#it's still churning...still fermenting...

[wombywoo]

Are there other characters within Quinn and Vincent's world? And sorry if I missed it, but have you talked about the role of non-humans in the military? The piece you made with some of their documents was really interesting, but especially from a worldbuilding perspective!

hihi yes! I do have a bunch of characters in mind for this universe already 😙 There are several members of their military unit (perhaps a secret werewolf 🤫), as well as Quinn's dad and sister, his former squad mate, a problematic ex, Vincent's geriatric bff, evil past acquaintances, etc... I'm still trying to piece everything together but it's been fun so far 🤙

As for the role of non-humans in the military--it was a recent development, alongside the integration of said 'abhuman' people into modern society. Quinn's unit is specifically committed to combating supernatural threats, so Vincent was taken on as a sort of field consultant--he has intimate expertise on the subject, as well as heightened senses/reflexes/strength etc (plus he's a veteran ☝️). Naturally, there had been a fair amount of opposition to allowing this in the first place (due to preconceived notions that all vampires are inherently dangerous), but after witnessing him in the field, I think no one can dispute the effectiveness of Vincent's unique skillset 💅 slay, quite literally

[heavypressure]

I'm very familiar with constipation, even week-long clogs are a usual occurrence to me. By the end of such week I'm already used to the heavy amount of waste and churning gases in my swollen guts, but it usually ends there with me finally being able to go to the bathroom and empty my bowels, my belly shrinking back to it's normal size. But not this time... I don't know what exactly caused it, but it's been 9 days since my last successful unloading.

I'm sitting in my cubicle at work, my thoughts fixated on my abnormally full middle. My belly looked 7 months pregnant at this point, so tightly packed with waste, gas and food that there was almost no movement inside. Surprisingly, it didn't hurt either so far, just heavy discomfort from all of the weight pulling my belly down, and extreme bloating that began from the fermenting waste deep in my lower intestines.

I gave up on buttoning up my pants a few days ago, forced to expose my lower belly, which was the most round and tight part so far Embarrassed, i decided that i need to take action, but was scared of taking laxatives right away, with blockage that big i was afraid i will literally burst..

I'm probably just not getting enough fiber, so I'm gonna fix it today, and this situation will be finally over!

I came home from work and started working on several smoothies and salads, making sure to add prunes to everything. I figured just one drink wouldn't be enough, so i needed to cram another big meal in my already overfilled stomach... Burping loudly, i chugged another prune smoothie, my poor guts stretching painfully this time. I moaned and rubbed my rock-hard belly, telling myself to hold on just a little bit more. After finishing my meal, i slowly waddled to the bed, exhausted from the painful stuffing, but hopeful that my plan will work.

I was awoken in the middle of the night by a dull pain in my guts. I opened my eyes, and was instantly horrified: my belly looked ready to burst, even rounder than it was before i went to bed, gas roaring loud inside my clogged guts and sending vibrations through my whole body... Well, it seems my fiber idea worked?...

I got up and a loud BBWOOUURRP was forced oit of my mouth uncontrollably, releasing just a tiniest bit of the pressure inside. I waddled to the bathroom and plopped on the toilet, gently rubbing my enormously stretched gut and observing the damage that was done to it over a week ... Oh god, i could see some stretch marks formed near my belly button, how embarrassing... But this is finally going to be over now,...right?

I sat on the toilet for over an hour, listening to my bubbling cauldron of a stomach, trying to push anything i could out, but .. nothing came out but a few tiny (but very rancid) farts... The bubbling soon stopped, and i was left with an even bigger stomach than i had before... Now i had all of the gas that formed from my huge fibre meal stuck inside of my intestines, unable to find it's way out and only bloating me further. I got up and immediately felt every single gas bubble inside, gas cramps shooting through my whole body... Great, i only made everything worse... I waddled to bed again, maybe my belly just needs more time?... Hopefully the next morning things will finally get going....

I woke up feeling like a blimp. Thankfully it seems my belly hasn't gotten any bigger, but it definitely hasn't gotten any smaller too. Over this night i managed to go from looking 7mo pregnant to looking slightly overdue. Thankfully the pain died down significantly, and the noises occured only if i made some sudden movements

Unfortunately i still had to go to work, abd there was no way I'd fit in my regular work trousers this time... I looked around for some old sweatpants, embarrassing and slobby choice, but still better than going out naked

I could feel the mass inside my belly jiggle and grumble with every step i took, but i hoped that maybe agitating my belly more would help it.

I was definitely getting some weird looks at work, some people asking what happened to me. I was too embarrassed to answer that I'm just overfilled with gas and shit, so i tried to change the topic and get back to work so the day would go by faster.

Even i was overwhelmingly full, i still felt intense hunger after not eating anything for the whole day at work.... I was thinking that maybe I shouldn't eat until i deal with my massive constipation, but thought that a small quick snack wouldn't hurt...

While eating a cheeseburger and washing it down with coke, i decided that i should finally try a laxative, no matter how much it scared me.

It was embarrassing, asking for the strongest laxative at the pharmacy, while my balloon of a gut was hanging out for all to see, probably telling the whole story.

I got home and downed several pills instantly, not even reading the instructions. I tried to relax while i waited for the laxative to work.

After an hour, it finally kicked in .. The intense bubbling in my stomach could be heard throughout the whole room, and i felt my guts inflating once more. I went to the bathroom,sat there and massaged my tight gut, letting out a few rancid burps and farts. This gave me hope, finally I'll be back to my normal self!.. I could feel the diarrhea bubbling with gas in my bowels, my stomach roaring with needing to be finally emptied... I pushed and pushed, but the enormous rock-hard log in my ass just wouldn't budge, only allowing for small farts to slip out... i was desperate, it can't be all in vain! I clutched my belly and continued to push, belly still bubbling with gas, but not getting any smaller..

After it seems like two hours with no results, the movement in my belly began to calm down , seemingly ending my chance to let anything out... I was exhausted, my distended middle only seeming even bigger than before... What can i do now?.. am i doomed to bloat and swell further and further?

I waddled to bed again, noticing that i got used to the gas pains, and it didn't bother me that much... My stomach was so swollen, but at the same time, i couldn't deny that it felt somewhat good... Feeling such heaviness, being inflated from the inside, with no way out of this predicament.

One thing that laxatives also do, is they make me really hungry. And i got a day off tomorrow, so ....

One month later....

--GHHHUUOORRRP - Day 29 of my week-off! It feels so good to relax at home, even though i soon need to get back to work.... somehow

Empty paper fast-food bags and wrappers cover the whole floor of my living room. I sit on the couch in the middle, but you can barely see me behind the huge sphere of flesh that's covered with sweat and stretch marks. By the look of an outie belly button, you can guess that this is what became of my belly... My sides are bulging with build-up gas, all that i can feel inside is immense pressure and heaviness from the weeks-worth of food that i crammed inside of my guts. My clothes are of course long gone by now...

Turns out, being constipated for month and a half isn't as bad as it seems to be ...

[yoomiefumes]

Fleeting Sparks. ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Micheal Kaiser x gn!reader

Established relationship, implied co-dependency, no pronouns mentioned for reader, light angst (?)

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

If you can describe what’s is like to be with Kaiser into words. The word would be ‘sparks’.

Fleeting touches that would send electrifying sparks from the tips of your fingers down to your spine. That would send both your cheeks alight, flushed.

Light teasing banters that would make your stomach churn in the most delightful way.

Warm. He always is, shining bright amidst everyone else in your gray scale world. Your very own spark.

Though the thing with with spark, is they are merely temporary, you knew it wouldn’t last. A mere fleeting warmth. A flicker of light caused by a burning flame, it can disappear in the blink of an eye. You knew, you always did.

