

“Coffee? Americano, latte, cappuccino?” It’s like you’re trying to read him, wanting to crack the spine of a book and see what’s inside.

“I don’t really do the…caffeine.”

You hum thoughtfully, tapping your fingers on the counter in some type of rhythm. “Can I make you something? Low-caffeinated, of course.” He nods. “Anything you hate?” A shake of his head.

You grab a cup and get to work. You’re singing under your breath - the song that’s playing from the headphones around your neck. With your eyes off of him, he takes a moment to actually observe the shop. Warm lighting, with dark wood bookshelves making it feel cozy without being too claustrophobic. There’s smaller tables, with different recommendations for certain genres. A sprinkling of string lights and hanging plants just adds to the homey feeling, one so different from the pristine, white kitchens he’s used to being in. So different from his own restaurant. The coffee shop portion is close to the front, dark marble countertops and a chalkboard menu - swirling letters describing monthly drink specials.

“Alright, order up,” you call out softly.

Carmy walks back up to the bar, eyeing the cup. Warmth presses into his skin as his fingers curl around it. You mention that it’s hot, to let it cool for a bit. Silence falls between the two of you - in a way he finds comforting. Your eyes flick between him and the counter you’re wiping down.

“Do you normally do this?” He asks.

“The making drinks thing, or the staying at the shop way too late thing?” You give a wry smile. “Could ask you the same.”

He scratches at his nose, “Noted.”

The minutes pass; you go about cleaning the shop, rinsing dishes and setting things up for the next day. It’s an art he’s well versed in. The muscle memory takes over for you, and Carmen becomes invisible. It feels nice, to just be in a place where nobody has anything to ask of him. He finally tries the drink. It’s good, milky, if a little sweet, but it eases the last of the sourness in his stomach away. A timer on your phone goes off, and you tug on a flowery oven mitt to pull the muffins out of the oven. Chocolate and spice invades his nostrils, soothing him even more. You grab one, hissing a bit since it’s hot, and put it on a plate, bringing it back over to him. Leaning over the bar, you reach for forks that are in a metal cup, right near Carmy. You’re close, with no care about being in his personal space. It’s only for a second, and then you’re back in your previous position.

“You can have some, as long as you promise not to be an ass about it.” You hold out a fork for him. The words cause him to cringe, but he takes the utensil from you.

He stares at the muffin, running his thumb on the underside of the fork. “How much trouble am I in?”

You shrink back a little, “W-what?”

He’s met you what - twice? Both times felt clunky, an awkwardness to the both of you. Here, it’s simpler. Under the cover of night, huh? A voice that sounds awfully like Mikey’s says in the back of his mind. His family won’t stop talking about you. Or drinking your coffee.

“The Bear,” he mutters. “They talk to you, right?”

You laugh, surprised. “Do you actually want to know?” You hold up a hand before he can reply, “Actually, no. They don’t talk to me. I see things, sure. But I’m not getting anyone in trouble with the boss.” You’re on the defensive, not even for yourself, but for his kitchen.

“They-They’re not in trouble.” One look from you and he deflates, sighing. “Okay, yeah. Just…just say something.”

“I haven’t even been to eat there.”

“You should come,” he says.

Another laugh - a scoff, more-like, “You think I could afford your place?” You bite your lip, pinching the bridge of your nose. After a moment, you continue, gently, “Do you have any fun?”

“Fun.” The word is like poison in his mouth.

“Yes, fun. I know that food service isn't the best, but it’s good to have fun, or to at least enjoy it.” You wave your hands around, “That family meal stuff you guys do? That’s so sweet, and you have a whole family unit going on in that kitchen, or whatever. If this restaurant is supposed to be the rest of your life, you should like it, at least a little bit, right?” Your torso melts into the counter, and you rest your head on your arm. “And like, maybe? Don’t change the menu every night, or something. It’s new, right? You gotta work out the kinks first before jumping in all-” you blow air out through your cheeks.

A beat of quiet, then, “The menu, huh?”

“Eleven thousand for butter?” You parrot back. At his frown, you hold up your hands, “I’m just a barista, what would I know?” You say it without heat, and yet he feels guilt crawl up his throat.

“That’s not-”

“I know, Carmen.” A sigh leaves your lips, “You asked, so I talked. Again, take everything with a grain of salt.” The words get softer, as if you’re talking more to yourself than to him, “Just remember who’s going down with you if it ends up crashing and burning.”

You stab your fork into the muffin, tearing it in half. He follows suit, lifting a bite of it to his lips. Spice floods his taste buds, and he grunts. You blink up at him, fork hanging from your mouth. He’s suddenly starving, and he eagerly gets himself another forkful. “S’good.” He mumbles through the food. Carmen watches as you process his words, pressing your lips together to hide a smile. You two finish the muffin, and there’s an ominous sense of peace that covers him like a blanket. “Thanks.”

“For yelling at you?”

Carmy lets the chuckle spill out, “If that’s what you call yelling…” He trails off, sobering, “Do you have fun?”

You hum, contemplating. “Yeah. I mean, it’s coffee, at the end of the day. It’s just nice to see people, to make their day a little better than it was. I like to try out new things, to create, to get recommendations.” You stop, seeing him staring at you, “What?”

“You’re different…from the other day, s’all.”

You’re perplexed, scrunching your nose, “Well I had a bad day, the first time. And I don’t do…well, with new people.”

“Unless you’re behind the counter.”

Your eyes widen, something flickering behind them, like he’s seen something you didn’t want him to. “Touche.” Checking your phone, you clear your throat, “Alright, we should probably get out of here if we want any semblance of sleep.” He follows your lead, as you flick off the lights, throwing you backpack over your shoulder. He waits while you lock the front door, small key dangling on a keychain. You turn, looking at him, before holding out a paper bag, “Muffin for the road?”

He grabs it, an odd feeling bubbling in his chest, “Oh - uh, thanks.”

You suddenly look sheepish, fiddling with the strap of your bag, “And if you’re out late again, feel free to stop by. If you need a break, or something.” A beat. “Oh, again, take what I said with a grain of salt, yeah? Just - maybe - try to take care of yourself a little.” You laugh nervously, and Carmy sees the truth of his earlier observation. You’re still more relaxed, but the nerves have crept in as you step outside your comfort zone. Something he knows all too well. “Anyways, have a good night - morning.” You shake your head, blowing a raspberry through your lips.

“Night. Get home safe.” He murmurs. You turn on your heel, walking down the street. He tightens his grip on the paper bag.

Take care of yourself.

At least enjoy it.

You should like it, at least a little bit, right?

Carmy doesn’t know if he truly remembers what liking cooking is like. He’s found little bits of it, in moving back home. In Marcus’ eyes as he creates something new. In Syd’s determination to make amazing food. There’s a passion there that he’s lost somewhere along the way.

He sees it in you, and it calls out to him - the tide being pushed and pulled by the moon. A curious feeling, gnawing at his stomach. A hunger for something he can’t make sense of, but he pulls the muffin out of the bag to eat on his walk home.

Carmy keeps showing up at Nan’s, usually late at night. You didn’t expect him to take you up on your offer, yet a smile graces your lips every time he does.

He was right, when he said you feel most comfortable behind the counter. You knew it, but having someone else acknowledge it felt…weird. Like you weren’t playing your part right. Yet it also felt good, to be seen.

Conversation between the two of you still feels stilted, occasionally, but you find comfort in the quiet moments. And the not-so quiet ones; with music playing at just above a reasonable level, you mouthing the words as you dance around behind the bar. The mask slowly slides off when he comes around, and it’s easier to be goofy.

You think it surprises him. He’s not quite sure what to do, when you’re cruising on the linoleum tile you call a dance floor. But he never tells you that you’re weird, or too much. You’ve maybe even seen him bite back a smile. You swear there’s dimples hiding somewhere — a fleeting thought that you let fly away before you linger on it too long.

“What do you think?” You’ve turned the music down, notepad on the counter, your favorite pen in hand. You click it a few times, sound satisfying the little itch in the back of your brain.

“Not sure if I’m a matcha fan,” Carmy murmurs. You nod, writing down his response onto the paper. It’s almost filled — you’ll have to turn to the next page soon — with different drinks you’ve had Carmy try, determined to find the right one. He’s harder to pin than others, something you’re not necessarily surprised by.

That's partially on you. You're unsure of how much to ask. How much could you poke the both metaphorical and literal Bear until it breaks? You've been enjoying your time, but you've yet to ask him how work is going. He doesn't ask you about your personal life, so why would you ask about his?

There's a curiosity there, though. To see what makes Carmen Berzatto tick. You fear the two of you might be a little too similar.

You turn to go back to cleaning your mess — the reason being a fresh tray of cookies cooling on the counter, when he says your name. “Did you get a new tattoo?”

Gaze flashing to the wrap you have on your arm, peeking out from the sleeve of your shirt, you turn bashful. “Oh,” you hum, “I did. It’s been on my list for awhile. I’m keeping it wrapped at work while it heals - god knows I spill everything all over myself.”

“Can I — What did you get?” He’s just as sheepish as you, a boyish glow about him. You’d never talked about tattoos before. His evidence is on his arms; yours are mostly concealed — easy to hide with the oversized button downs and jeans you wear.

You pull your phone from your back pocket, “Here, I’ll pull up a photo of it.” Placing your phone on the counter, Carmy grabs it, zooming in on the two-headed calf that’s found its home on your bicep. The tattoo is fresher in the photo, line work popping out against your skin. “The longest living two-headed calf lived 17 months. Her name was Gemini — a little on the nose, I think. There’s also this poem by Laura Gilpin, that just kinda struck me.” Your ramble tumbles off, a half smile pulling at your lips. “It’s sad, but the kind that makes you hurt in a nice way? If that even makes sense.” You wave a hand around, then reach to take a sip from his cup.

The matcha settles the nerves hiding under your skin, the earthy flavor dancing on your tongue. As you set the cup back on the counter, you point at his hand, “What’s that stand for?” Your own fingers twitch, fighting the urge to brush them across his own. “S.O.U?”

“Ah, sense of urgency.” He says, fiddling with your phone.

You laugh, quickly covering it with a hand, “Sorry, I — sorry, that just makes so much sense.” Before he can speak, you shake your head, “Not in a bad way, necessarily. It’s just so obvious how little work-life balance you have.”

“We’re literally at your shop in the middle of the night.” Carmen huffs exasperatedly, corner of his mouth curling up.

You hold your hands up, conceding, “Okay, I get it. Misery loves company - or whatever. God, we’re both crazy, aren’t we? We should get out more.”

He hums in response, tapping his phone twice to check the time. Anxiety swells up in your throat, and there’s something biting at your heels. The silence doesn’t feel comfortable anymore.

You said something wrong, the little voice in your head whispers. You lost the script and got too close and now he’s pulling back. How can you fix it? You have to fix it.

“What’s your favorite one?” His blue eyes glance up at you. Invisible hand squeezing your lungs, you stammer, “Tattoo. What’s the one you like most?”

His words come out softly, “A house boat. I, uh, got it before leaving Copenhagen. I stayed in one while I was over there, and put out water for an invisible cat.” Relief floods you as he talks. It’s the most he’s spoken about anything, and you see a glimmer behind his eyes.

It feels a little too close to home.

“You really loved it over there, huh?”

As if caught, he clears his throat, “It was cool…different.”

Different from Chicago, you don’t say. “I get that,” you murmur instead.

You knew what it was like, to run away. The need for escape pushing you into flight as the metaphorical dog chases the rabbit.

You wonder what Carmen’s dog was. Or is. If it’s even a dog at all.

“What about you? What’s your favorite?”

You’re pulled from your thoughts. “Oh! Um, it’s silly.” You worry at your bottom lip.

“You don’t—”

“No, hold on, it’s just,” you push yourself onto the counter with the palms of your hands. Carmen leans back as you swing your legs over the bar, letting your feet rest on the barstool next to him. You lean over, pulling up your pants leg to show the tattoo on the right side of your calf. He stares at it for a moment, confusion clear in his gaze. “See, I told you.”

“Is it a moth, or something?”

“Moth-man, Carmen. Mothman.”

“Am I supposed to know what that is?”

“He’s a cryptid. There’s literally stories of a Chicago Mothman.” He peers up at you in amusement, causing you to scrunch your face at him. “I swear on my life Carmen Berzatto, don’t be an asshole.”

“I’m not.” He laughs, and your chest loosens. You got Carmen Berzatto to laugh. “It looks good, the style is nice,” he gestures to your leg.

You smile, “Thanks.”

Nodding, he goes to sip from his cup. He makes a face, pulling it away from him, “Yeah, I don’t like this.”

He holds it out to you as you reach for it, laughter spilling from your lips, “More grass for me.” You drink, and let the cup rest on your thigh, fingers tapping on the plastic lid.

“I’m not…” Your head turns to look at him, watching as he runs a hand through his hair. “I’m not really good at this.”

“...at what?” You whisper, scared if you talk any louder you’ll scare him away.

“Talking? Not working? Who the fuck knows,” his hand leaves his hair and passes over his face.

“I’m not either, really.” You pick at your jeans, “But we’re trying, right? You come by more than I thought you would.”

“Really?”

You snort, “Dude, the first time I was surprised you even came in.” Gently, you add, “And you don’t have to be perfect at conversation to be friends with someone.” His eyes meet yours as you nudge his shoulder with your knee. “I’m weird, you’re weird, that’s okay.”

Carmen rolls his eyes good naturedly. His legs are bouncing, and you can almost see him chewing the word around before it finally leaves, “Friends?”

“Friends.” You affirm. Silence passes between you, until a growl comes from your stomach.

The man laughs, looking all the prettier for it, “You hungry?”