Gradually you’ve begun to notice your Spark growing more dim, barely feeling the warmth radiating off of him as it grew colder. Further away, away from you.

You can’t help but hold on to it’s warmth, to it’s shine. So you continued, begging that it wouldn’t go out, that it’ll last just a little longer. Even if just for a little bit.

You reach out, clutching it your grasp. Hoping that maybe then it’ll stay, safe in your hands.

“Tell me what’s wrong, please!” You sobbed, your fingers wrinkling his shirt. His eyes that once shone like the brightest of Sapphire now missing their glint.

“How am i suppose to know what i did wrong, when you refuse to have a say in this!” You spoke snot and tear’s running down your face, as you twist the fabric of his shirt tighter within your grasp. Pulling him closer towards you.

“Why? Haven’t i’ve been enough?.. haven’t i loved you hard and unconditionally as you wished..?” You manage to laugh at the ridiculous situation you’ve managed to put yourself in.

But no matter how much you begged, clinging to it’s weak flickers. You can’t stop the inevitable.

You watch in silence as the flames grow dimmer each second, as the sparks burn through it’s last weak shine.

It’s gone, your spark is gone.

Why did you think that, maybe, just maybe if you’d try harder, it’ll stay, burning just for a little more longer.

After all, a spark is temporary, a fleeting thing that stood no chance against the cruel fated end against time.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Wrote this based on the poll i did a while ago.

“Aoi, Koi, daidaiiro no hi” by Mass Of Fermenting Dregs, is what i loosely based this fic off, you should check them out :)

I don’t really like Kaiser, but god damn i love writing angst of this man LMAO.

Thank you for reading my work, likes, comments, reblog are appreciated, and constructive criticism are welcome.

I hope to improve on my presentation, tips and recommendations are very appreciated. (I still don’t know how to make banners.)

[feederheart]

The Hero.

CW: ssbbw, feederism. This is a bit of a silly story, not so much a kinky one. Nonetheless, a good read if you love fat women.

Princess Magnolia sat alone in her bed, staring out at the window with longing for the outside world. She wished for nothing more than to be free of her prison, for a handsome knight to find her in this terrible castle, locked up to waste away into nothing. She wanted to be picked up and carried away somewhere and live with him happily ever after…

Well, if there was a knight capable of carrying all five hundred pounds of her.

She longed for the delicious tastes of home, the sweet, sugary cakes, soft and buttery buns, and succulent roasts that used to grace her dinner table every night. She longed for the view of the magnificent palace garden where she could relax for as long as she pleased, munching away at whatever goodies she could get her greedy hands on. Oh how long ago it all seemed when she could just waddle around the pond watching the ducks bath in the pool while she picked one out for one of the palace guards to catch for dinner. It all changed one day when her father sent her away to be locked up in this awful castle to be the prisoner of the evil witch Malicia. Why he did it, she would never know, perhaps she was a hostage in a deal made under the table, or maybe he simply did not care for her anymore. 

She felt her stomach rumble and churn; it had been a whole thirty minutes since she had last eaten. THIRTY MINUTES! It had to be some sort of record. She rubbed her poor, empty, mattress of a belly underneath of her silken dress that had to be made out of bedsheets wishing that she had some food. It felt a bit smaller than before; still gigantic of course, but smaller than before. Her arms as big as the pillows she slept on seemed to be slimming down as well along with her tree-trunk legs and bountiful, melon-sized breasts. She caught a glimps of her fat face in the wall mirror across the room; she now only had two chins instead of three. What was happening to her, she wondered. Was it the witch’s curse?

Speaking of, Princess Magnolia could hear footsteps from coming outside; it was Malicia, no doubt returning to torment her once again. Her favorite form of torment was feeding her horrible concoctions that sapped her strength and frankly tasted like fermented asshole. She put her hands together to pray (and declined to get on her knees because of how uncomfortable that was).

“Dear heavenly lord, sendeth me a handsome prince charming to free me of this prison and deliver me to a life of love and happiness.”

The door opened and entered Malicia, a tall, older, and frail woman wearing a dark robe, a pointed hat, and black leather high heels that clicked and clacked against the stone floor of the palace. In her hands was another one of her foul-smelling potions that she was forced to drink. She wore a wicked smile on her face, the sadistic bitch, as if she enjoyed tormenting poor Princess Magnolia.

“Hello dear,” she said with her usual cheerful demeanor; Princess Magnolia knew that she was only doing it to keep her off her guard. “Wow, look at you and how much you’ve slimmed down, your father is going to be so proud of you!”

“Backeth! Backeth hence from me foul spectra! Has't thee nay restraint!” bellowed the princess.

Malicia sighed.

“Why do you keep speaking like that?” she asked with exasperation. “It’s just another weight loss potion, as prescribed by the royal healer, we’ve been over this.

“Keepeth yond foul concoction hence from mine own lips!” replied the Princess as she haplessly kicked with her fat legs.

Malicia rolled her eyes.

“Now now, dear, I know losing weight is no fun,” sighed Malicia. “And I know you miss the palace food, but you’re next in line for the throne and the kingdom doesn’t need a princess who can’t even walk up a flight of stairs. Now just sit still-”

“Nay!” shouted the princess as she exerted what effort she could afford to scoot away from Malicia. “Nay I say! I shall not drinketh thy poison again!”

Malicia groaned and flicked her right wrist. Suddenly, the princess’s gargantuan body began to hover off of the bed.

“NAY! NAY!”

“Oh be quiet, you,” muttered Malicia as she pulled Princess Magnolia toward her and forced the potion into her mouth.

Princess Magnolia fought as hard as she could but Malicia’s magic was too much for her. She was forced to drink every last drop.

“There, was that so bad?” asked Malicia sarcastically. “Seriously, it’s like giving a cough potion to a toddler.”

“Foul witch!” shouted Princess Magnolia. “Horrid hag!”

“Shut up,” snapped Malicia, having enough of Princess Magnolia’s antics. “I’ll be back to check on you soon, you better do your damn exercises, I’ll know if you didn’t.”

And with that, Malicia turned and left.

Princess Magnolia collapsed to the ground and sobbed. This witch was trying to kill her and there was nothing she could do about it. She cried, wailed, and bemoaned her horrible life before struggling to her fat feet and waddling back to bed. She lay down, hoping that she would never wake up again and have to drink another one of those foul potions.

Not long after closing her eyes, however, she began to hear a commotion somewhere in the castle, something that sounded like shattering potion vials and screaming. She sat up and listened carefully. The commotion stopped and there was nothing but silence. A few moments later and she could hear footsteps approaching her room, but they weren’t the clacking heels belonging to Malicia, they sounded more like metal sabatons clinking and clanking with each step.

Suddenly the door opened and there stood a handsome prince decked out in shining armor. His body was muscular and studied as any brave knight should be and his long golden locks flowed in the wind… despite him being indoors. Princess Magnolia gasped and put her hands to her face; she couldn’t believe that a handsome knight had finally come to rescue her.

“Art thee the knight yond who is't shall free me from mine own prison?” she asked the knight.

“Aye, tis I!” he proudly proclaimed in a golden voice as he knelt down and bowed. “I has't cometh to taketh thee home!”

Princess Magnolia squeed and excitedly kicked her obese legs; she could already feel her loins moistening.

“Taketh me! Prithee taketh me betimes!” she said with her arms outstretched.

The knight dutifully picked up all five hundred pounds of her with seemingly little effort and carried the excited princess out of the room; she was free at last! On the way out of the castle, they walked past Malicia, who the knight had subdued with magic rope that canceled her powers.

“What the FUCK are you idiots doing?” she demanded as she tried to struggle free from her bindings.

“Thy torment of the princess ends the present day, foul hag!” answered the knight. “I am taking h'r far hence from h're!”

“What?” snapped the baffled witch. “WHY ON EARTH ARE YOU TALKING LIKE THAT TOO?”

“Silence!” bellowed the knight with authority. “The princess is returning home and there is nothing thee can doth about yond!”

“THE KING IS THE ONE THAT SENT HER HERE!” screamed Malicia in exasperation. “YOU IDIOT! SHE’S JUST HERE UNTIL SHE LOSES WEIGHT!”

“Tush tush!” refuted the knight as he made his way past the bound witch. “I shalt taketh mine own leaveth and did bid thee farewell!”

“You know he’s just going to fire you and send her right back here, right?” asked Malicia.

“I cannot standeth the fibbing,” bemoaned Princess Magnolia. “Prithee taketh me home, o brave knight!”

“Oh my god,” groaned Malicia as the two lovebirds left the castle. “Just take her, he’s not paying me nearly enough to deal with this shit.”

The two left the castle and made their way to the courtyard where the brave knight’s white horse awaited his rider’s return.

“Elmo, mine own brave and studyeth steed!” greeted the knight enthusiastically. “Lendeth me thy strength and speedeth so yond we may escort this fair maiden home!”

Elmo’s eyes grew wide and he immediately bolted, disappearing over the hills in a flash.

“Very well, turncoat!” shouted the knight. “I shalt carryeth her on mine own owneth two feet!”

And the two set off toward home-

“Can we stand ho at a McDonalds 'long the way?” asked Princess Magnolia, rubbing her hungry belly with her free hand.

“But of course!” exclaimed the knight, happy to feed the hungry princess.

And the two set off toward a McDonalds. At least they did until the knight’s legs finally collapsed beneath him.

[prestopresto07]

Never Known Peace | 9

MCD x Fem!reader | Angsty | This happens after ep 100 when shadow knights are more prevalent and Laurence is more emo. This is intended to be Lurence x reader but I'm thinking about doing multiple endings or something. I'm just seeing where this fanfic goes. Also sorry you're right-handed. Also, I'm dyslexic so if you see any spelling errors, no you don't.

Masterlist!

Word count: 1583

The ship rocked gently beneath your feet, the endless expanse of ocean stretching in every direction. Wind caught in the sails above, pulling the vessel steadily forward into the unknown. Seagulls circled overhead, their cries distant, nearly drowned by the creak of wood and the splash of waves.

You stood near the railing, arms resting on the smooth, sun-warmed surface of the ship’s edge, watching the white foam churn in the ship’s wake.

You hadn’t spoken much since you boarded.

Laurance hadn’t pushed. Not yet, anyway.

The ache in your chest lingered, dulled only slightly by the salt-laced air and the distraction of travel. Your body was here. On this ship, in this moment, but your mind felt fractured. Part of you was still back in the Nether. Still bound to stone and flame. Still screaming in silence.

Still pretending to be fine.

“You’re going to lean over so far you’ll fall in,” Laurance said from behind you.

You didn’t turn to look at him. “Maybe I’m considering it.”

His footsteps padded closer. “You’d miss out on lunch. I hear Aaron’s cooking today.”

You huffed, just barely. “I'm not hungry.”

He leaned on the railing beside you, arms folded, watching the sea. “You’ve been quiet.”

You stayed silent.

“I get it,” he added after a moment. “This kind of quiet… the sea, the waiting, the uncertainty, it’s the perfect space for thoughts you’ve been trying to outrun.”

You glance at him then. For once, he wasn’t smiling.

“Do you ever stop talking?” you ask, more tired than annoyed.

He gave you a one-shouldered shrug. “When I think it’s worth shutting up for.”

You blinked, unsure if that was meant to be comforting or just another way for him to dodge sincerity.

But the thing is… it helped.

Even if just a little.

Even if only for now.

Your thoughts were cut short by the unmistakable sound of someone retching.

Katelyn, whom you hadn’t really spoken to before getting on the boat, was hunched over the side, gripping the railing like it might save her from being swallowed whole.

She had been throwing up basically since the moment the ship left the dock.

Laurance let out a low whistle beside you. “Hey,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the blue-haired girl, “at least we’re not her.”

You really contemplate that statement.

You don’t want to be annoying, but honestly, you might disagree with him. Being seasick sounds a whole lot better than what’s been rattling around in your head.

The rocking of the boat lulls you back into your thoughts. Unfortunately, they only take you to one place:

The Nether.

Only fragments come to the surface, flashes of fire and brimstone, the clang of swords, the biting cold of chains. Sights and sounds that don’t belong in this quiet morning at sea.

It’s like your mind had been branded by that place.

In some ways, it had.

A gust of salty wind pulls you from your thoughts, dragging your focus back to the ship's creaking masts and the distant call of gulls.

"You okay?" Laurance asks, voice quieter now, less teasing, more careful.

You glance at him. He's still got that lopsided smile, but there’s something else behind his eyes. He noticed.

You shrug, noncommittal. “Just... thinking.”

“Dangerous pastime,” he says with a grin. “Want me to distract you?”

You roll your eyes, but it does earn a faint smile from you.

“I’m serious,” he adds, bumping your shoulder gently. “Could teach you how to tie sailor’s knots. Or point out which barrels not to sit on unless you wanna smell like fermented fish.”

That coaxes a small laugh out of you. It’s the first in a while that doesn’t feel forced.

Katelyn groans again somewhere behind you, and Aaron’s voice drifts up from below deck, calling out that lunch is almost ready, fish stew, unsurprisingly.

Laurance leans in slightly. “Come on. Let’s go help. Aaron’s gonna burn it if no one stops him from trying to multitask.”

You nod, pushing yourself from the railing. Waiting for Laurence to follow suit.

But he doesn't

He stays leaning over the railing, staring back over his shoulder at you.

You pause, catching the way Laurence is still looking at you. His hair’s a mess from the sea wind, the usual smugness gone from his expression.

You narrow your eyes. “What?”

He doesn’t flinch. “Just making sure you’re actually here.”

You cross your arms, the chill of the air suddenly more noticeable. “Where else would I be?”

Laurance’s jaw tightens slightly. “Still stuck in whatever you were dreaming about last night.”

You go still. That strikes a little too close to home.

“Right,” you mutter, turning on your heel. “Thanks for the concern, but I don’t need a babysitter.”

You hear him exhale, maybe even take a step after you, but you don’t wait around to find out.

You stomped down the narrow stairs, jaw clenched and arms crossed tight over your chest. The air below deck was warmer, heavy with the scent of something spiced and homey—like roasted root vegetables and broth.

You followed the smell until it led you to the galley.

You didn’t expect to see them already there.

Aaron stood at the small counter, sleeves rolled up, stirring a pot with practiced ease. Aphmau sat on a crate nearby, chin in her hand, watching him with a soft smile. Something about the way she looked at him, like they shared a joke you weren’t invited to, made you hesitate in the doorway.

“I still don’t know how you manage to make anything taste good on a boat,” she said, her voice light and warm.

Aaron just chuckled. “It’s not that hard if you don’t burn the bottom.”

They both laughed quietly.

You cleared your throat.

Aphmau looked up first. Her face lit up immediately. “Y/N!”

Aaron turned too, surprise flickering in his expression before he gave you a polite nod. You try to forget that only a couple of hours earlier, he was holding a giant sword to your throat.

You hovered in the doorway, trying to act casual. “Sorry. Didn’t realize this room was… occupied.”