“Starving,” you groan.

He gets up from his seat, grabbing his denim jacket that’s hung over the chair on his left, “C’mon.”

It takes a moment, but it clicks. “Oh my god,” you gasp out, hopping off the counter. With a speed you only have during a lunch rush, you run to the back. You untie your apron, hang it up on a hook, and grab your tote bag. “Wallet, keys, phone…phone!”

“Out here!” Carmen yells. You grin, rushing back out to the front, bouncing on your heels. “You good?”

“As I’ll ever be.” You shake your keys with enthusiasm. He laughs as you both leave, and you turn to lock up. There’s excitement buzzing through you, like caffeine would if your brain weren’t wired a bit funky. A thought cuts through the haze, “Oh shit, I forgot to–”

“I got the trash.” The street lights reflect off his blue eyes.

Your heart twinges a little, “Thanks.”

“No problem.” He gestures with his head, “Now let’s go before your stomach eats itself.”

“Hey Carm?!”

The man pokes his head into the office, one hand wrapped around the door, “Yeah, what?”

Natalie raises an eyebrow, “You busy?”

Carmy scoffs, “Yeah, Sugar, I’m busy.”

It’s lunch time. Marcus has pastries, Tina’s running prep. Syd is around…avoiding him. He tries not to think about it for too long. Richie is who knows where.

Fuck, don’t be an asshole, asshole.

Deflating, he asks, “What’s up? Everything okay?”

“I’m spending my hour of alone time figuring shit out here, while Pete watches the baby.” His sister sighs, glancing down at the paperwork on the desk, “I’m managing. Anyways, that’s not what I wanted to talk about.”

He wants to ask about the baby. His niece. But Natalie barrels over the topic to say, “Were you here late the other night?” He must have made a face because Natalie sighs, exasperated. “I know you stay later than everyone else, doing god knows what, but I got a notification on my phone the other night-“

“What notification?”

She rolls her eyes, “The alarm system, dummy. I get alerts.”

“No, yeah, I get that. But I turned it off.”

It could only be from the other night, when he brought you back to the restaurant. He’s not sure why he did — he almost had a panic attack in front of you while debating what to make. It's strange, how much an environment can affect someone. Nan's feels so comfortable to him now, like nothing can happen to him when he's in those four walls. Where was the last place he felt like that?

You don’t need to impress anyone, Carmen. It’s just me, you had said.

Simple words that cut through him like a knife. You asked for comfort food, so he made you grilled cheese with tomato soup. The little dance you did every time you took a bite relit a fire inside of him that had been burnt out by years of working in kitchens.

“I know. I’m asking because the alarm was set, and then you turned it off again a few hours later.” Natalie unlocks her phone, showing him her screen that has some app pulled up with timestamps on it. “Are you sleeping? Look, I know things aren’t great right now—" Natalie cuts herself off with another sigh.

“It’s fine. Things are fine.” At her pointed look, he holds his hands up in surrender. “I’m working on it, okay? Just…are you good? Do you need anything?”

“About 48 hours of interrupted sleep would be great.” Her gripe falls off into a laugh, which he returns.

Stepping into the room further, he pulls the door closer, just a slim crack of clean white light coming through. “I’ve been a shitty brother lately.”

“No…” Natalie snorts, “Okay yeah, a bit. I love you, though.”

He mumbles the words back, tapping out a rhythm on his thigh, “Maybe I could come by, sometime. See the baby.” It’s a blessing and curse how his chest aches when he sees the way her eyes light up.

“I’d love that, Bear.”

“Yo, delivery!” Marcus yells out, pulling the attention of the Berzatto siblings.

“The fuck?” There isn't supposed to be a delivery today.

Natalie gets out of her seat, “Oh thank god.” She ushers Carmy out of the office, pushing past him into the dining room. He follows after her, confused, only to stop in his tracks.

You’re here.

You stand next to Richie, talking animatedly, albeit shy. You’re wearing clothes he doesn’t regularly see you in, the worn denim jacket catching his eye in particular. It’s clear that you aren't working, yet you hold two cups from Nan’s in your hands, a few drink carriers littering a table.

“You’re literally my savior, thank you.” Natalie pulls you into a hug, and you look at Richie with wide eyes. Carmy has to hold back a snort at your expression.

“You should expect this reaction by now, kid.” Richie takes a sip from his drink when you gape at him in exaggerated outrage.

“Shut up, Richie,” Natalie is barely paying attention, saying the words more out of habit. Grabbing a cup from a drink holder, she says, “You’re coming home with me.”

Giggles bubble from your lips, and you go to cover them with the back of your arm. There’s a pull Carmy feels, instinctual, to urge your arm away from your face and hear your genuine laughter fill the room.

Your eyes meet his, finally noticing that he’s there. The smile you give him is earnest, a gentle hello without words. He forces his feet to move, closing the distance. Carmy blatantly ignores the looks both Richie and Natalie are making. You hold out the cup in your hand - the one you weren’t drinking from - and he takes it from you.

Condensation clings to the sides, his name hastily written on the side.

⋆⁺Carmy!⁺˚⋆

There’s a heart in place of the dot at the bottom of the exclamation point, little stars doodled around his name. His stomach flips.

“Iced?” He swirls the drink in hand, mixing it up.

You shrug, “Thought I’d try something different. It’s hot outside.”

“You off?” Bringing the straw to his lips, he hums at the taste. You’re watching him eagerly, head tilted to the side as you wait for his review. “This is nice.”

Squinting at him, you huff, “Not perfect, though.” You type something into your phone — most likely to add to your notebook later. “Had to run some more syrup by the shop. Saw Natalie’s car on the street so I texted her to see if she wanted something to drink. I have errands to run after this.”

“You a regular too now, Cousin?” Richie barks, and Carmy watches as you remember where you are. Who you’re with.

A protectiveness rises up in Carmen, hating the way you recoil into yourself. “Fuck off, Richie.” He looks over at you, “Hungry?”

“Dude, we got shit to do.”

“Richie!” Natalie hisses at the older man, shoving him back toward the kitchen. She calls back to you, “Thanks for the coffee! I promise I’ll come by when I feel more like a human again.”

The customer service clicks into place behind your eyes, “Take care of yourself! Hope the baby is doing well!” Once it's just the two of you, you sigh, knocking the heels of your boots together. “I should get going.”

Carmen nods, “Can I grab you a sandwich, first?”

“Grilled cheese?” You tease, stifling a smile.

He huffs, shaking his head, “Nah, but Ebra’s got window right now. I could throw something together real quick.”

“You don’t have to do that.” He glances down; you’re pressing your thumb into the middle of your hand. It's uncanny, the semblance of himself that is mirrored in you.

“I know.” He wants to, though. “Give me five minutes?”

A moment of hesitation, then, “Okay.”

“Cool.” And he’s off.

Chaos erupts the minute he’s back in the kitchen.

“Since when did the two of you become buddy-buddy?”

“Can we please get back to work? Richie, respectfully, what are you doing back here?” Syd is working on pasta, flour covering her work service.

“I got shoved outta my space, so here I am,” Richie waves his hands around.

The overlapping voices turn into white noise, and Carmy inhales sharply, “Fak!”

“Yes, chef!” Neil appears out of nowhere. Sometimes Carmen thinks there’s a series of underground passages that makes it so easy to get ahold of him. It’s not that crazy of a notion.

“Go and say hello to them, okay? I’m gonna throw together something, give it to them, and then I’ll be right back.” The last part is meant for everyone to hear, but is pointed more toward Richie. “Seriously, just leave it, alright?”

“I’m leaving it,” Richie snarks, but nudges Fak with his elbow. “Think there’s a drink out there with your name on it anyway. Snag me another one of those apple-donut-things too, eh?”

“Fritters!” Marcus calls out from his station.

Carmy sighs deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. He’s queasy; he’ll have to take some pepto later.

Inhale. Four seconds. Exhale.

Let it rip, Bear.

Neil barrels into you, wrapping you in a hug. He talks your ear off for the next couple minutes; you smile when you need to, laugh when you remember.

The yells from the kitchen are playing on repeat in your ears.

They’re talking about you.

The urge to flee tickles the back of your throat. You thought it would be nice to stop by and bring Natalie a coffee, but then you had felt bad about not bringing anything for everyone else, which turned into you jumping behind the bar to make ten drinks. It’s not like you were going to make Morgan, the barista on shift, make them all.

You always had a hard time not working on your days off.

“You should absolutely come!”

“Yeah, that’d be nice.” You reply, still not fully checked back into your conversation with Neil.

He smiles, “Great! I’ll send you the info!”

Before you can ask what you actually agreed to, Carmy pushes back into the room, to-go container in hand. “Hey, uh, Fak, can you go take a look at the toilet for me?” You barely notice Neil leave, focusing more on how your chest releases as Carmen walks closer to you.

He hands you the container, and you murmur a soft, “Thank you.”

“I’ll walk you out, yeah?”

The thought is nice. Glancing behind him, you see Natalie and Richie watching through the window. “It’s okay, you really don’t have to.” You take a step back just as Carmy reaches out to you. You can’t run, they’d see you. Ask questions. They probably see a caged animal.

“Hey,” he whispers your name, “it’s just me.” He’s repeating the words you said to him the night you were here. You tear your eyes away from the kitchen, looking at him. “Lemme walk you out?”

With a nod, you let him guide you out the front door. The warm summer air washes over your skin, and you take in a deep breath. You count the lines in the sidewalk as you pass them, sipping at your iced latte. “It was cool of you to come by,” Carmy says. “And your jacket’s dope.”

He’s trying to make you feel better.

“Did you just say dope?” You peek over in his direction, catching his shrug. “You’re so old.”

“Fuck off,” he laughs, and your smile widens.

You make it to your car, a little thing that has a new problem every other week. It’s been with you for years, moved with you to five different states. More of a sentimental object, than a real mode of transportation. You mostly used CTA these days if you were able, but it was nice to have a car for when you’re running errands all around the city.

“Sorry if they bothered you,” he apologizes, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“No, no, no,” you push out the words, throat tightening, arms hugging your middle. “I thought I was going to try to be a human today. May have jumped the gun on that one.” Fiddling with your keys, you continue, “It was nice to see you. Thought you might be a vampire or something, since I only ever see you at night.”

The joke causes Carmy to roll his eyes, “Is that considered a cryptid?”

You perk up at the word, “Oh, don’t get me started.”

He smiles big enough for his dimple to appear, “Oh, yeah?”

“Unless you want me to talk for hours on end. I’ll make a power-point presentation and everything.” You might already have one in the works, but he didn’t need to know that.

“You could - I mean, it wouldn’t bother me. If you did, you know?”

You blink a few times, frozen in shock. He looks shy, almost. Like the first time you met him, but there’s something between you now. A plant that will keep growing - might even bloom - if the two of you keep watering it. He keeps pecking away at your carefully crafted walls that let people see exactly how much you want them to.

Carmen Berzatto keeps seeing you. Whoever that is.

He coughs, scratching the side of his head. “I’ll see you later?”

“You know where I’ll be.”

“Yeah.”

You walk around to the driver’s side of your car, opening the door. You slide in, turning the key to let your car sputter to life. You roll the windows down, and music starts to blare from your speakers. “Kick ass tonight!” You yell the words as you pull away from the curb. You spare a glance in your rearview, watching Carmy wave before he starts walking back to his restaurant.

When you're parked outside your apartment, it hits you. You dig into your tote bag, pushing aside old receipts, chapstick tubes, and fidget toys. You cheer to yourself as you pull your notebook out, favorite pen hooked over the cover. Flipping to the back, you stare at the list of drinks you've had Carmy try.

You think you want to keep seeing him, too. Whoever that is.

You scribble at the bottom of the page, circling it twice.

Spiced Chai ~ HOT, xtra cinn

[beardysuits]

Piece of Jake

Logan has hated his body his entire life. Obese, gay, and a shut in have been a terrible combination for him. He decides becoming his sexy roommate Jake may be just what he needs to build up his confidence.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I’ve had a crush on Jake for… well forever I guess. I guess that’s one of the perks of being a part of the same class every year since kindergarten; you get to see the cute boys become cute men. Then there was the downside of that, that anybody who bullied you from kindergarten will decide to do it until you graduate. They’ll do it for anything too; being gay, being fat, your race, your wealth. I was lucky enough to get 3 out of the 4 for about 12 years now. However, I’m ready for that to change.

See I was blessed with a fantastic combination of having a slow metabolism, and an anxiety which I decided to soothe with eating. The result has left me to be a 19 year old with a BMI of 42. And yeah, BMI is bullshit if you’re stacked with muscle, but I had the rolls and pudge to prove there was some truth to it. Combine this with the fact that I was more queer than a midnight premier of Rocky Horror, and I came out to be not the most popular guy in school. I thought that would all change once I went to college, but freshman year was hell. I essentially spent the entire time in my dorm room, locked up in the dark and playing video games. But, I guess it wasn’t all that bad.

See, back to Jake. Jake kept his status quo of being one of the top dogs from the ages of 5 to 18. Baseball star, debate captain, and voted “most likely to succeed” by our peers. Top all of that off that he was on of the few people who actually wasn’t a total ass to me, and you can see why I was head over heels for him. He was straight of course, and even if there was a touch of bisexuality in him, he would never be interested in me. Now color me surprised when I found out that not only were we going to the same college, but we got randomly assigned to be roommates in the dorms! I was astounded, it was like there really was an astral force looking out for me. 