Aphmau stood, brushing her hands on her skirt. “No, no, it’s good you’re here. We were just talking, nothing important.” Her smile didn’t falter. “Are you hungry? Aaron made enough for an army.”

Your stomach answered before you could. Traitor.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, but you didn’t move to leave.

Aaron gave you a look, level, unreadable. “Suit yourself. But it’s hot, and it won’t get better cold.”

Aphmau stepped toward you, eyes kind. “We’ve got time before the next shift on deck. Sit with us?”

You glanced between them, heart still prickling from whatever strange emotion that moment between them had stirred.

But you were tired. Bone-deep.

And the stew smelled good.

“…Sure,” you said, quieter now.

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you.

You took a seat at one of the benches across from Aphmau. Aaron set bowls in front of you both.

It looked delicious.

You mumble a quiet thank you to Aaron before pushing the stew in your bowl around with your spoon.

Aphmau looks up at you. Her amber eyes showed concern, maybe regret. You couldn't be sure.

“You doing okay?” Aphmau asked, her voice careful, not soft exactly, but measured, like she wasn’t sure how close she was to stepping on something sharp.

You shrugged, eyes still fixed on the stew. “As okay as someone can be after being dragged into an adventure they didn’t ask for.”

It wasn’t meant to come out so bitter. But it did.

Aphmau blinked, visibly taken aback. Aaron paused mid-bite but didn’t look up.

You sighed. “Sorry. That was... uncalled for.”

“No,” Aphmau said, shaking her head gently. “It wasn’t. You’ve been through a lot. I don’t blame you for feeling that way.”

You finally glanced up at her. There was no judgment in her face—just quiet understanding. But that only made it harder.

“Sometimes it feels like everyone else has a place in this. Like they belong here. And I’m just…” You trailed off, not wanting to say it out loud, but there was a multitude of adjectives you could think of to describe how you feel:

Useless, volitile, unstable, crazy, terrified.

You weren't sure if that was all of them.

Aphmau leaned forward slightly, resting her forearms on the table. “You’re not the only one who’s ever felt that way. But you’re here now. And we’re glad you are, even if you are a begrudging guest.”

You didn’t reply right away. The warmth of the stew seeped into your hands through the bowl. The rocking of the ship, the creak of wood, and the low clatter of Aaron quietly cleaning behind the counter all made the moment feel more real than you wanted it to.

After a long pause, you offered a weak smile. “Thanks.”

The three of you sat in silence for a while. The only sounds were the distant call of gulls and the gentle slosh of water against the hull.

You finally took a small bite of the stew. It was warm, rich, comforting, far better than anything you expected on a ship like this.

Maybe you didn’t have a place yet. Maybe you were still figuring out what the hell any of this meant. But at least, for now, you weren’t alone.

And for the first time in a long time, that was enough.

~~~~~

:P <3

[nentenkoneko]

Another tiny drabble from the Supa Strikas fic (Tiger centric) that I'm working on

No TWs for this, this is just a goofy moment that shows up midway through (though as I said in my previous post this fic will not be goofy in the slightest lmao)

Tiger and Nakama shenanigans once more, featuring one of Nakama's defenders (who I named Shinji), a very cocky Tiger and a bowl of nattō.

--

The team’s lounge was empty now, when Tiger eventually found himself wandering in, searching for a snack. Only the gentle murmur of the old television in the corner greeted him.

Training had been brutal that day, and most of the team had either retreated to their rooms or had gone out for the night. He, however, had decided to stay behind after practise to get some yoga in, before turning in for the night. He figured his body would thank him more for a shower and a lazy, relaxing night, rather than one full of alcohol and trying to out-move Kylo on the dance floor. He’d rather deal with a few sore muscles than a pounding headache come morning.

He was still toweling his hair dry when he caught sight of Shinji, sat in one of the corner tables nearby, hunched over, chopsticks in hand.

It wasn’t an unusual sight- the defender wasn’t known for being incredibly sociable. It wasn’t that he was rude, per say, he just preferred his own company more than most people. He may not be rude, though, but he did grumble. A lot. Like an old man, actually, always muttering about the ‘recklessness’ of the youth, or scoffing at the many pranks Kylo pulled around the dorm. But beneath it all Tiger was well aware that the man liked them. It was painfully obvious, even if he tried to hide it.

He liked hanging around them, too. And drinking. Which is why it was kind of weird that he was here, alone and not drinking. Booze nights were Shinji’s thing- he could out-drink just about everyone in the team, if he really wanted to. So yeah, it was odd to see him here, not doing exactly that.

Tiger meandered closer, plopping himself onto the seat across from him, “Heya, Shinj’.” He rested his elbows against the grain of the table, “I thought you’d be out drinking with the rest of them.”

Shinji didn’t bother to look up, but Tiger could still see his eyes roll. Someone was in a grumpy mood. “Too loud. Too much trouble.” He brought a cup of tea to his lips, taking a slow sip. He gestured with his free hand to his food, half-eaten. “This is better.”

Tiger glanced down, looking at what exactly ‘this’ was. A steaming bowl of miso soup and a thick, sticky pile of rice, which was covered in something that… moved? It stunk. Bad. “What is that…?”

“Nattō gohan.” Shinji finally met his gaze, lips pursed. He set his cup down, picking up his chopsticks, running a hand idly through his goatee, “You’ve never had it, I take?”

Tiger eyed the fermented, stringy beans, watching as they stretched in goopy, web-like strands between the two chopsticks. His stomach churned. “I mean, I’ve heard of it,” he said carefully, frowning. “Just… never tried it, s’all.”

Shinji made a noise of disapproval. “Tch. Figures. Kids these days have no taste.”

Oh, was that a challenge?

Tiger sat up straighter. “Hey now, I’m open-minded!” He grinned, “I’ll try anything at least once.”

“…Oh?” A slow, dangerous smirk spread across Shinji’s face. “Really now?” Shinji shoved his tray forward with a single push. “Alright then. Eat.”

Tiger blinked.

Oh he’d royally fucked up, hadn’t he.

“You said you’d try anything once.” Shinji leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, watching him like a man about to be thoroughly entertained. “Be my guest, then.”

Tiger glanced at the still-moving, slimy pile of beans. Then back at Shinji. Then back at the beans. He exhaled.

He could do it. He had to, his pride was at stake now. No turning back.

Forcing a smile, he picked up the chopsticks, trying not to gag as he watched the strings of nattō cling to the sticks, stretching and sticking like glue with each movement. The smell hit him harder now. Sharp. Funky. Like something that should definitely not be eaten.

But his pride didn’t allow him to break. He would go through with this, because he’d never hear the end of it from Shinji otherwise.

So Tiger popped it into his mouth.

…

It was like eating something that had been regurgitated and spat out by someone else.

Slimy. Sticky. Cold. A mix of soy sauce and something indescribably bitter, all the while coated in a consistency that refused to be swallowed no matter how hard he tried. He was fighting a battle, and he was losing. Brutally.

Shinji’s smirk widened, eyes crinkling. “Well?”

Tiger tried to respond. He really did. But all that he could muster was a weak thumbs-up as he fought to force the nattō down his throat without retching. He refused to lose against some crappy beans.

Shinji snorted. “That bad, huh?”

Tiger finally managed to swallow, shuddering as the goop stuck to his throat stubbornly. “I-It’s… unique.”

Shinji huffed out a low laugh. “You look like you just licked a toilet seat.”

“I feel like I did,” Tiger coughed, grabbing whatever remained of Shinji’s drink and chugging it in one go, unashamed, “Geez.”

Shinji simply shook his head, pulling the tray back towards himself with a chuckle. “Guess I’ll spare you the horror of finishing it.”

Tiger had never been more relieved in his life.

But despite the near-trauma of it all, he couldn't help but notice the slight shift in Shinji’s demeanor- the way his usual frown had eased just a bit, the way his sharp eyes held something almost amused, almost… fond, in a way. No longer grumpy. Yet another victory tonight.

So Tiger, despite the taste still coating his tongue, grinned. “Well, guess that makes me more cultured than Kylo,” he declared, nudging Shinji’s arm. “Bet he’d cry if he even smelt that.”

Shinji scoffed, but the small twitch of his lips gave him away. “…Yeah. He probably would.”

--

The members of Nakama in this fic are well-explained and detailed (I think), but these small scenes I pick don't really show it, unfortunately, sorry about that lol

[voltstone]

LYCOS | SCALDING | 3 (Wenclair A/B/O)

SCALDING | moon | Pt.3

“I am why you never lay a hand on Enid Sinclair.”

ajax is to be taken care of. however, nevermore's pack has wednesday's attention. she craves their bloodshed. wednesday may have to reach to depravity once more, where a siren's word will be a savior.

[105,282] (i; [44,340] 5/30/2024) (ii; [26,229] 2/20/2025) (iii; [34,713] 2/28/2025)

no it did not take me a little less than a year to do this. and no i didn't split it up into three because i would've run out of characters. and nO it is nOT 100k words.

anyway.

hope you enjoy!

:)

AO3 1.3 First Chapter: AO3 | First Post

(read more for chapter teaser.)

Enid doesn’t wake. She stirs, on occasion. There’s an itch down her nose, then a squirming of a brow, before she twists to find … you. As though your rot, sweet decay, is better than the infirmary’s cold. The ceramic tiles are basked in it. The grout as well. Every counter, drawer, shelf — the woods have fermented within pills and alcohol since Nevermore opened its doors.

And you have kept to her side. You’ve not left.

Your mouth is warm from the murmurings you slipped to her when the clinic was empty, and it was just you, and it was Enid. A poem, dredged from the depths of your decrepit soul. It swelled the room. Blue began to froth around her, those concord grapes. Didn’t understand. Still don’t.

That perfume on her is a soothing thing. And she’s hidden it away from you, until these moments.

It lingered when the nurses bustled in and shoved you aside. Lingers now when you’ve found your perch on a chair, hovered over Enid’s head and pillow. 

The watch in your vest pocket weighs heavier than it should. It reduced you to a fidget — absentminded — when the nurses did their work, until it pricked you, and left you now with a thumb stinging the fine line you cut off its glass. Blood pounds a dull rhythm in the wound. It’s the same swelled within your nose. It’s belligerent in every laceration you hadn’t yet realized you acquired.

Hollow, however, is your cruelest pain. A tight manglement, thick of sloughed oil. Pores bubble upon its surface. Air is in heavy smolder. Your velveted heart stirs in ways it shouldn’t. In ways … it hasn’t for far too long.

(In ways that you have longed for silently, fervently.)

The nurses step aside. Their voices are a blear to you. The words are between them, and they are careened to their desks, away from the shell of your ear. So you capture Enid’s hand. Her skin is smoother than the parchment your typewriter bludgeons in ink. And as your eyes trace her, you find a quirk of a thing: where her watch laid its loyalty, there is a pastel shadow banded around her wrist. Her skin is fair. And yet, it rejoices sun; her complexion matures beyond pastel shadow.

You keep the fact to yourself. You intend it to be a better stashed secret than the very watch in your pocket.

And you steal more. Her hand is crafted in lithe angles. Narrow, but should her fist close now, Enid would net yours whole. Leave little room for you to slip away.

…she … should be awake for you. Yet she is not.

Hollow churns. You smooth over drawls of knuckle. And then, you whisper the ends to your poem. You whisper in low tones, for Enid to hear, and Enid alone.

“Injertaré estas cicatrices tuyas en la memoria. Conoceré estas suturas mientras sanan… Y…”

A nurse’s shadow crosses lamplight. Your eyes dart as she strips her gloves and soothes the residual powder across her palm. There’s a hint of chlorine — another residual, biting to your nose.

“Y estas se desvanecerán. Serán los … caminos que suavizaré en tu piel, más profundos que el perfume.”