So for almost the entirety of our freshman year, we chit chatted here and there, but Jake was almost never home. Instead, he was working to get himself into one of the fraternities and move into the house. While I was sad to not have as much time to admire Jake as I would like, that did give me the opportunity to go through his stuff. Mostly his closet. Jake wore the usual clothes you’d expect, hoodies, jerseys, wrangler jeans and the like. However, being that he was on the baseball team at the college, I found his stash of jockstraps he wore for practice. And good god, thank goodness laundry day was only once a week. The other 6 days I had a full time supply of used jocks to sniff and fantasize with. 

I even tried to put one of them on in a hormone-fueled rage, but my thighs were probably the same mass as his entire body, and I couldn’t get the damn thing on. The longer I admired Jake and saw him for who he was, the more my love for him grew. With that, so did my jealousy. Jake was everything I wanted. He was fit, cool, and could get any guy he wanted if he even batted an eye at them. My time alone did prove to give me an opportunity to do some research however. 

See, I’ve tried for a long, long, long time to get fit on my own. Watching my diet, exercise, starving myself. But, nothing would work. That’s when I started to look for more, creative solutions. I came across a blog hidden deep on the web which talked about taking another person’s form. Most of these seemed bogus, but I had to try. I found one eventually from a user, “Magic_Mann_720” who shared a potion, once which he claimed could turn anybody into a bodysuit. I was about to just toss it aside, but after looking at my desk and seeing the empty bag of McDonald’s staring back at me, I said fuck it. 

In all honesty, brewing a magic potion was easier than I assumed it would be, and after just a few short weeks of waiting for unusual supplies to arrive in the mail, I had a vial of the stuff at my whim. Now, who could I possibly give this to? No, not Jake. But also, maybe? Would that make me the worst person imaginable if I slipped this to him? He was one of the few good people I had come across, I couldn’t betray him like that. However, I saw one glimpse of his jock hanging from his hamper, and doubts crossed my mind. It was staring back at me, taunting me with how tight it fucking was. I had to wear it, and I only knew of one body it would perfectly fit. 

He was like clockwork, especially early in the morning when he made his preworkout and went off to the gym at 6 in the morning. I set my alarm for 5:50, just early enough to slip the potion into his drink before he woke up and set off. It was of course impossible to wake up so early in the morning, but somehow I managed to silence my alarm without waking Jake. 

I fumbled around in the dark and found his shake he made the night before. I had slept with the vial under my pillow, though I could barely sleep from the anticipation of my task today. Being careful to not wake him, I unscrewed the lid, dumped the contents of the vial into the jar, and shook it up. I had just laid back in my bed when his alarm woke him up. I kept my eyes closed, hoping to trick him into thinking I was asleep. I heard him stumble around the room, getting his bearings, getting dressed. I couldn’t resist popping one eye open to see his lithe frame as he found a tank and basketball shorts. 

He was already wearing boxers, but if my plan went accordingly, he never would wear such loose fitting underwear again. I heard him grab his shake, and my heart began to race. The pop of the lid went off, and I strained my ears to listen to him drain the contents quickly and quietly. The lid closed and just as I heard the doorknob turn, there was the sound of heavy stomps. I opened my eyes a bit wider to see Jake stumbling around, trying to get his bearings. 

“Hey… Logan?” Jake said weakly. I pretended to wake up and rose from bed, seeing him lean against his desk. 

“Jake? You okay?” I asked him. He turned his head to me, panting. 

“I d-don’t feel good man,” he said between breaths. “Get.. get help. Help.. me..” He slumped to the ground, and while I anticipated a loud thud as his jock body slammed to the ground, it was a soft thump, like that of clothes tossed to the ground. For a moment, I hesitated to creep any closer, afraid of what I would find. I mustered up the courage to turn on the bedside lamp and found a near horrifying site by the door. 

There on the ground was Jake, but he was flat as a pancake. He arms and legs stretched out, head deflated, and the clothes he was wearing were atop of him in a pile. I tiptoed to the body, already feeling regret in what I had done. Fuck why did I do this to him? Was I really so driven by my own lust I essentially just killed a good guy? 

My own footsteps were much heavier than Jakes, making the floorboards creek. I kicked at the body, the skin feeling as alive as ever, but made no movement of its own. I got on my knees, and with the tips of my fingers, grabbed Jake’s hair and pulled his head up. I was met with Jake’s face, his eyes now hollow sockets and mouth agape. I dropped the skin and scuttled back in fear. Fuck fuck fuck, it’s so god damn creepy! I took a few deep breaths and crawled on my hands and knees to the body once more. 

I tried to be more confident this time, grabbing him by his shoulders, and pulling him up as I struggled to stand. Jake was of similar height to me, so once I was fulling standing, I leaned the face to my mine, the tips of his toes still slumped on the floor. You know, it’s less creepy now. Jake was always a cutie, and even as a husk of himself he was irresistible. It was too late now, and while I felt bad about what I had done, I did it with a purpose. The issue now was, how the hell did I fit inside? Speaking of, would I fit at all?

I pulled at his cheek and found it to be rather elastic. My curiosity piqued, and I pulled at the corners of his mouth, which stretched at least a foot wide when I put some effort in. That gave me an idea. I quickly took off my shirt and briefs, catching my reflection in the standing mirror as I did so. God damn it, I was so fucking fat. My stomach hung out in front of me, almost covering my pathetic cock. Ass was as wide as trailer, neck rolls which made it seem like my head sat straight on my shoulders. Tits bigger than most girls I went to school with. This was my last chance to do something about it. 

I sat on my bed, laying Jake down in front of me like a pair of pants. Stepping one foot into Jake’s mouth, I stretched it further and further until my thick calves were encompassed by his lips. Grabbing at his chest, I pulled him further up my leg, already running out of breath as I did so. This was a workout on its own. I remember watching videos of guys slipping into wetsuits when I was a teenager, it was a slight fetish of mine. I loved seeing the neoprene cling to their slim figures. Those guys would go inch by inch yanking the suit further up them, so I went ahead and mirrored the practice. 

I found doing so actually made the process easier. Soon enough, my foot aligned with Jake’s. I shimmied his calves to match mine, but it was so incredibly tight. It was like my leg was vacuum sealed inside of him, crushing the fat around my leg down to match his. I began to pant, scared I was cutting off all circulation. I was so scared to look down and see something horrific, but shot a glance and was amazed by what I saw. There, my right leg was pristine. It was a mirror image of Jake’s which I had stared at so often when he wore shorts. I wiggled my toes, and Jake’s did the same motion. 

Kicking my leg around, the pain began to subside, and I could see up to my knee, it was like I had worked out my entire life. I could feel the beaming smile creep across my face as I stretched Jake’s mouth open wide again to shove my other foot inside. Now that I had some practice, my left leg was far easier to work with and soon enough, I had two sets of legs which were built from years of baseball practices and running. My thighs proved to be another issue entirely, practically twice the twice of my calves. 

I stood up from the bed, almost falling over from my balance being so off. Grabbing at Jake’s stomach, I jumped up and down a few times, his skin stretching and sliding over me with his lurch. My I stuck my hand down the inside of Jake’s mouth, the feeling of my now erect cock sliding against the inside of Jake. Although I wasn’t generously endowed, it still hurt to have it crushed inside of him. I found Jake’s cock, and while deflated, certainly overshadowed mine in length and girth. With one hand on the outside, and the other inside, I guided mine into his like a sheath. 

It was the most orgasmic feeling I had ever experienced. Jake’s cock went from looking like a flattened worm, to coming to full erection. He was at least seven inches long, and despite mine being half the size, somehow felt like it was filled entirely. It was beet red from anticipation, and while I wanted to cum right here and now, I had to finish what I started. I turned to the mirror once more, and was shocked by what I saw. From the waist up, I was still fat fuck Logan, but from the lower half, I was built like a god damn star. My new cock swung side to side, stiff as a board, and my ass, while squeezed in like a sausage, now was as perky as if I squatted 300 lbs. I turned and slapped Jake’s ass, watching as the taut skin slapped me back. All hints of cellulite gone. 

Finally was the part I was most afraid of, my stomach. It hung over the edge of Jake’s body, the flap of my stomach going over Jake’s lips. I sucked it in, which did practically nothing. Taking one of my arms, I pushed it as far in as I could, and used my other hand to pull the lips of Jake’s mouth up. I groaned in pain, feeling like a rubber band was squishing me in and threatening to cut me in half. Somehow though, his head moved up and moved. It was by inches and incredibly painful. Once I reached my belly button, I found a system to make it easier. Moving him up further and further, I finally reached my chest before I had to fall onto the bed. 

I was breathing heavier than ever, and drenched in sweat from what was left of my original body. I felt Jake’s, and he was as dry as ever, as he would never be worn out from such a task. I counted down from ten and hoisted myself up, catching my sight in the mirror. My moobs hung over Jake’s torso, but it was like I was wearing a skin corset. I rubbed my had over my new stomach, feeling how flat it was. In fact, I would even see the beginnings of a six pack bulging out. It was surreal, I don’t think I’ve been this thing since… ever. I took a deep breath and worked to shove each of my tits down Jake’s mouth. 

Each of them was a chore on their own, but eventually, all that was left were my arms and head. I don’t know how that would work, but if I made it this far, it was certainly possible. It would be tough as I would lose an arm at a time trying to slide them in. Taking my right one first, I wriggled my fingers inside, pushing them down Jake’s like a skin tight glove. With each inch my fingers slid in, it was easier and easier as I gained Jake’s strength. Eventually, the fingers found their way into his. I pulled at his bicep, as stretchy as the rest of him, and snapped it into place, enclosing my arm. 

I rushed to do the same with my left and with my newfound strength, found this section to be the easiest. I was almost done. Jake’s lips were around my neck, and I had to use his fingers to make sure he didn’t choke me. I glanced at the mirror, and found Jake with my head. I turned my body around, admiring his form. I had taken several sneaky glances at him as he changed, but to have full autonomy, to see his tattoo on his thigh, the way his veins popped in his hands, the curvature of his muscles, it was like I was being treated to a feast. 

“Goodbye Logan,” I told myself. I don’t know if I would come back from this. Or, if I would even want to. I took a deep breath and shimmied his head up my own. The same tight sensation took over my entire headspace and it was like a migraine hit me. Using my hands, I smushed my face around, placing my nose into his, eyes, lips. I fluttered my eyelids and had to refocus my vision. Going to the mirror was a picture perfect reflection of Jake. 

“Holy shit,” I said. Oh fuck, that was still my voice. I guess that wouldn’t have changed. I don’t know how I could pull off Jake’s voice, but I would have to practice it. I looked at the corner of my mouth, seeing my original lips peak through Jake’s. I took a finger, stretching and pulling it into place.

There, I was Jake. Fuck I was Jake! I laughed and rubbed my arms across my body, watching as Jake did it in the mirror. 

I spent a good ten minutes trying different poses and watching as Jake bent to my will. Sniffing his pits, making funny faces, bending over and showing off my new hole to myself. That last one sent me over the edge and I knew I had to blow off the steam which had built up. I sat on the bed and hoisted my legs up, cradling the back of my knees in my hands. I could never have even thought about attempting that in my old body, but as Jake, I felt so lithe. My smile was beaming in between my legs as I puckered my hole. I had to see what this looked like. I wanted to see Jake be pathetic now. I twisted my face to match that of so many porn actors I had watched alone in this room. 

“Ohhhh… oh fuck me daddy,” I said, begging, watching Jake’s eyes as they wished desperately for a fat cock to fill him up. I split into my hand and began to pump my new cock, already slick and slimy from precum. I stuck a finger in my mouth and wet it before sliding it over my hole and slicking it up. I had plenty of experience playing with my old hole, but I always struggled to get my arm in a position to really get deep in. Jake didn’t have that problem though. I started to finger fuck myself, watching as Jake became his own bitch. 

“Oh fuck daddy, fuck me. Fuck me!” I yelled, the point of climax racing through my cock before I could even react. Laces of cum shot out and started to drench my body, reaching even to my face and getting into my hair. I pulled my finger out of my hole, let go of my cock, and felt it rest against my thigh. There in the reflection was Jake, covered in his own cum and looking like a bitch. 

I giggled, knowing I should feel far more guilty about what I had done, but too high on my own bliss to care. After bathing in my glory, I decided to clean Jake up and explore his body some more. I grabbed one of his towels and left the room, still naked. Walking down the dorm hall to the bathroom, it was still dead silent. Logan would have been petrified at the idea of being caught naked by somebody, but Jake? Well Jake now hoped somebody would see him and be jealous. 

Getting into the bathroom, I passed by Brad, another guy on our floor, who had a towel wrapped around his waist, still glistening from his shower. 

“Jake, the fuck?” He asked. I couldn’t pull off Jake’s voice yet, but I gave him a pat on the shoulder and winked at him as I pushed past. For a second I caught a glimpse of him checking out my body before he shook his head and rushed out to his room. I went to one of the mirrors in the bathroom and knelt over, posing and kissing at myself. Jake was going to become a lot more playful it seemed. 

I took my time in the shower, feeling every crevice of Jake’s body and feeling myself up. And of course, stretching out his hole some more to work him up to taking a real dick. Maybe by one of his new frat brothers I need to meet. Once I got back to our room, I knew there was only one thing left on my to do list of the morning. I went to Jake’s hamper and pulled out the jock which was mocking me just hours before. I sniffed at, Jake’s pheromones becoming mine. 

I slipped both legs down and had no trouble at all this time adjusting my bulge and feeling the elastic hug my jock thighs. I snapped one of the bands, feeling a sheer run my spine as I did so. Slipping one of his black shirts on, I went for Jake’s phone, which thankfully could be opened with just his face. I snapped a few pictures for myself to look at whenever I pleased. Now, how about we download Grindr to it and see what this new body can pull?