Enid is the harmony to your eyes. The colors painted within blonde canvas sing to you again. Has you think coral ocean — as if your soul castaway, adrift at her bedside, could ever have the wingspan to cradle her blue horizon.

You can’t. It’s the worst floundering visual for ego.

Because you are silent as you drown in what you can do. There is nothing. You grasp after a miserable hope that these sutures are enough, and that every stirring of your mind will scorn the way you intend.

There is a patchwork of bandages left behind. On her arms, shoulders. Most of those wounds are light. Mere scuffs or grazes — they are not a concern. Her face is cleared of blood now, and like her arms, her hands, much of what was left behind looked worse than what it is. Her lips, however… And her nose… They are a sore reminder of what you feared.

Your eyes are burning for her legs best of all. Because you did not miss the way her socks are flecked by fallen blood, nor were you blind to the gauze both nurses applied. How the white bloomed a vibrant shade. A wine. It bloomed the shade of her wine.

It scalds a violence. It starts and ends with that Omega.

“Now, for your nose, Miss Wednesday—”

You don’t bother your eyes. A hand waves her off.

The older nurse. Reeks like a stale, cobwebbed corner. Not stale Vampyrically, however. No. Lycan. She’s a wolf as well, and unless born intuition has left you, Omega. 

Your tongue rolls the iron in your mouth. Lobs together fresh and old — flakes of what you damned yourself last night to the beaded sinews from a fight won.

“Miss Wednesday. It doesn’t look broken, but it still requires my attention.”

You’re glaring at her from down your shoulder. A veteran to the school — her jade eyes are cutting, and brunette hair is fraught by white. You don’t break away. The same hand nudges the offered gauze already doused in alcohol. In peripheral, the gauze hangs in the air as though she is, despicably, truthfully, astounded. Be it the physical contact, or every grain of your existence, you’ve struck another cord of hers.

Her patience seems to perpetually be strained with you. It may be your tact, or it’s the chiding she does. Or both, because she knows the chiding will never find its place here, with you. Her brow tweaks and a lip squirms as though you pried a nail beneath her skin.

“What about Enid?”

AO3 1.3 First Chapter: AO3 | First Post

[thelorelounge]

Modern Problems, Mythic Solutions

by Baba Yaga, Mother of the Forest, destroyer of egos, life coach who will curse your houseplants if you don’t take care of them

---

Dear Baba Yaga, Everyone around me seems to be thriving—new jobs, engagements, skincare routines that work. Meanwhile, I’m over here trying to remember if I ate lunch, stuck in a spiral of “what am I doing with my life?” I feel behind, exhausted, and kind of like a moss-covered rock pretending to be a person. What do I do when it feels like I’m rotting instead of growing?

—Lost in the Woods (Without Cell Reception)

---

Dear Rotting Log,

Good.

Rot is holy.

Let the moss grow. Let the bark peel. Sit still in the forest of your becoming and decay beautifully. Do you think the trees panic when they drop their leaves? Do you think the moon worries she’s falling behind the sun?

No.

Because real growth—the deep, mythic kind—starts in the underworld.

This age of yours, this season where nothing is blooming and everything feels like a mess? It is the compost. It is the churning, fertile dark before the sprouting. You are not behind. You are fermenting. Do not rush your rise. Bread that rises too fast is full of holes and collapses when cut. (I know. I eat people. I bake.)

Let others post their perfect lives. Let them glisten like summer fruit. You? Be the root. Be the worm. Be the soft rot of possibility.

Drink tea. Speak to the bones. Set one small fire, even if it’s just in your heart.

And when you’re ready, rise—not as who you were, but as something ancient, strange, and wildly unbeholden to anyone’s timeline but your own.

Rot proud, —Baba Yaga

---

Curselet: May your timelines crack, your roots deepen in dark soil, and may those who compare themselves to others always stub their toes on cold tile at 3AM.

---

Want to send Baba Yaga more of your life’s disasters? The chicken-legged inbox is always open—just don’t ask about LinkedIn. She bites.

[dystopicjumpsuit]

Stars Beyond Number - Chapter 19

The Way the World Ends, Part 3

Rating: T (rating varies by chapter; mature content will be tagged; regardless of rating, minors DNI)

Pairings: Echo x Riyo Chuchi; Gregor x OFC Cerra Kilian

Wordcount: 2.9k

Warnings and tags: angst; suspense; canon-typical violence; someone gets punched; blood and injury; language.

Suggested Listening:

Summary: Echo arrives in Pabu; the team disagrees about how to proceed.

A/N: This story shares continuity with Martyrs and Kings, "Double, Double Boil and Trouble" (part 2 here) and "Do It Again," but all the fics can be read as stand-alones.

Start here | Previous chapter | Next chapter | Masterlist | Sign up for my tag list | Read on AO3

…This is the way the world ends…

—T. S. Eliot, “The Hollow Men”

To say Pabu was beautiful would be grossly inadequate: it was the most idyllic place Echo had ever seen, and he’d seen a kriffing lot of the galaxy. He didn’t know if a worse hell existed than Skako Minor, but it was difficult to imagine a heaven that was lovelier than Pabu. He wished Riyo could have been there with him to see it.

It felt very strange to sit in the sunshine and enjoy Shep Hazard’s feast, to drink whatever fruity cocktail the mayor had made from the fermented tropical fruit that grew on their island—all while conscious that the rest of his team was either stuck in that dingy underworld garage or out on missions that were equally likely to end in gruesome disaster as success. He didn’t blame Hunter for wanting to keep the rest of the Batch—and particularly Omega—safe in this paradise.

Despite all that, Echo didn’t regret his decision to join Rex for even a second. The team’s success at Balmorra had only reaffirmed that he’d made the right call. But he couldn’t deny that it was very good to see his family again. Hunter made it more than clear that Echo would be welcome to join them, and if he were honest with himself, Echo admitted that it was a tempting prospect: a peaceful life in this beautiful place, surrounded by the people who were closest to him.

But what about the others? The ones who weren’t lucky enough to have found peace and safety?

“Echo, you've seen the power you're up against,” Hunter said. “You can't defeat them.”

“It's not about that,” Echo insisted. “It's about fighting for our brothers.”

“I understand why you're doing this,” Hunter sighed, “but when will it be enough?”

Echo didn’t reply immediately, but the unspoken words hovered between them nonetheless: Not yet.

“We have to tell him,” Fireball insisted.

“What good would it do?” Rex asked. “We need to get that data spike decrypted. If we tell Echo now, he’ll want to join in the search. We have to think about the bigger picture.”

“We could use some karking help with the search,” Nemec pointed out. “We still don’t know where Cerra is or even who took her.”

“My contact is looking into it,” Rex insisted. “If she’s in Imperial custody, we should know within a day or two.”

“And what if she isn’t?” Fireball asked. “How are we supposed to find her when we have no actionable intel?”

Riyo’s stomach churned. She couldn’t even believe they were having this conversation. Rex’s jaw was set firmly, but she could see the torment and self-doubt that swirled in his eyes.

“What if the situation were reversed?” she asked Rex. “If Echo knew something had happened to Cerra, and he decided to keep it from you?”

“I’d say he made the right decision,” Rex said. “The mission comes first.”

“That’s a kriffin’ lie,” Gregor said. “You’d burn the galaxy to the ground.”

“And what makes you say that?” Rex demanded harshly.

Gregor stared at Rex without flinching. “Because that’s what I’d do.”

“I have to agree,” Riyo said. “I’m sorry, Rex. If you don’t comm Echo, I will.”

Rex sighed and dropped his head into his hands. “Just… Give me a day. If I don’t hear back from my contact by then, I’ll comm Echo myself.”

“And what if you hear back?” Gregor asked.

Rex didn’t respond, and Riyo knew he was considering the possibility that his contact wouldn’t have any information.

“Then we’ll make a decision at that point,” she said decisively. 

Rex met her eyes and nodded in acknowledgment. She wasn’t particularly thrilled, but she understood Rex’s reservations. There was really nothing Echo could do right now, and his mission was important. But the minute they had a shred of intel, she would comm him—Rex and his bigger picture be damned.

“Previous transfer records recovered from the ship's logs list other clone prisoners detained by the Advanced Science Division,” Tech said, “and Crosshair is one of them.”

Wrecker spoke the thought that sprang to all of their minds: “You mean Crosshair turned on the Empire?”

Echo stared at Tech. If this were true, it could change everything. Crosshair had chosen the Empire, and he’d claimed to have done it without the influence of his inhibitor chip. Echo harbored private doubts that Crosshair’s chip had truly been removed, even if he thought it had. Regardless, if Crosshair had a change of heart about the Empire, that meant that there was hope that he would be willing to come back to the squad. Echo had lost too many brothers already. If there was the slightest chance that he could save Crosshair, he had to do it.

Tech and Echo threw themselves into the task of combing through the data he’d recovered from the Gozanti, and then into hunting down any leads they could find on Hemlock and the Advanced Science Division in Republic and Imperial records. There was precious little, and after an exhaustive search, Echo sent a message to Rex asking for assistance. 