[so-i-did-this-thing]

I’m 18, and admittedly there’s no real hope for me transitioning until I’m in my 30s ( education, family, finance- stuff like that ). It leaves me feeling kind of hopeless a lot of the times- I don’t have the energy to be ambitious or to feel good about my future because, even optimistically, it’s another six-seven years of hell waiting for me. Existing is hard. Can’t date, can’t leave the house without wearing a jacket, can’t look in the mirror too long. At least my dysphoria doesn’t drive me to suicide, but it’s drained me in every other way possible.

So, thank you for existing. I burst into tears today when I saw your profile. Thank you for reminding me that this…isn’t my forever. I just need to pull through. Joy is waiting on the other side.

Hey, Anon. Sounds like you have a bachelors + advanced degree lined up? I hate that college is so fraught for young trans people right now, when it should be your chance to start expressing some personal freedom.

A lot can change in just a few years, and change for the better can happen faster if you plan what you can now. Part of my transition stalled simply because I was just waiting for something Good to happen to me, instead of making it happen. (Working on job skills, being responsible with my money, meeting other queer people, etc.)

If you *are* to be stuck in Limbo for a while, please don't fall back on "at least I'm not suicidal" when evaluating your mental health. I did this for 13 years, and so much of me broke down under the weight of that inertia -- my family hoarding triggered and my depression got so bad, I nearly became homeless.

If it helps, here's a timeline of my own journey:

4: knew I was a boy

20: tried to come out, didn't go well, went back in the closet

21: too depressed for grad school for my music degree, went to tech school and fell into a stagnant web career

27: dad died, stress made a lot of my mental issues worse

30: near rock-bottom, got fired from work, nearly lost my house, living below poverty line, drained retirement, credit score probably like 300, I couldn't even get a secured credit card, new BFF started abusing me

31: started dating (never went well), too poor to fix AC, power frequently shut off, hoard starting to block rooms

33: almost out of money, started HRT, lost a lot of music gigs, stuck in payday loan hell

34: found steady employment again tho at a toxic web shop, $45k/year, cleaned up my hoard for the first time

36: met my partner, lost my virginity, started hanging out with queer people

37: got AC fixed, slowly started improving home, stopped being stealth, partner moved in with me

38: told abuser to fuck off

40: got top surgery, caught up on back taxes w/the IRS, able to secure credit again

41: got out of a toxic job industry, free from payday loans, started making $80k/year in a new field

41: got married to my partner, hoard pretty under control now

45: broke 6 figures for my salary

46: left Florida, bought a house

47: got a promotion to a senior role, hit 800 credit score, home is clean and organized (except for some stalled unpacking, I'll get there...), working on rebuilding my retirement

It was really around age 37 where I made a concerted effort to plan my way out of my shitty living situation. It's also when I really embraced being queer. I wish I had managed it earlier, but I was a goddamned mess and hid a lot from my family & friends. And I didn't know how to energize myself when things felt bleak.

So, please avoid my mistakes by taking efforts to set a higher bar for your mood. Get outside in nature, make things with your hands, consume and spread queer art, try to find safe outlets for expressing and exploring your gender, and above all, create a network where you can safely vent and have folks take care of you when you need help. Stoicism goes toxic far too quickly - you're going to need to cry *and* become a shoulder to cry upon.

And then pick yourself back up and continue with your plan towards joy. I believe in you - I don't think it'll be as long as it appears. <3

[showeredinstardust]

I am not a big Tumblr poster. Ok? I'm an observer in all aspects. A lurker, if you will. I don't reblog stuff. I barely even like things. I only follow people sometimes.

But recently I've been scrolling through the 'transandrophobia' tag a lot more than I used to. recently I've seen posts that send me into a train of thought that's like. "People really think like this?" And it's more tiring than I realize sometimes. So I'm putting my thoughts into this post.

I've recently watched masculine trans people and queer people of all kinds getting the short end of the stick. I watch people put others down based on their masculinity, and I think- if this is such a big issue when done to femininity, why in the world would you think it's acceptable to flip it around? Feminism has never been about saying that women are better. It's never been about hating men. It's been about uplifting women so that they'll be seen as equals, and breaking both men and women out of patriarchal mindsets. It's about uniting over the fact that no group of people is better than another.

Trans men and enbies and mascs do not have whatever perceived systemic privilege you think they do. Trans people in general will only ever have conditional privilege in specific situations, if that. Society only praises performative masculinity- the kind that fits into their neat little boxes of 'should' and 'shouldn't'. Masculine queer people have never fit into those stupid little boxes. Trans men. Mascs. Butches.

I'm tired of this. Tired of the 'femininity good masculinity bad' talk. You're not children. Grow up and learn some nuance. Trans men are whiny and annoying to you because they've never had the privilege of being anything other than invisible. Constantly erased and brushed off so when they start getting angry you see it as an attack because you haven't cared to see them before. You haven't cared to see them when they were scared. You haven't cared to see them when they were just begging to be seen. You haven't cared to see them as anything other than traitors or thieves or anything because until it's not about you anymore, you don't give a fuck. You only look at them when you're personally slighted by whatever they have to say.

What does it cost to have empathy for other's lived experiences? Nothing. When a group of people is telling you what they've consistently and repeatedly been through, you listen to them. You don't shut them down because of an immutable trait. You don't shut them down because you've never seen it happen. You don't shut them down because they're not your idea of someone who's oppressed. That's not how this works. People are angry for a REASON. Masculine queer people have every right to be angry. we've been pushed aside and had statistics ignored and been told that other people's oppression is more important than ours simply for what? the sin of masculinity?

Now, above all, trans people should be united. Instead of fussing over whatever sort of strawmen and caricatures you have in your head, we should just be listening to each other. we should be able to listen to other's lives and traumas and pains without throwing a fit over words or theories. Having words to describe oppression is important. Being able to label your pain is important. But none of that matters more than what's happening to people in their real lives. the people who are dying. The people who are being raped and silenced and shunned out of public spaces and even their own homes. No words will ever matter more than the people who are actively hurting due to your refusal to even look in their direction.

if you want to talk about this, be my guest. Ask me questions. Tell me I'm wrong. Whatever. I just have a need for this to be known above all else. I don't care what people on the internet think of what I have to say. This site is a fuckin cesspool. so's every other corner of the internet.

Thanks for reading.

[princemick]

THE KING’S HONOUR

16+, Released August 4 2024, 2h 11m, Action/Adventure/Romance/Comedy/Fantasy

Commander of the Kingsguard, Aonghus (Michael Schumacher) finds himself as Acting Regent when King Conall (Mika Häkkinen) falls to a curse in battle. Unable to search for a cure himself as the kingdom threatens to fall to outside threats and inner political schemes, he sends out his second in command, Fiachra (Lewis Hamilton) to find a way to save his king.

Where To Watch:

Rent The King’s Honour on Fandango at Home, Prime Video, Apple TV, or buy it on Fandango at Home, Prime Video, Apple TV.

Critics Consensus

Once you get past the horrendously unrealistic costuming, The King’s Honour becomes an admittedly predictable, but humorous, effortless evening watch.

Read Critics Reviews.

Critics Reviews View All (132)

Damon Hill TOP CRITIC

Newsweek

There are worse crimes than fan service but at least do it with a bit more effort and skill than this. 

Rated 1.5/5 | Aug 2 2024 Full Review

Will Buxton TOP CRITIC

Common Sense Media

To save the king, you must first break the curse. A very compact and concise film, but weak on the soundtrack and dialogue. Too many unnecessary monologues.

Rated 3/5 | Aug 4 2024 Full Review

Jenson Button TOP CRITIC

Vogue

Knocked off half a star because no one took their shirts off. Unrealistic. Some of those shirts were far too flowy not to have an ‘accidental’ nip slip.

Rated 4.5/5 | Aug 6 2024 Full Review

Audience Reviews View All (1500+)

Alexanderrr

new comfort movie unlocked i think

Rated 4.5/5 | Aug 23 2024

Prost

My husband spent half our date night bitching abaout every single thing he hated about this film. He always fucks better when he is angry so thank you.

Rated 4/5 | Aug 19 2024

George Russell

Well, that was truly delightful! The cast has amazing chemistry. Both between the lead mains and all the side characters! This is a film that knows what it is (and is not ashamed about it!): a light-hearted film that never takes itself too seriously, but manages not to become a satirical parod…

Rated 5/5 | Sep 5 2024 Full Review

----------------------------------------

The King’s Honour

16+ | Magical Realism, Historical Fiction, Romance | Directed by Niki Lauda

This is a truly a soulless and uninspired chickenshit explotation of queerness and the use of fantastical elements in a desperate attempt to prop up a flailing script that falls flat. Calling this ‘magical realism’ is an insult to Gabriel García Márquez’s memory.

Every single element of this film is subpar at best, lacking in colour and substance and a solid foundation of existence. While one would think the landscape the film is shot in, the Scotland highlands, would improve the viewing, but somehow the cinematography is so terrible, it is just another way everything and everyone gets lost. It is a backdrop of breathtaking opportunity and they don’t simply drop the ball but not even bother to pick it up. There is little to no directional awareness in the camera work and the script and the honestly incoherent cinematic flow of this piece. There is not even a NOD to authenticity of any kind, even on a satirical level as that would require a modiqum of thought not seen here.

I could not call this a categorical fail at hubris because I truly can not fathom what Lauda was aiming for here in this production. If someone held a gun to by head and told me to guess the director of this film correctly, my husband would be receiving my life insurance payout in the morning. How the mighty have fallen.

Everyone is a take away from a cigarette break, a sudden career exit, or at some points, a cliff’s face. And in knowing this, it is the only way I feel even remotely connected to what I see on screen.

By ARYTON SENNA

Sort By (BEST)       COMMENTS

James Hunt | 3 days ago

I feel fucking exhausted just reading this review. Chill the fuck out and smell the flowers, mate.

Esteban | 5 days ago

Woah.

Sebastian Vettel | 1 week ago

Framing this and putting it up on my fridge. Thank you!

-----------------------------

POPULAR REVIEWS MORE

Review by oscar ★★★★★ ♡ 🗨21

loved it yeah. schumacher’s pussy was OUT OUT so you know. cheers. and i Respect häkkinen’s dedication to serving face even while comatose. but like. it wasn’t very realistic because how in the fuck did no one shove the guy coulthard plays off a tower he was soooo annoying. took me out of the movie a bit can’t lie

❤ 5,581 likes

Review by Mick ★★★ 🗨19

A very funny film! Makes me want to go to Scotland! And I’m not just saying that because my Dad’s in it haha. :) Not his best work though :( 

❤ 1,647 likes

Review by Alonso ★ 🗨14

Schumacher ran over my dog and didn’t even stop. If any of you even care.

❤ 1,400 likes

@hypersoft-fest Week 1 Collab with @milflewis: Movie review + Historical Regency and Magical Realism

[hcneymooners]

hello, hello.

i've been debating making this post, but i’ve been thinking a lot about how my work often references God, religion, faith in general, and all the things in between. as someone raised in both the south and caribbean culture, i thought maybe this could be helpful for others trying to navigate queerness and religion—especially the mess and clarity that come with deconstruction.

note: this isn’t meant to tell anyone how to feel about faith or how to navigate their own path—this is just what’s been true for me. if it helps even one person feel a little less alone or a little more seen, then that’s enough. read with grace, take what you need, and leave the rest behind.

for a long time, i aimed to be good. good at school. good to people even when it meant letting them take advantage of me. i convinced myself that as long as i was pure, i would be okay. that it was that simple, and that somehow, i’d figured it out before anyone else. but i didn’t account for anger. or desire. or being a lesbian. what did lana say in that one song? “we had a deal and i fucked it up when / i made the decision to become someone.” so here's a little of my survival guide. for context, i was raised roman catholic.

first comes the work of reshaping the imagery. i released the God of my childhood and awakened the God of my womanhood. i began to replace “him” with “her,” then “Him” with “Her.” i already know some might see that as blasphemous, but it made praying easier which was something i wasn’t ready to lose. the universe is God to me. the universe is love, and so is God, and so i trust Her. She is Him, and He is Her. the universe, to me, can also be a woman who has big eyes and a dark face and makes me feel like i might be staring into myself. it’s easier to come back to God when i picture it differently. when i strip the man to the bone and rebuild into the woman i see, it’s so much easier to pray. she feels like my mother.

"offline or online, i am still connected." i think that’s how i feel about faith; i’m still connected to believing in something. it’s just that what i believe has changed and expanded. it doesn’t harm me. it helps me return to myself and shows me the way home. it’s easier to pray to Mary when i’m scared on a plane, to tell her that i know i’ll make it through because she wouldn’t place me in something i could not get through.

an altar can be anywhere. i used to feel guilty about not having a bible verse in my bio or the bible app on my phone. but i don’t need those things to make my prayer real. you don’t either. your love will pour out and stain the feet of the God before you, and They will wipe your mouth. They will understand that it’s prayer.

physicality. this was important to me when i was unpacking the feeling of being wrong or impure. if the universe condensed into one person, i’d ask her to lie down with me. we’d be pressed knee to knee and leg to leg. i’d think of her hips on top of mine, wide and inviting like the moon. i guess we are naked if i take a step back, but it’s not at all sexual. it’s just the understanding that she is holding me. babying me. and i’ve always wanted someone to. i will feel her touch me, and i’ll try to say thank you, because gratitude has been engraved in me. my mouth will move and nothing will come out, but she'll hear me.

the talking can be constant if you need it to be. i’m always speaking to God, about God, my understanding of it. it’s not organized. i haven’t constructed anything bigger than myself. restructuring kind of feels like waking up tangled in a spider’s web and standing carefully, your feet sticky as you navigate the threads. i took care not to break some of them but snapped others, creating space for new weaving. God becomes synonymous with the world, and you will find faith everywhere.

others may judge, but stick to what works for you.

another realization: it never really leaves you, and that’s fine. it’s also fine if you want to hold on.

sometimes faith blends. i work with water and have my crystals, listen to protection frequencies, and still buy my virgin Mary candle in all of its pink and radiant glory to light in the bathroom. i pray every time i board a plane, after a nightmare, or whenever a wave of unease hits. each time, it’s a Hail Mary.

also: resources. my God, find people who interpret with grace. below are some of my favorite blogs.

has content about faith: @ginwhitlock, @boykeats, @ohholydyke, ethel cain when she was active and i'm being so serious. has content that has made me see the world differently & renew faith in myself: @podencos @watermotif @cocainejuul @kristina100000 @eatpussypraylove @chloeinletters @anxeious

most importantly, i’m taking your hand until you can hold your own. i’m looking at you, because i really mean this: there is nothing wrong with you. you were nine. or thirteen. or fifteen. or twenty-one. or twenty-three. or. i’m saying it because i’d have given anything to hear that back then.

it would’ve been Heaven to me.

if you want to reach out, my inbox and messages are always open.

love you.

allyson. x

[theodorecanaryhood]

A love story: the Jock and the Geek

Jason Todd x Male! Reader

Warning: some bullying, homophobia, sexual harassment and sexual references

The hallways of the school were built like a wall of pain, you got sick and tired of hearing people say high school were the best years.

You clutched your books to your chest as you roamed the hallway, going to your next class.

A group of boys cheered as they tossed the football to each other, wolf whistling as the cheerleaders walked by.

Skin tight tops with short skirts, faces masked by beauty products. You envied that you were average looking. You envied that they all had someone to call their own.

‘Stacey, you and Jason coming to my party tonight?’ Hilary asked, her Afro hair falling down to her shoulders.

Stacey, the pretty blonde cheerleader nodded, shutting her locker.

‘Obvy, I’m hoping me and Jason will finally make out tonight’ Stacey tells her bestie.

Truth is Jason Todd is this big jock, rich daddy and drives a Porsche, however he is not shy of taking his time.

You pushed your glasses up your face as Mike, another jock, pushes you into your locker, knocking your books out your hands. Your printed knowledge scattered the floor.

‘Watch where you’re going queer’ Mike laughed as he saw you rushing to grab your books from the floor.

Mike and his buddies high fived as they watched you in amusement, Hilary gave a look of sympathy as she watched you.

‘Let’s go’ Stacey grabbed Hilary’s arm and the two left you.

‘Is this yours?’ Jason asked as he handed you a sketch book.

You nodded as you took it from him, Jason looked at the opened page as he admired your work.

‘This is some good work y/n’ Jason praised, you seemed surprised as you never realised Jason even knew your name.

‘Thanks’ you replied shyly, Jason handed you the sketch book.

‘You have Chem next right? Mr Ward is an asshole sometimes. Coming to Hilary’s party tonight?’ Jason asked.

You nudged your glasses up your face, shaking your head.

‘I’m not invited, I’m not cool enough’ you sighed, Jason looked a little sad.

‘I invite you, you should come, you’ll have fun’ he said as he placed your bag on your shoulder.

You couldn’t get Jason out of your head for the rest of that day, you smiled thinking about him.

‘The fuck?’ Mike snatched your sketchpad from your desk and held it up.

‘Hey, give it back’ you shot onto your feet trying to grab the book back.

Mike held it up in the air so you couldn’t reach it, laughing as chaos continued in the classroom.

‘Guys look, faggot y/n has a crush on Jason’ Mike said as he held up the sketch of Jason for everyone to see. Including Jason.

You ran out of the classroom as Mr Ward scalded Mike for his outburst.

Hilary felt the urge to go find you, but her body didn’t catch up.

The debate you had over going to Hilary’s party made you think hard, you’d been humiliated in front of all these people and now you have to face them.

You stood outside Hilary’s house, finding yourself there all of a sudden.

‘What are you doing here?’ Stacey asked as she saw you walking inside.

‘Hey y/n you came’ Jason cheered as he rushed over to you, his girlfriend giving Jason a weird look.

‘You invited him?’ Stacey asked, Jason nodded with a smile.

Hilary walked over and gave you a small hug as she welcomed you in. Jason walking with you to get you a drink.

The incident in the classroom was never mentioned, and Mike didn’t see you the whole night.

You felt attracted to Jason and Hilary picked up on it, but you were painfully shy you couldn’t bring yourself to say anything.

Stacey wandered off with a jock, Brian, and was gone for a while. Jason couldn’t find her when it was time to go home.

‘Has anyone seen Stacey?’ Jason asked, the remaining guests shook their heads.

You stood in the hallway of the house as Jason could be heard yelling, Stacey got fed up of waiting for Jason to make a move. So she made a move, with another guy.

Some time went by and you managed to get away from the drama, but every now and then Mike would still torment you.

‘Hey’ Hilary smiled as she sat opposite you, the littered floor of your books.

You smiled a little as she sat on the couch opposite and began reading.

The library was quiet, the two of you sat in a comfortable silence, you closed your books as you took your glasses off and cleaned the lenses.

Hilary waved as you went to go back to class, Hilary left the cheer squad after the big fight at her house.

Jason seemed angry most of the time and didn’t want to talk to anyone, the two of you were partnered for Chemistry. Then History.

Jason was only interested in talking about the work and didn’t want to engage in small talk. Though you weren’t offended, you figured he was embarrassed and going through stuff.

‘So, we need to study outside of school, is it ok if you drop by mine tomorrow after school to study?’ Jason asked, seemingly in a better mood.

You agreed, wanting to spend as much time with your school crush. Nothing would ever come from it, but you could enjoy it while it lasted.

Your glasses were tucked away as you walked to the front gate, an older gentleman was in the garden.

‘Hello sir, can I help you?’ The older British man asked, with a smile.

‘Hi, I’m y/n I’m looking for Jason?’ You asked, the older man rose to his feet.

His gardening gloves covered in mud and leaves, he pointed to the window to the left of the house.

‘Master Todd is just in there, go ahead in’ The older man said, you thanked him as you walked into Wayne Manor.

The Manor was built to the same level you would expect as a palace, but it wasn’t overdone. Considering where Jason lives, he isn’t a spoilt rich kid.

‘Hey y/n’ Jason greeted you as he spotted something different about you.

‘Hey, you have a nice house’ you smiled, visibly impressed as Jason studied your face.

‘Where are your glasses?’ He asked you, you pointed to your bag.

‘I have contacts in’ you revealed, Jason smiled a little.

‘You look better with glasses’ he said, pulling your book out your bag.

The two of you spent more time together as friends as well as study buddies, and you found yourself falling in love.

The walls came crashing down as you spotted Stacey rubbing Jason’s arm, the school hallways began feeling like they did before.

‘Stop touching me’ Jason barked, pulling his arm away from her touch.

You heard the interaction as you watched frozen, Jason visibly annoyed.

‘Baby please’ Stacey pleaded as she grabbed Jason’s arm, him shoving her arm away from him.

‘Fuck off, slut’ Jason said as he walked away, Stacey stood sad as her ex boyfriend walked away.

You did feel a little sad for Stacey, she knew she’d done something wrong but she also felt she couldn’t right her wrong. She had an amazing guy, she couldn’t be patient like Jason and lost him.

Study dates together seemed a little different as Jason had fire in his eyes, he seemed annoyed but never with you.

Jason became sweet with you but never pushed you, you felt like there was a little spark there.

‘You wanna hang out somewhere other than my house some time?’ Jason asked out of the blue, you seemed a little nervous to answer.

‘Yes’ you answered, a few seconds of silence as Jason smiled ear to ear from your answer.

The two of you began hanging out at other places, the diner, coffee shop and even just walking through the park together.

You kept feeling an urge to just kiss Jason, hold his hand. But you were scared of his reaction. Jason never had an issue with the fact that you’re gay, he never had any idea that you’re falling for him.

The TV screen lit the dark room as the two of you sat on Jason’s bed, the PS5 controllers in your hands as you played against each other.

Jason kept beating you in the game and the two of you laughed as you played, Jason howled with laughter as he commented on your playing skills.

‘You’re shit, like so bad dude’ Jason laughed as you nudged your glasses up your face.

‘I’m more into books bruh, video games are new to me’ you laughed along with Jason.

You both got closer, Jason looked into your eyes as he smirked a little. Your heart thumped in the ears as Jason seemed to lean in a little.

‘Fuck it’ Jason whispered under his breath as he connected his lips with yours.

It made your heart scream in joy and happiness as Jason pulled you into his lap. Taking your glasses off of your face, placing them onto his bedside table.

Jason’s hand on your face, fingers crossed over the side of your neck as your legs were opened, welcoming Jason.

Jason’s hot breath mixed with yours as he thrusted deep, making you pant a little.

The feel of Jason’s skin in yours, the feel of his body. The feeling of his manhood inside you made you feel incredible.

The sun hit your face as you woke up, the most amazing dream the night before, as you realise it wasn’t a dream. Jason’s naked body lay next to you.

You ran your hand down his chest and abdomen, feeling his tight abs. His strong muscle, the arms that held you in place all night.

‘Morning love bug’ Jason smiled as he saw you awake, you rubbed your sleepy eyes with a smile as Jason leant up and greeted your lips with a morning peck.

You stretched a little as you rose to your feet, a little lightheaded and your anus feeling a little rough.

‘Shit, it’s 10am? My dad’s gonna be home soon’ Jason saw his phone screen as he rose to his feet.

Towering at 6’3 as you stood at a shorter height, you were supposed to be home hours ago. Your parents were probably not going to be happy with you for staying out.

Jason kissed you goodbye as he promised you’d hang out again soon, your walk home was a little different as you still felt a little tired and sore. But it felt nice.

Jason was the first guy you’d had sex with, he was sweet and gentle when you told him you’d never had sex before.

The two of you began going on dates, officially, and Jason began to open up about his repressed homosexuality.

He dated Stacey because he thought he had to, not because he liked her. Jason took her adultery as a blessing in a way, it gave Jason the escapism he needed to be him.

Jason held your hand through the school hallway, everyone stopping to look as they saw you and Jason together.

Stacey spotted it and felt ashamed of herself, seeing Jason got the right person in the end.

Hilary smiled at you two and ran over to hug you both, congratulations being received as she walked with you two.

Graduation, Prom, College, Red Hood being born, you were with Jason through all of it.

10 years together and paying a mortgage as the two of you stuck together, you worked on your arms and legs a bit more.

Growing and building more muscle, Jason cooked naked in the kitchen after a heated night.

You admiring the view of his back and chest, not being able to stay away from him too long. Jason greeted your lips like a reward.

Celebrating festivities at Wayne manor as Jason held you on his lap, smiling brightly as he fluttered kisses on your shoulder every now and then.

Hilary was married and expecting her first by now, you were still best friends and of course, soon to be god father to her baby girl.

Life had a way of working out for those who waited, Jason waited for love and you waited for Jason. It worked out amazingly for the two of you, the two of you lay in bed together as Jason slept laying on your chest.

You stroked his hair, Jason sleeping soundly on you as he dreamt sweetly. Jason felt like he was the luckiest man alive to have a boyfriend like you, and you had won the lottery.

[prlssprfctn]

hey! so the intro for this is weird but pls hear me out

yesterday night while walking home from a bar with friends, a group of men probably about my age (early-mid 20s) in a large truck started shouting queer slurs at us then threatened to kill me 😬

my nerves are still a little frazzled but my stupid brain is currently attempting to manage these anxieties about what happened by going “hmm I wonder how the batkids would have responded if they saw that happen”

so I was just wondering if you had any kinda headcanons or anything about how any of the batkids would handle a scenario like this :) I know this is kinda heavy haha so pls don’t feel like you gotta respond to this but I really like your writings and thought it was worth a shot to reach out and ask :) thank you!

(also, my friends and I did make a report and we’re currently talking with the civil rights division of our local gov’t about handling this case as a hate crime so we are in the midst of handling it)

oh my god, i am so sorry this happened to you. i am glad you put charges and dealing with the situation, though. be careful, and i hope you are recovering well.

Bruce, i feel like, would try to charm his way out of this at first since he doesn't need additional interent drama. maybe he will try to smile politely and go along lines like, "oh, is that supposed to be offensive?" but if the situation escalates, he will not be afraid just to fight them off. who would blame him, anyway?

i have a feeling that Dick doesn't like fighting on the streets as well, and he usually tries to escalate the fight, only ever using it as the last resort. i also think that if someone picks up on him at night, he just decides to creep out everyone by using his amazing gymnastics. like, imagine him just turning his head around like an owl, cracking bones like in horror and pretending to be a spider — men will run away in the instant. without a fight. that's effective.

Cassandra is not a one to deal with bullshit like this. she doesn't acknowledge these people at all, but if they start to actively catch her attention and cause a fight, she will first offer the scariest death stare to ever exist. people mostly scram afterwards, but if someone didn't, she will nonchalantly break the bones of their arm. as a threat.

you see, Jason probably is not getting annoyed by people like this. who would pick up on a fucking double-fridge, right? i think he mostly spawns behind his siblings' backs when someone picks up on them and terrifies tf out of others. but if someone did risk their lives, i think Jason would either just point a gun silently (if he is in a bad mood) or start roast these people so much, they would leave.

oh, Tim. Tim is gracious about it. someone starts haunting him on the streets, so he wordlessly records a video, and while that person still screams at him, he calls his lawyer. they will get charged and outed in the news for this faster than they will finish their attempts to terrify Tim.