Echo was surprised by how quickly Rex commed him back. He answered the call aboard the Remora; better for everyone involved if the Batch knew as little as possible about the details of Rex’s operations. The more they knew, the bigger the targets on their backs would grow.

“Echo,” Rex greeted him without preamble. “My contact came through with limited intel on your Dr. Hemlock, but we do know that he’s set to travel to Eriadu in two rotations.”

“That’s not much time,” Echo frowned. “What’s he doing there?”

“Attending some sort of summit at Tarkin’s compound with a bunch of Imperials. Not sure who else will be there, but given how classified it is, safe to say they’re all high-level officials.”

Echo grunted. “Tight security, then. Couldn’t take it with an army, but maybe a strike team could infil. Anything else?”

Rex shook his head, his expression troubled. “Someone has gone to a lot of trouble to make it seem like Hemlock doesn’t exist. They’re not going to be happy to see a squad of wanted fugitives tracking him down.”

“We don’t have a choice. If he has Crosshair, we have to get him back,” Echo said firmly. “He’s our brother. Besides, Hemlock is holding other clones, too.”

“I understand,” Rex replied, but doubt clouded his eyes.

“We could use some backup,” Echo observed. 

“I wish I could send it,” Rex said. “Echo… there’s something you need to know.”

“What is it?” Echo asked. “Riyo—”

“She’s all right,” Rex said. “It’s about Cerra.”

Echo’s short-lived relief spiraled into a sense of foreboding. “What happened?”

“She went missing on an extraction mission. We still don’t know who took her.”

“I’m coming back,” Echo said flatly.

“Negative,” Rex replied, his voice stern. “The whole team on Coruscant is working on it. Your mission is too important; we have no idea if or when we’ll get another lead on Hemlock.”

“Kriff Hemlock—” Echo began.

“Cerra would want you to put the mission first,” Rex interrupted. “You know it’s true.”

“Cerra has a karkin’ death wish!” Echo snapped. “She’s been looking for an excuse to self-destruct since I met her.”

“We won’t let that happen. We will find her. I need you to stay focused on your mission. We can’t spare the men for Eriadu, and we couldn’t make it in time anyway. It has to be you, Echo. We’re counting on you.”

Echo sat alone in the Remora for a long moment after Rex ended the holocom. He knew Rex was right, but it didn’t ease the sick feeling of dread when he thought about Cerra. Dank farrik, he’d only just begun to get through to her, and now he might have lost her for good—his last link to Fives.

The mission comes first.

He’d get his brother back first, and if the team hadn’t found Cerra by then, he swore by the Force he’d get his sister back, too. 

Cerra awoke to the familiar gray walls of a Venator brig. She’d never been held in one before, but she’d seen them plenty of times during her years of service. She had no idea how much time had passed or even which Venator she was on. Her body ached, and hunger gnawed at her stomach. She took a quick stock of her situation.

Naturally, she’d been stripped of her weapons and armor, which was karking annoying. It was just her luck to lose her armor on the very first mission after she finished the modifications she’d been working on with Echo. The loss of the blasters cut deeper. Jesse had customized them for her specially years before, and they were all she had left from him. Even if she managed to escape, the odds were spectacularly bad that she would be able to find them on the Venator, if they’d even made it aboard.

That was assuming she lived long enough to escape. She had no delusions about her chances: she was being kept alive long enough to interrogate. Once they’d ripped the answers out of her, she would be terminated and jettisoned with the rest of the trash. If she were lucky, it would happen in that order.

All of which meant that she needed to escape before they had a chance to extract her secrets. All she had to do was break out of a completely secure holding cell, make her way through an enormous and heavily guarded starship, steal a ride, and jump into hyperspace before the Venator could engage its tractor beam—all without getting captured again. 

Easy peasy. 

She scoffed and flopped back down on the kriffing pathetic excuse for a bed. Clearly, prisoner comfort was not high on the list of priorities for jail cells. Nor was entertainment, which she discovered over the course of the next several days. Had she been bored when she was alone in the garage? That had been a paradise compared to the endless, colorless monotony of a Venator cell.

She slept, she woke, she slept again. Nothing changed, and she was forced to confront the very real possibility that she was going to die in this cell. She didn’t know how many days passed before the heavy tread of a TK trooper sounded outside her cell door.

“On your feet,” he barked. “Hands behind your head.”

She complied, keeping a wary eye on his blaster. He shut down the ray shield and entered the cell, then shoved her against the wall as he secured her wrists in a set of binders behind her back.

“You know, I usually expect a man to at least tell me his name before I let him tie me up,” she said, hoping to catch him off-balance.

“Quiet, scum,” he snapped.

Ah, well. Worth a shot.

“Get moving,” he ordered, nudging her out of the cell and into the corridor with the muzzle of his blaster.

“Where we headed?” she asked conversationally.

“Interrogation,” he replied shortly.

“Any chance we can stop at the commissary?” she asked. “I wouldn’t mind a snack. The prisoner rations here are—”

“Shut up,” he snapped. “Eyes front.”

Unfortunately, he never let down his guard, and his blasters were properly secured. Trust her to encounter the only competent TK trooper in the entire kriffin’ army. He marched her to the interrogation room and thrust her through the doorway. She stumbled, but righted herself in time to see the door slide closed and the lock engage. 

She took a quick inventory of the room. There was nothing inside except a table and two chairs; nothing she could use to escape or even loosen her binders. She paced around the room impatiently. After waiting a frankly impolite amount of time, at last she heard the door hiss open behind her.

“Cerra Kilian. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

Oh kark. 

She would recognize that voice anywhere, and she fought against a reflexive urge to snap to attention. Instead, she turned slowly around and inspected the man who’d entered the room.

“Admiral,” she drawled in greeting, hoping that he couldn’t hear the pounding of her heart or see the damp sheen of sweat that she suddenly felt on her forehead.

“It’s colonel, actually,” Wullf Yularen replied.

“Apologies, I didn’t realize you’d been demoted,” Cerra replied. From his narrowed eyes, she could tell the barb had struck home.

“It was a lateral move,” he replied. “An opportunity presented itself to be of greater service to the Empire.”

“Then I suppose congratulations are in order,” Cerra said.

“I can’t say the same for you,” Yularen said with a faint look of disgust as he surveyed her from her shaved head to her booted feet. “What on earth have you done to yourself? You used to be almost pretty.”

Always such a charmer. 

“Well, new Empire, new me,” she said glibly. “I think the new look suits me.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t expect better from a deserter and a traitor,” he said.

Cerra smirked. “Deserter, I’ll give you. But I hardly think a few shady back-alley deals constitute treason. If they did, you’d have to arrest the entire senate.”

Yularen clenched his jaw, but he didn’t rise to her bait. “You saved my life once, Lieutenant—or rather—Miss Kilian, and out of respect for that, I am going to give you a chance to do this the easy way. Tell me where to find your companions, and I will let you go free.”

Kraytshit, scughole. The only way you’re letting me out is in a body bag.

“I don’t have any companions,” she said. “I’m a free agent.”

Yularen’s lips tightened. He began to circle her, slowly, his shoulders ramrod straight, and his hands clasped behind his back.

“What were you doing on Daiyu?”

“What does anyone do on Daiyu?” she asked. “I was picking up a shipment of glitterstim.”

“You expect me to believe you abandoned your highly decorated military career to become a spice runner?” Yularen’s voice dripped with skepticism.

She shrugged. “Girl’s gotta make a living.”

He narrowed his eyes. “We know you were involved with the insurrection on Raada.” 

It was hardly an insurrection. I just blew up a speeder.

“What’s Raada?” she asked insouciantly.

“We have surveillance holos of you on the base. There’s no point in pretending ignorance.”

“Oh, you mean Raada, the moon,” Cerra said. “I was thinking about moving there, but I didn’t care much for the neighbors.”

“I see. I must admit, I was surprised to see a familiar face when we began to investigate the Raada incident. Careless. Almost as careless as trusting a spice runner not to give you up at the first hint of a reward.”

So that’s where the hole in our opsec was, Cerra thought grimly. Poor fucker.

“Hell of a reward,” she said. “Why do you care so much about a blown-up speeder, anyway?”

“Don’t pretend to be so innocent,” he gritted out. “Where is Ahsoka Tano?” 

“Who?” Cerra didn’t need to fake her confusion this time; she was truly baffled.

What in the galaxy does Ahsoka Tano have to do with anything? Cerra had met the young Jedi several times before she was transferred to the Ro-Ti-Mundi, but didn’t know her particularly well. Certainly not as well as Rex did. As far as Cerra knew, the girl had died along with the rest of the Jedi Order, even if she was a lapsed member.

“We know an adolescent Togruta Jedi killed an inquisitor on Raada and escaped mere days after you were caught on holocam at that base. Where is she?” Yularen demanded in a harsh tone.