Steph starts shouting back. she is so loud about it that people usually start gathering around them, and she starts making him join the conversation, too. "just look at this weirdo, huh! hey, hey, you, look at him and tell me — isn't he fucking insane?" and stuff. she is equally good at escalating the fight to the reaching point of just make people leave embarrassed, depending on the situation.

baby Damian definitely doesn't even understand the meaning of slurs — his family is adequate, and he is a sheltered kid in a way, so he has no idea what all that means. but he feels a threatening aura. he first reminds people who he is, giving a chance to escape... and when it is not working, someone is about to get stabbed.

Duke tries to joke it off first. like, in a "oh, from all slurs, i got called *this*? that's something new, buddy, kudos" kind of way. if it doesn't work and people continue annoying him, he simply fights these people. he doesn't care much.

[plant-ago]

An Open Letter to Dan and Phil

Dear beloved nerds,

This was originally going to be an (even longer) actual letter that I was going to give to you at the tour, but my nonprofit-employed ass can’t afford a meet and greet, so we’re doing this instead. I promise it’s not just trauma dumping— mostly, it’s about saying thank you and trying to cultivate some hope for all of us.

I’ve been a big fan since around 2014, when I was a mentally ill neurotic deeply repressed loner egg (average phannie, let's be honest). Now I’m a whole adult who got therapy and HRT and has joined the legions of transmascs with the Dan Howell haircut! What a legacy.

I’m making jokes because the thing I actually want to talk about, and the reason I decided to make this an open letter, is kind of serious. But in light of the election, I feel like I need to share this, both with you and with all the other queers in this little corner of the internet.

Here’s the gist: I’m a paralegal at a non-profit organization that works to help queer migrants get asylum. Mostly what I do is sit them down in our nasty sterile office and try to be kind, and help them get through telling me all the most terrible things that have happened to them, and then turn around and pare it all down into legalese that is digestible to the government to make the case they should get asylum.

It’s a horrible job, really, and one that shouldn’t have to exist. Some parts are plainly wonderful, like meeting so many queer people from all walks of life. But it’s also heartrending and difficult, and burnout is always looming. My horrible banal work is often literally a matter of life and death for the client, and I’m fighting a broken system for a chance at giving them the happiness and safety is owed to them by international law and, really, by any decent human standard, should never have been in question.

The thing is—and this is reason to hope—queer people really do exist everywhere, no matter how much repression and violence we face. In a tiny village in Colombia, there's a kid who’s all spit and vinegar, dresses like a boy and plays football and fights anyone who says that they can’t, who grows up wiry and gets black eyes because men still can’t handle getting their asses handed to them on the soccer field by a dyke. This client texts me at my work number sometimes to ask if I’ve eaten that day, because they wanted to check in on me. He asked me to call him by a boy’s name, recently. I don’t know that he’s told anyone else. I open every message I send him with "Hola, James."

Then there’s the sweet, babyfaced college freshman who got death threats when he was outed to his classmates back home, and whose parents kicked him out when he refused to marry a girl to protect the family's reputation, leaving him alone in a foreign country. He was couch surfing and just trying not to miss class so he could keep his student status and he was so conscientious I wanted to cry— he’s eighteen, guys. Eighteen. I’ll get him his papers or so help me fucking God I will kill for him. You know? You know. After that meeting I had to sit at my desk with my notebook and fill an entire blank page with the phrase “he’s just a kid,” over and over again, until I felt like I could breathe.

On a Friday morning recently I get up and open my laptop to interpret on a call with a soft-spoken older trans woman who's sat in the bleak phone room of the ICE detention facility because her immigration judge didn’t believe that she was really transgender. “An odor of mendacity pervades everything the respondent says,” the judge wrote in her ruling, where she determined the client wasn't "credible." To this day I’m still floored that she straight up ripped off Tennessee Williams—new frontiers in bigotry, truly. She didn’t even cite. In our meeting now, the client quietly tells us how hard it was when she came out but how happy she was the first time she wore makeup, and she'd rather stay in detention here for indeterminate years as proceedings spiral on than go back to Guatemala, where they'll kill her—boys, if I ever get within spitting distance of this fuckass judge, it is on SIGHT. Absolutely fucking ON SIGHT. For legal purposes, that was a JOKE.

So I finish the call and get up to get a snack. It’s only ten am but feel tired already because I’m angry, which is not unusual but also not something I want to hold onto, because it doesn't help anything. So I make some toast and look at my phone— two texts, which I ignore, a spam email, and, wouldn't you know it, a YouTube notification from Dan and Phil games! Jarring! That’s just sort of how life is though, isn’t it? Deathly serious and lighthearted in the same breath.

But regardless, seeing the notification makes me feel warm, so I have my toast and watch a little video of you two playing Roblox or dress up or whatever it is you do on that channel these days. I have a good giggle and I finish my toast and go back to my desk. It’s a crucial part of my diet really— the giggles, not the toast. I’m not angry anymore. I’ll be angry again, but for now my cortisol levels are manageable and I can put my head back into emails or whatever the fuck. Do you ever think about how plants make food for free out of sunlight but we sit around writing emails all day? And that’s if we’re lucky. Capitalism is hell.

Anyway, there is a point I am trying to make, and it’s not really about the banal horrors of neoliberal nation-state or capitalism or even homophobia. It’s to say thank you for coming back to make silly videos together, because I love them, and you never fail to make me happy. And yeah, maybe something about the story of that scared eighteen-year-old kid at the front of my mind makes it particularly sweet to watch you two goofing off and being openly queer. It reminds me why I’m doing what I’m doing, and it gives me the strength to send another fucking email because sometimes doing “important work that I value and believe in deeply” means having to send another fucking email. And sometimes I’ll rewatch your older videos, and then come back to the more recent ones, and my heart bruises, because you remind me what I’m fighting for and why. It’s nothing grandiose, it’s just— for queer people to get to have the ability to grow into themselves and be outrageous and silly and make mistakes and to love and be loved for who they are. To have the safety and support and security that no one should ever go without. That’s all.

So I am being dead serious when I say thank you for making top-tier light entertainment, and for coming back to a job that wasn’t always kind to you, and that it does actually matter. All this talk about terrible influences and legacies has made me think that sometimes you doubt whether you do good in the world, so let me be clear: you really, really do. I kind of get the sense that in order to accept sincerity Dan needs to be beat over the head with it, so if that’s the case, consider yourself coerced, you dickhead. You matter to me, and especially in times like these, I think I speak for all of us when I say that the joy you share is a precious and treasured gift. So please accept my gratitude in return.

All my love,

Jules

(I removed or changed all identifying information in this letter to protect privacy, but the stories are real).

[qveerthe0ry]

Conquer the Heart

Summary: Joel comes out - written for @romanarose Pride Event Week 1: Coming Out Word Count: 3,981 Pairing: Joel Miller x M! Reader Rating: Mature (but my blog is 18+ mdni) Warnings: vague descriptions of sex, fluff, kissing, conversations about sexuality, really that's it this is pretty much just sweet and fluffy with a tiny hint of spice Betas: @for-a-longlongtime and @perotovar who could have guessed? Love y'all <3 A/N: I just wanted to make Joel queer idk. Title from an Orville Peck song because of course

You don’t know what possessed you to pay the $5 cover to check that place out. The Round-Up Saloon, perched on a street corner in downtown Austin. The outside was unassuming enough, but the neon lights and mechanical bull and rotating dance floor inside made it look like something straight out of Urban Cowboy. 

There were all kinds of crowds. College kids and business casuals and actual cowboys. And it’s Austin, so all the sexualities were represented in one way or another as you took note of the couples at tables and on the dance floor. You couldn’t really care about any of them, though, as soon as you laid eyes on him. 

You were drawn to him and his broad shoulders and tight Wrangler blue jeans. 

He was with a big group of women and men, all drinking and laughing and taking turns line-dancing with each other on the dance floor. 

And to think you only stumbled into the honky tonk cowboy bar out of curiosity… It certainly wasn’t your scene. 

But you’d watched Joel dance with a few women with respectful hand placement, and then he danced with a man, and hope had bubbled up inside of you to the sound of Alan Jackson. 

He was a little sweaty when you worked up the courage to talk to him, and his cologne masked all the alcohol and cigarettes in the air.

You plastered on a flirty smile and asked him if he could teach you some of his moves. When he looked taken aback and flustered, you backtracked. 

“I’m sorry, I saw you dancing with that guy— I didn’t mean to assume.” 

“Tommy? That’s my brother,” he’d explained, a little flushed in the face. 

“Oh! Shit, sorry, ignore me.”

But he’d caught your arm as you turned to hibernate for approximately 5-10 business days. 

“I don’t see no harm in teachin’ you.”

And so he did. And it was fun, and his hands on you were so warm you swear they branded his mark all over your skin. 

A few songs, all background noise to the ‘he’s just straight, don’t do this’ mantra in your head, and he was leading you off the dance floor for another beer. 

A friendly beer. Surely that’s all it was. 

But he was so friendly. He gave you pointers on how to dance, and then asked if you’re from around here, and then he was waving off his group of friends when they all announced their departure. 

He asked you about your job, and you asked about his, and then the way his hands felt rough on the skin of your arm made more sense. 

Maybe you were crazy, or the two beers you had were really getting to your head, but there was something so unspeakably electric between you. You felt it when he’d lean in closer to hear you, the way he touched your arm with the back of his bottle-filled fist, the way his hoppy breath ghosted across your cheek to reach your ear.

And then he said he should probably get home, and asked if he should walk you to your car, and maybe he wasn’t straight, you thought, as he briefly placed his hand on your back to guide you through the packed bar. 

And you really, really shouldn’t have. But you asked for his number, and he put it in your shitty flip phone, and then you kissed him. 

Right on the mouth. A quick peck that was so short you could’ve nearly pretended it was an accident. 

He looked so stunned, and guilt boiled up in your stomach. 

But he’d grabbed your wrist gently, and looked you in the eyes. 

“I’m uh… I don’t… I haven’t ever done that.” 

“That was your first kiss?” 

It was a joke, and thank god he laughed. His smile looked so fucking good under the shitty, flickering street lamps. 

“Call me, okay?” 

And then he was gone. You thought about him the whole drive home, while you got undressed and ready for bed, as you fell asleep. You felt his touch in your dreams, and when you woke in the morning you could hardly believe he was real. 

But his phone number was burning a hole in your cell phone. You stared at it on and off all Saturday long. What would you even say? Why did he even want you to call him, if he’d never even kissed a guy before? Did he just want a new drinking buddy? 

The dread built up all day long, until it was late, and a sense of now or never goaded you into calling his number. 

He answered, and you told him who you were, and he’d sounded so surprised to hear from you. He didn’t think you’d want to see him again, after he embarrassed himself, and his admission made you balk. 

You told him you were the one who felt embarrassed. He laughed at that. Said he’s a lot smoother with ladies, but you made him feel nervous. He said he wanted to meet up again. 

And so you did. 

Just a shitty diner for an early dinner on Sunday, unassuming enough. The chemistry you felt at the bar hadn’t faded. If anything, it was so much more apparent now. The way he blushed when you flirted seemed less like the bad kind of gay panic. His foot kept nudging yours under the table. 

He walked you to your car again, and then he kissed you, much less chaste than the night at the bar, with one big, rough hand on your neck and the other on your hip. 

“That was pretty good for only your second kiss,” you’d said. 

He shrugged, a sheepish smile gracing his heated face.

“Should stick around and find out about the third.” 

And if you hadn’t already been wrapped around his finger, he certainly secured the spot for you then.

He wasn’t new to dating, but he was new to this, and it showed. He got pretty easily flustered around you. On your second date, he brought up his daughter for the first time like he’d forgotten he hadn’t mentioned her before. A casual thing, talking about her getting ready to graduate high school. 

“Does Sarah know… who you’re on a date with?”

Joel shook his head. 

“Not yet. No one does… Not even sure how to explain it to myself, if I’m honest.”

You were patient with him. It’s gotta be culture shock, living nearly 40 years of your life completely straight and having some random guy at a bar change that for you overnight. 

You took things slow. You talked a lot over the phone, after Sarah went to sleep. He told you about his dating history, Sarah’s mom and only a few unserious flings after. You tried not to psychoanalyze him, but it makes a little bit of sense. Getting some girl pregnant at 19, marrying her, getting ditched with a toddler and a curt ‘good luck’ and then raising her on your own? 

No wonder he never questioned his sexuality. There was genuinely no time to. 

At first, you thought you may just be a stepping stone. A news flash for him, an experiment, something fun for a season. It didn’t bother you. It’s happened before. But as your nightly talks got longer, and as you took each other out more and more often, it became clear that it wasn’t like that. 

You watched with fascination and adoration as Joel figured things out. It was so endearing when he asked if he should hold the door open for you, or if you should take turns. Likewise, when he held your hand in public for the first time, the way he asked your permission made your heart grow way too big for your rib cage.

Things weren’t perfect, of course, but nothing ever is. You didn’t get to see him as much as you ideally would. You were both busy during the work week, and he often had father duties on the weekends. Most of your dates were quick dinner bites when Sarah had a school thing, or an odd Saturday here or there when Sarah had a sleepover. 

But that was quite enough for you. You weren’t even looking for something when you’d met him. You didn’t feel the need to move quickly when you hadn’t planned on going anywhere in the first place. 

And he was sweet, and quite self-aware. 

“Wish we could spend more time together,” he’d tell you over the phone, “I know this ain’t the way things normally go.” 

But you liked him. So much. So it didn’t bother you.

And, as the weeks passed by, he opened up more. He started asking you more pointed questions, like how you came out to those closest to, and what it was like. He asked if you were seeing other people— it’s okay if you are, was just wonderin’— and then he asked you if you wanted to be together when you made it clear you weren’t. 

“Like… as boyfriend and boyfriend?” 

He chuckled, the deep gravel a familiar tone swimming through your landline with a nervous twinge to it. 

“Yeah, as boyfriend and boyfriend.” 

And he treated you right, and you got along with him so well, and he was so put together and responsible and respectful. 

“I’d really like to be your boyfriend.” 

And his breath had hitched so loud it was caught by the receiver, but you could hear the smile in his voice when he told you that he’d really like that, too. 

A few days after that, he told you Sarah would be gone all weekend, on a team trip for some hiking and kayaking and bonding. 

“Could I stay at yours? I hate to invite myself, it’s just— Tommy’s got no boundaries. Wouldn’t want him bargin’ in, y’know, before I get to tell him.” 

You didn’t mind one bit, aside from the mountain of laundry you had to fold in preparation for his arrival. 

It was the first time you’d been truly alone with him. Your dates were always public, at least somewhat. And he’d kissed you, a ton, but that’s as far as it had ever gone. 

You definitely wanted him. You’d wanted him since the very second you laid eyes on him at that cheesy honky tonk bar. But it was funny how nervous you were, even though your experience with men put Joel’s to shame. 

It was a lot like high school, in the way you danced around each other at first. A movie on your couch, with his arm draped along the back of it. Readjusting to ‘get comfy,’ inching, until the warmth of his body was pressed against yours and his arm dropped from the back of the couch to your shoulders. 

His heartbeat was deafening, hard and fast, when you’d tucked your head against his chest. You moved your hand to his knee in the world’s most intense match of The Nervous Game and feared for his cardiovascular health. 

He said your name, and like it was the magic word, every single facade crumbled around you in an instant. 

His kisses made your head spin, and the way his thick thighs felt under your own was addictive, and it was over before either of you realized it had started. Two sets of soiled pants and underwear thrown into your washing machine, along with the last of the pretenses. And then you’d dragged him to your bed. 

The sex wasn’t even your favorite part. The best was the morning after, and how you were plastered to his back as you woke up slow and easy. The way he held your arm to his stomach, even in his sleep. And the way you only got out of bed for food or bathroom breaks, a whole day with him, alone, uninterrupted. 

Just as you started to worry that this was a one-time thing, at least for a while, Joel huffed beside you and nuzzled his head into your shoulder. 

“I wanna come out. At least to Tommy ‘n Sarah. S’not right, keeping you a secret like this when you’ve been makin’ me so happy. I know you’d make them happy too.” 

You stroked his hair, and asked if he was sure, and though his pretty brown eyes looked wide and scared, his jaw was set with a determined nod. 

So you devised a plan. Or— Joel devised it, and asked for your input, and it all made you a bit giddy. 

He had you over for dinner. Just as a friend, at first. He’d ordered pizza and stocked beer and told Tommy and Sarah he was having a friend over. 

You wondered if Tommy would recognize you from the bar, but if he did, he didn’t show it. He just talked your ear off about Texas sports and old cars.

Sarah was… well, you understood why Joel could never seem to smile wide enough when he talked about her. She was so smart, and kind-hearted, and funny. You had a hard time keeping up, but the way Joel and Tommy were around her, you think she probably has that effect on most people. 

It was a nice night, fun and easy conversation, good pizza, and a very competitive game of Boggle in which Sarah dominated. 

And it was only a little bit difficult to spend the evening as just Joel’s friend, solely because of how easily you fit into his life. You wanted to scream it from the rooftops, that Joel wanted you to be a piece in his puzzle. 

Sarah, so politely, excused herself to go to bed as it got later. The three of you left shuffled around, gathering game pieces and paper plates and empty cans, until you all eventually met back in the kitchen. Joel gave you a look, and you gave him a comforting smile right back, and it was like the room’s air was replaced with water as he spoke up.

“Tommy?”

“Mmhmm?” 

The younger brother whipped around to face you both, sliding the leftovers into the fridge with a slice in his mouth. 

“I uh… I wanted to let you know that I’m— that we’re, uh… Together?”

You watched as his dark eyes glazed over for a second, brow scrunched up in confusion. And then his gaze flickered from you to him, and back to you, and his eyes grew as big as saucers. 

“No kiddin’?”

Joel laughed. 

“Serious. He’s my… He’s my boyfriend.” 

Tommy swallowed his mouthful of pizza, wiped his mustache, and smiled. A genuine smile, sweet and warm, reaching his eyes. 

“Hermano, good for you. That’s— I’m happy for you.” 

He opened his arms and tugged Joel into a hug, and Joel grumbled something about Tommy getting pizza grease on his clothes, but he was smiling wide and relieved over Tommy’s shoulder. 

But then Joel’s face got serious again as Tommy pulled away with a manly slap to his shoulder. 

“Sarah doesn’t know yet. I wanted to make sure everyone got along first, y’know?” 

And then Tommy was looking at you and rolling his eyes and chuckling. 

“Think we all get along just fine. You should tell her soon.”

And Joel knew Tommy was right, but it didn’t stop him from looking so anxious when Tommy left with another round of goodbye hugs. 

“What are you most worried about?” 

You asked him because you knew there were many things to fret over, in his situation. 

“Just that… She’s had this idea of me this whole time, y’know? What if she sees me different, and then things change between us?” 

And god, that made your throat feel thick, and Joel’s eyes got a little misty, so you pulled him tight against you and let him sag into your hold.

“I know the feeling,” you told him, “but I don’t think you have to worry about that.”

“No?”

You huffed a laugh and tangled your fingers in the curls at the back of his neck. 

“You mean everything to her. I can tell just by how she looks at you. Never seen a teenager like their dad that much.” 

And he laughed too, a little wet against your shoulder. 

“Will you be there with me when I tell her? I don’t— I don’t think I can do it alone.”

Your lips found his bristly cheek and planted a kiss there, and you mumbled of course into the salty skin.

So you went home, with plans to come back the next day. This wasn’t easy for you, either, dating a guy with a kid for the first time. You knew she liked you, at least, but that was a face value assessment. Would she mind you taking up more of her dad’s time? Would she mind you in their space every so often? Would she mind if you came around to her soccer games or science fairs or graduation, as her dad’s boyfriend, in front of all the other kids with nuclear families? Would she resent you for shaking up what they had?

You didn’t get much sleep, thinking about it. You wondered if you should bring her some kind of gift, flowers or a trinket or something, but then you’d be trying too hard, right? 

As you got ready the next morning, you thought about all the ways it could go wrong, but none of them really seemed realistic. Sarah was sweet, and intelligent, and surely if she did have reservations, they’d be able to talk them through civilly. 

Right?

You couldn’t even listen to music on your way to their house. It was a silent fifteen minute drive with your nerves boiling over and spilling out, thinking of how awkward things could get. 

But all of that kind of fell to the wayside when Sarah answered the door and said “I haven’t seen you in forever” with a cheeky grin and those bright eyes she definitely got from Joel. 

It felt cozy when you sat down at their kitchen table while they sipped their coffee and orange juice and Sarah told you both all about the English project she was working on. It put you at ease to ask her questions about things you have in common, and for all of you to mesh so well into a normal conversation.

But as it lulled, you noticed Joel getting restless, and you noticed Sarah noticing his uneasiness. 

“Dad, you’re acting weird in front of our company.” 

And while she was alway kind and respectful, she was still a teenager with a dorky dad. 

“Well… I wanted to talk to you about somethin’.”

She looked at him with her head tilted and her eyebrow raised. 

“Now?”

She nodded her head toward you as she asked, and you couldn’t blame her for being confused as to why he had to have a heart-to-heart with his ‘friend’ visiting. 

“Yeah um… You know how you’re always tellin’ me I should get a life and start datin’?”

Sarah laughed and looked at you.

“Yeah, could you be his wingman? It’s getting sad.” 

And you laughed, and Joel laughed, but it was a little forced, and Sarah’s smart, so you could read the confusion on her face. 

“What’s this about, dad?”

Joel took a big, deep breath and took Sarah’s hand on the table. You watched her squeeze his fingers as her face twisted up in worry. 

“He’s my— we’re dating. He’s my… boyfriend.” 

The worry dissipated, and her eyes got wide and her lips pursed before her jaw slowly dropped with surprise. 

“You guys are together?” 

She looked over to you, then, and all you could do was give her a soft smile and nod. 

“I know you might have some questions—”

“How long? When did you guys meet?” 

She looked back to Joel to answer, but you could see he was still reeling, with sweat saturating the curls at his temples. 

“Just a couple months ago, he taught me how to dance to the Boot Scootin’ Boogie.”

She made a noise, like a scoff, and it made you wince.

“Months!? Dad, why didn’t you tell me?” 

You watched Joel’s eyes cloud with— fear? You’d never seen him look so scared. 

“I’m sorry, babygirl. I just— I guess I didn’t know how. At first.” 

His voice trembled, and you watched Sarah’s lip quiver before she shot out of her chair and lunged toward her dad, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. 

“I love you,” she’d mumbled, like she knew it was what he needed to hear, because his shoulders slumped and his arms wrapped around her back. 

You thought maybe you should look away. It felt real personal. But Joel had asked you to be here, and it was about you, too, as much as that fact made you want to burrow underground. 

“You could have told me sooner. I love boy talk.”

Her voice was muffled and heavy with tears, but Joel chuckled all the same through his own misty gaze. 

“I didn’t know you liked boys.” 

She pulled away but didn’t go far, letting her hands squeeze his biceps as she looked to him for an answer. 

“Me neither,” he shrugged, “I like this boy, though. A lot.” 

And he got this goofy smile on his face, even though it was a little wet, and he looked at you, and you felt so awkward but so head over heels. 

“Okay, well, you still should have told me. I would’ve been on the porch cleaning Uncle Tommy’s shotgun when he pulled up.” 

Joel groaned and covered his face but you couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up out of you. 

“What are your intentions with my father?”

And though her tone was joking, her eyes grew soft as she waited for an answer. 

“I guess I just wanna make him happy. Because he makes me happy. If that’s alright with you?” 

She sat back down and rested her chin in her hand, with her lips pursed again as she thought. 

“Sarah, you can have time to think—”

“Deal.” 

She extended her hand out to you from across the table, and you took it eagerly to shake on it. But after an appropriate amount of handshake time, she didn’t let your hand go. 

“You have to come over for movie nights now.” 

“I can do that.”

“And I have to make sure your taste in movies doesn’t suck before I let you pick one.”

“That’s fair.”

“ALSO—“

“Sarah,” Joel interrupted, “this isn’t how deals work. You can’t add stuff while he’s still shaking your hand.” 

“As I was saying,” Sarah rolled her eyes, squeezing your hand tighter, “you have to treat him right. He acts all tough but he’s just a softy.”

“Oh Christ,” Joel huffed. 

“No, she has a point,” you told him with a smirk, “I promise I will, Sarah.”

Her eyes narrowed at you, but then she grinned, and finally let go of your hand. 

So yeah, you really really like Joel Miller. You’re never happier than you are when you spend the evening at his house, snuggled up on one side of him while Sarah’s snuggled up to the other, watching some movie Sarah’s usually the one to pick. 

Or when you meet him and Tommy at Sarah’s soccer game, and he greets you with a smile and lifts the bill of your Miller Contracting hat you’ve stolen to peck your lips. 

Or when you’re in your own kitchen, making his coffee, and you feel sleepy arms wrap around your waist and a sleep warm kiss at the nape of your neck. 

Really, as long as you’re with Joel, you’re the happiest you’ve ever been. And if those three little words slip out one day soon, well, there isn’t a single thing that makes you think Joel would be surprised by them.

[mia-ugly]

In honour of Good Omens Season 2

HAVE A SLOW SHOW FICLET with thanks to @weatheredlaw for the amazing graphic ❤️❤️❤️ how we doing fam

It’s a kid on set that first tells him. 

Not really a kid, but anyone less than thirty seems a kid to him these days (ugh, that’s a loathsome thought.) Jiyana’s a queer and pink-haired punk type, rainbow pin on their jacket, trans-pride flag tattooed on their inner wrist. The first time he met them, the whole wirey confident glittery thing made his gut clench with - what was it - joy and gratitude but also envy? Maybe? (because what must it be like to be that young and that certain of yourself? What must it be like to have the whole world open in front of you? Not that there still isn’t a lot of shit to deal with, and in Merry Old fucking England there is More Shit than Otherwise, but. Still. It’s something Crowley thinks about. Sometimes. When he hasn’t had enough sleep or when he’s had too much of it.)

The kid came up to him Day One to mumble about “being a big fan” and once they wore a Warlock t-shirt to an afterparty (“Vintage!” they said cheerily, and Crowley wanted to swallow his own face at the thought of something from the 2010s being considered vintage, good Christ.)

Anyway, Jiyana tells him first.

“Congrats on the new season!” They’re beside him in the makeup trailer. Crowley doesn’t realise they’re talking to him, assumes they’re wearing AirPods or something, until George gives him a nudge with the powder puff.

“Er, yeah, cheers.” It’s too early to talk to anyone this perky. Then his exhausted, coffee-less brain takes a moment to catch up with his exhausted, coffee-less mouth. “Er, wait, what?”

“Warlock. Heard it’s coming back. Did I tell you I wrote a paper on it in, like, Grade 10? So cool, the GSA at my highschool used to have watch parties, I can’t wait to see what they do with your -“

“Wait -“ Warlock? It’s been bloody years. “Where’d you hear this?”

The kid starts to list off some sites or social media whatsits that Crowley has never heard of, so he just nods and pretends to understand, the same way he does when Az’s niece tries to explain some show called “Jojo’s Big Adventure” or something. Validate, validate, empathise. Just like Pepper taught him.

It’s probably nothing right? A rumour.

But it’s a rumour Az has heard too.

When Crowley gets home that night (they’ve rented a house in Buckinghamshire, even though the studio’s not two hours from their cottage) Az is on him immediately. Heard about it from his sister apparently, who got the news from one of the kids.

“Isn’t that exciting?” His face is all lit up and his hair is wet, bathrobe snugly belted around his waist. The house has an indoor pool, and there are little indents on Avery’s nose where his extremely attractive and sexy swimming-goggles must have been resting.

Crowley presses his lips to each mark.

“Not that we’ve been going hungry or wanting for work –” Az continues.

“You work too bloody much,” Crowley murmurs into his cheekbone.

“But I do love those characters. The whole thing wrapped up so nicely though – what more is there to tell?  I wonder what the arc could possibly be.”

“I wonder what you’ve got on under this robe –”

“Anthony!” Az laughs in fake protest, tilting his head back so that Crowley can get his mouth on his throat. Yeah, that’s the ticket. Az tastes like chlorine, and maybe Crowley should join him in the shower after this. After a day in the studio, he could probably use it.

“Would you really want to do a series again?” Crowley asks after he’s finally let his husband go, turned to hang up his coat and thrown his bag on the nearest chair. “Awful lot of commitment. And you’ve that whole run at the Globe coming up, don’t rehearsals start in the spring?”

“We’ll have to see if Helen can mind the goats again while we’re in London.” Az has wandered into the kitchen, turned on the kettle. Crowley looks at the back of his neck (Crowley always looks at the back of his neck. Sometimes he dreams about it.) “If she’s free. I called her this morning to check in, Elmyra’s eating, so her anxiety must be getting better.”

“Cool, yeah,” Crowley says, casual and nonchalant and no big deal. As if Elmyra isn’t his favourite of the bunch and he doesn’t have a song that he made up and no one knows that he sings just to her. As if he didn’t hand feed her all night once because she wasn’t sleeping or eating and neither was he because he was so afraid this tiny rescue goat was going to starve to death, anyway whatever, super cool, who cares. “Is it weird that no one’s reached out to us, though? Do you think?”

“About the goats? Helen has my number –”

“No love, the Warlock thing.”

Az blinks at him, flutters his pretty blond lashes in an attractive, aggrieved sort of way. “You mean you haven’t heard from Beez?”

“I haven’t heard from anyone.”

“Oh.” Az thinks it over. “Well. Neither have I, actually. Do you – is that odd?”

“Maybe they’ve recast us with younger models.”

“They wouldn’t dare.”

“Gotta up the sex appeal of the whole thing. Jawlines. Cheekbones. Sexy results.”

“I –” Az goes a bit pink. Glances at Crowley and then away. “Fail to see how they could improve upon perfection.”

Crowley looks at his husband’s bathrobe and the slight scattering of silver chest hair and his hand on his tea cup and fuck off, his neck. His neck, his neck, who gives a shit about Warlock actually?

 “Come over here and say that to my mouth.”

Avery smiles, and sighs, and he does.

ONE YEAR LATER:

Crowley opens the email from Beez.

He fuckin' closes it.

[orange-peony]

Hello! Thanks for tagging me @confused-bi-queer, @roomwithanopenfire, @meanjeansjeans and @monbons! It's so lovely so see what you've been all working on 💙

I've finished chapter one of my soulmates fic with dreadful soulmarks for the @carry-on-au-fest, which starts posting tomorrow (soooo exciting)!

Here's a snippet (Simon in italics and Baz in bold):

But then his texts keep on coming, and I find out that we don’t like the same music or the same books, but surprisingly we share a passion for home-cooked, comfort food and cakes.

Tea or coffee?

One hundred percent tea. Why are most of your questions about food?

Shut up. Favourite type of juice? Mine’s orange.

Apricot.

Where the fuck do you even get apricot juice?

Italy. My grandmother was Italian. I used to spend my summers there when I was little. She always gave me apricot juice mid-afternoon for my ‘merenda’ (which is like an afternoon snack).

I like afternoon snacks. I think they should have an official name in English too. Favourite season?

Spring

Me too!

Favourite tea?

Earl Grey. Milk, no sugar.  

Thank Crowley. I would have to delete your contact information if you liked English Breakfast.

Tags and hellos under the cut:

@pato-roldnart, @bubble-gumhead, @thewholelemon, @artsyunderstudy, @blackberrysummerblog

@nausikaaa, @leithillustration, @you-remind-me-of-the-babe, @cutestkilla, @emeryhall

@mooncello, @martsonmars, @facewithoutheart, @letraspal, @larkral, @rimeswithpurple

@alexalexinii, @imagineacoolusername, @j-nipper-95

@hushed-chorus, @skeedelvee, @fatalfangirl

@wellbelesbian, @shrekgogurt, @fiend-for-culture, @best--dress and anyone who would like to share something they've been working on.

[iluminated-goat]

I bring doodles! And- *I grab the can of meads mid air, I fumble with it and it falls on the ground, loudly, it echoes* I bring more pregnant Stan lore!! I had some ideas for it for a while but I didn't have the motivation or time to do them, but coming back made me want to get on the flow again! I want to thank my friends and all the people that liked my posts :) I truly appreciate you all

NOW TO THE LORE BABY! I wanted to explore more of Stan's relationships here, and how he ended up getting them (since he's living in Gravity Falls

Begrudgingly allies to queer platonic Fiddlestan my beloved. Ford and Fiddleford's fallout doesn't start outright with the portal, rather than Fidd's apprehension about it and Ford's "Muse". Needless to say, they have some arguments and discussions about it, some harsher than normal. At some point, Fidds just goes away from the Shack and goes to Stan to distract himself/calm down; mostly bc Stan's the closest and they're on deeper speaking terms. Not friends, but not strangers either; Fiddleford just need someone relatively normal now.

Stan's awkward as hell about it, he doesn't know much about Fiddleford, being on arms length with the man. Having someone breaking down in front of you and in your home while you're trying to sleep with someone kicking your bladder is... Hard. But listen, he's been on the far end of the stick too many times, and he knows that being alone with your thoughts is a dangerous thing - much less in that state. So, hesitantly, he lets him stay for the night, which turns into a week, which turns into when he's actually stable to leave-

So slowly, they form this camaraderie, slowly getting to know each other (mostly on the left foot bc Stan's still too hesitant to open up/casually meet people and Fiddleford is just too... nice).

Needless to say, Stan is not having that shit. He may or not be projecting but he is not letting this fact just fly away to the sun and evaporate like nothing, he has Fidds almost hound his family to come to Gravity Falls or to at least make sure to visit them (not just calls). Fuck him, Stan will take the risk of having his throat slit while they stay in his house just so they can be together (Ford is definitely NOT clawing at walls with jealousy and envy that Fiddleford got closer to Stan first)

And also because I'm a firm believer and lover of Stan having girl/female friendships, no I will not elaborate. And because I love Emma-May and Tate (I definitely need to draw them more), idk why but I feel like they would be a cool team these two (and because they have fluffy hair, but that's another story). Stan becoming an honorary uncle to Tate and taking care of him whenever his parents have to work or rest (plus, he's kinda preparing for his little one too, and Little Tate is just too cute for him to handle).

So while he has a somewhat established relationship with the McGucket's (and then slowly adopting him in their circle), Ford and Stan are still... tolerable, rough on the corners. They talk, but it's not the same. Both of the want to reconnect, they feel that want to be close again, even if it's not the same as before. The thing is that both of them are too stubborn/afraid to do so, plus, they're both leading their lives in different ways, how would that work? Plus, they don't even know each other anymore after their separation, how much did they change after there 10 years?

And Bill isn't helping the case, at all. Stan doesn't even know the guy, but the dude just decided that he wants him dead. Stan doesn't trust him. For as much as he respects and loves his brother, nothing will ever make him want to be in the same room as that thing. It makes too much promises and says just the right things to make you fall right on their hands, it makes him uneasy and bring back memories he'd rather not discuss.

A bit of info: the astronaut comes from the phrase "your mother's an astronaut", which means she was a drug addict while pregnant and her child came out with birth defects. Yeah, those two fucking hate each other - the problem is that Stan will bite back and not take his shit (he can insult him all he wants but the moment he even talks about his baby the restraint is out the window). As much as he wants to hit him, he doesn't want to injure his brother (as hard as that is) and Cipher doesn't harm him physically because Ford would lose some trust in him and that would attract too much attention, so verbal jabs it is.

The thing is that after some time, Stan just see Bill as this... Bratty kid. Throwing a tantrum anytime things don't go his way, and that's simultaneously terrifying and hilarious considering he's a god-knows-how-old demon with the power to bend their reality. Sometimes he can't help but just, lock him in place or speak to him in this tired voice because "dude I just want to raise my kid and I'm trying to sleep, you're making noise, you're not being scary you're just being an asshole. And quit hurting yourself I'm the one that's doing your bandages and that's not even your body your asymmetrical bastard".

So while Ford doesn't wake up to Bill's true intentions, someone has to keep the reins in the Shack and occasionally, MYSTERIOUSLY, slow down the construction of the portal. He has Bill fuming while angrily flipping medical book pages to see what could cause a miscarriage or birth defects (it doesn't work and that makes him want to scream).

Also I want to explore more of Stan's psychologic with his pregnancy and the horrors of getting accostumated to it (he's happy but listen his dick changed to a vagina, his entire body is changing, that's kinda wild to think about) but it'll definitely take some time before I start bc I have upcoming tests (⁠〒⁠﹏⁠〒⁠) but once again, thank you all for your attention and reading this far :D!!

[mooncello]

[I never know how to start wipsday posts. It feels awkward and unnatural to me and kinda like writing a letter?? but not, so I'm just gonna begin as though we were already halfway into a conversation, excellent solution, Heath, thank you, I thought so too—]

—and post-op recovery is a strange, liminal space. I've got too much time to think yfm? Too much reading of The Guardian and Al Jazeera and feeling super fucking helpless. I've been reading a lot of non-news, too. Revisiting my beloved Cooper Dayton and Oliver Park in the vastly underrated gay werewolf mystery series by Charlie Adhara. Subscribed to Sarah Thankam Mathews's substack thot pudding (good stuff, big rec). Giving what I can to Rawa. I started Yuri on Ice, and am about to dive into Denne Michele Norris's novel When the Harvest Comes. My friend recently recommended the podcast The Nature Of with Willow Defebaugh, and the most recent episode feat. Q U E E N adrienne maree brown. I'll be queuing that up this week.

I've also been writing!! I'm working on a collab with @monbons and our conversations the past couple weeks have brought so much joy. AND: chapter 9 of more than a footnote is HAPPENING. Dev and Niall have returned, the words are flowing, and I'm 70% done with drafting the chapter. I love them. I love this chapter. It's self-indulgent, it's soft, it's real. It's sexy. I published the first chapter of this fic on June 1 last year, and I really hope to post the final chapter by then. Full circles and all that. Also wdym iT'S BEEN A YEAR??

Here's a long snippet from chapter 9:

Dev POV

I leave Niall and his mums and wander out the back door to the Flores Connelly garden. Like most London terraced houses, it's tiny. A postage stamp of land, half covered in paving stones and brimming with flowers. Gardening gloves and tools spill from cans. Rain boots and slides line up neatly by the door. Strings of cafe lights loop from one end of the garden to the other, bisecting the inky night with honey gold. I collapse into one of the woven patio chairs, beating back the maelstrom swiftly gathering inside my chest. I had hoped to delay this fucking decision for a few more days because what I want and what I need are at vicious odds. No, I think, biting the inside of my cheek. Not need. I don't need to see my family, but the should is strong and familiar. An ill-fitting, ugly jacket that I've outgrown—that never fit me, not really—yet my shoulders still expect its weight and the way it pinches under my armpits. It's held my spine in a weird, unnatural posture every summer, every school break, for so long, that to reject it ... I sigh and scrub my eyes with the heels of my hands. The idea of defying my parents' expectations is both freeing and terrifying. Fuck, I wish I weren't such a coward. Two arms snake around my shoulders from behind. And then his soft mouth, pressed against the side of my neck. "Wanna break something?" Niall murmurs. "I can find a glass from the kitchen." "Nah." I reach for his sweatshirt, grab it, and tug, until he's seated in my lap. I wrap my arms around his waist, his arms now looped around my neck, and I feel instantly resettled. At home. "This is better." I tip my face up, and Niall meets me with a kiss. It's slow and sweet, his hands coming up to curve around my jaw, slipping into my hair, his nails against my scalp and his weight solid upon my thighs. We kiss and kiss, not building to anything, just the simple pleasure of his mouth on mine. How is it this easy? This good?

thank you for the tag today @brilla-brilla-estrellita, and everyone else that's tagged me these last few weeks.

tags and ✌️:

@drowninginships @valeffelees @run-for-chamo-miles @blackberrysummerblog @confused-bi-queer

@youarenevertooold @shrekgogurt, @hushed-chorus @whatevertheweather, @cutestkilla

@you-remind-me-of-the-babe, @artsyunderstudy, @emeryhall, @imagineacoolusername, @leithillustration

@iamamythologicalcreature, @bookish-bogwitch @thewholelemon, @best--dress, @rimeswithpurple

@ileadacharmedlife @skeedelvee, @monbons, @alexalexinii, @j-trow-95

@theimpossibledemon, @brilla-brilla-estrellita, @larkral, @messofthejess, @talentpiper11

@fiend-for-culture, @stitchyqueer, @roomwithanopenfire + anyone else who would like to join