“I thought all the Jedi were dead. What’s an inquisitor?” Cerra asked curiously. She hadn’t heard of them before, and she figured she might as well try to get as much information as she could on the off chance that she walked away from this mess.

Yularen backhanded her, hard. He struck so fast she never saw his fist coming before it smashed into her face. Her head snapped to the side, and she stumbled, but righted herself quickly as agony exploded in her mouth.

“Rude,” she gasped painfully. “I thought we were having a conversation.”

She tasted the salty, metallic flavor of blood, and she spat it onto the floor in front of Yularen’s feet.

“I gave you your chance to cooperate,” he said. “But it seems you’ve chosen to do it the hard way.”

“You know,” Cerra said, “you were a decent commanding officer. Bit of a hardass, but I never took you for a stooge. I guess you can never really know someone.”

“Strong words for a woman who betrayed everything she ever stood for,” Yularen said.

“I didn’t betray shit,” Cerra snarled. “And my only regret is that I dragged your fascist ass into the escape pod instead of saving more clones.”

He glared at her. “You will tell me everything.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” she said.

“I won’t need to. Guard!” Yularen snapped. The TK trooper stationed outside the room entered immediately. “Escort the prisoner to the enhanced interrogation room, and notify Agent Daivik that his services are required.”

“Yes, sir,” the trooper said, taking aim at Cerra. “Move it, scum.”

Cerra shot Yularen an impudent, bloody grin. “Be seeing you.”

---

Next chapter

[cyberneticlagomorph]

A Goblin Market isn't for the faint of heart, especially not one this big.

Goblins of all shapes and sizes hawks their wares at the tops of their voices to be heard over the constant dull roar of conversations and objects clattering together; in addition to all of the sights and the smells to be had, both good and bad.

Thick and heady steam from the food vendors mixes with the dank animal musk of the livestock traders, the rank stench of leather tanning, and the sour bubbling of fermenting goods. It all swirls together with the perfumes and incense for sale until there is an absolutely snout obliterating miasma that settles over the market like a blanket.

Zeb gagged, clapping his hands over his nose and refusing to take a single step closer to the noisy, filthy menagerie of shops and stalls. His eyes were watering, stomach churning, suddenly dizzy with over stimulation he stumbled back to the entrance tunnel and half collapsed on the floor.

You rubbed his back gently as he took gulps of relatively clean air with all the ferocity of a drowning man fighting to keep his head above water.

"How... how are you not s-sick too?" He says, now lightheaded on top of being dizzy and everything else.

"Do you know how many diapers I've changed? How many number two's have destroyed my nose? How many buckets of animal crap I've had to scoop every day?" Your smile is wry. "You'll get used to it after awhile but here, this should help."

You hand him a wooden mask, grown not carved into the shape of a rabbit's face. It smells like summer days full of warm sun, cut grass, and chlorine choked pools.

"...what is it?" He shies away from the mask, eyes narrowed and suspicious. He can feel the raw magic curling off of it like smoke and he wants no part of it.

"It's a charm my mom made, it should help with the overstim some, it won't hurt you I promise." You rub your thumb over the mask's cheek where the wood has gone smooth and shiny from too much loving, there are tear tracks burnt into it, where acid tears ate away at the still living wood.

"...do I have to wear it?" Zeb takes the mask, gingerly as if afraid it would grow teeth and bite him.

"No, I just thought it might help." You stand up and dust yourself off. "If this place is too much I could just zap us home if you like, I don't wanna stress you out."

"N-no!" Zeb cries out, you flinch at his outburst and watch him flinch back in sympathy. His eyes sweep across the market with the same wonder and joy you've seen a million million times but will never tire of. "I... I'll wear it, we're here to get stuff for Egg and Null right? I wanna get them stuff too, so I can say I'm sorry."

He puts the mask on, and it fits like it was made for him, like a new skin almost. The effect is immediate, everything around him is suddenly sharper, brighter, clearer.

Muddled scents straighten out, becoming singular and defined.

Sounds do too, what was once an unruly chorus has become... not a song, but something similar, each voice rings out on its own in perfect clarity.

Zeb looks you in the eyes and for the first time he Sees what coils there in their depths, he does not flinch, but you can feel his sadness and concern.

"Whatcha standin' around for?" Tigger asks as he bounces up to the pair of you, his arms already full of assorted trinkets. "C'mon c'mon c'mon we're burning presh-ee-us daylight!" He grabs Zeb by the hand and tries to tug the boy to his feet.

"Ok ok!" Zeb giggles, actually giggles, as he stands up.

Tigger grins, bouncing and bounding in circles around you before picking any direction at all and racing off to do more shoppin'

"C'mon," You say, offering Zeb your hand again. "We better catch up before he buys something weird."

The boy still hesitates to touch you, but he holds on so tight like he's afraid you'll just disappear.

[heavypressure]

Had a really busy month, and because of that my diet was pretty awful... And i got constipated for 8 days without even trying 😶 I was so full, my middle felt like a barrel, even my sides were stretched and bulging out... I could feel my round gut sagging under it's weight, bouncing a little with every step i took.. It wasn't even a lot of gas this time, (well, compared to my usual state) , i was just packed solid

I couldn't stop eating either, so every day i felt like such a greedy cow, already constipated and full beyond belief, but still stuffing myself, knowing very well that it will only add to the fermenting mass of garbage in my guts

As much as i was uncomfortable, sometimes i just sat naked and massaged my poor engorged gut, feeling how hot and heavy it is, throbbing slightly from being under such pressure.. My lower belly was so distended

It was quietly churning constantly, and by the 8th day i really felt the discomfort, i was just sitting at my desk with my pants&shirt unbuttoned, trying my hardest to let out some tiny burps or pass any gas, without any luck. I could feel a lot of gas has brewed inside my clogged bowels, but it was blocked by an inhuman amount of waste

And even afterwards, it wasn't an instant relief like it usually is.. i just emptied myself little by little every day, still feeling really bloated and swollen, so i was looking heavily pregnant for at least 2 weeks

I'm really surprised i didn't get any stretch marks from that, because i felt like i should've 😵‍💫

(i wish i could just continue being like that, swelling with waste and gas even further every day, not caring about how enormous I'm getting...)

[gatheredfates]

05. undone | azuma yumishi

Do you want to read all of my FFXIVWrite prompts? You can do that here!

BARBAROUS. primitive and uncivilized. extremely brutal. DISCLAIMER: Azuma takes direct inspiration from Japanese/Chinese culture, with respect to Doma/The East and her general themes. I am neither Japanese nor Chinese. While I always endeavor to write to her as respectfully as possible, there are times where I will mess up. If I have written anything from a place of ignorance, especially if it's egregious, please don’t hesitate to correct me. I’d rather suffer momentary embarrassment to ensure I don’t repeat my mistakes.

Assimilation was the desire of the tyrants who dubbed them savages, an irony cloistered in steel as they stripped identity from the outer provinces and churned them through their war machine. ‘Doman’ had been synonymous with ‘savage’ for as long as Azuma could remember; spat from barbarous tongue; heralded in fire, wire, stone and steel; twisted and defaced in the lesson that safety was second only to allegiance, and they were loathe to defy the second if they craved the first.

A tokonoma was no temple, though they were too ignorant to suspect the smaller sibling. As was their way, they had gone for the tera first; expelling the monks from her walls, tearing down her foundations and salting the earth. As the bones of the elders fermented in the earth they laughed at the miko distraught at the carnage, goading them as they grabbed their limbs like the jaws of snapping dogs.

“You wouldn’t know civilization if it looked you dead in the face. Try to call upon your kami now — prove to us your primal nature.”

Her first kill had come that way, a blade in the belly of a soldier who thought her easy prey. It was not clean, but it would suffice. The blood in her obi was the smallest price. The obi, the tokonoma; the ever-constant chant of lesser. Let them take their larger prizes. Many a serpent had still killed a man when freshly hatched from the egg.

As she lit the incense and gave her offerings, Azuma clapped her hands gently together. Even in this place she could feel her ancestors and feel the soft beating heart of her home.

We have always been here and will continue to endure when they are undone, undone, undone.

[skelekins]

My versions of Night/‘Dream’ concept story

Dream and Night were born from a tree that grew on the mountain of souls, where all monsters had been sent to perish. Instead their souls and magic created a great churning miasma of power and wonder that built up and up and up.

Until the roots of the trees absorbed it and slowly but surely fruits began to grow. The fruits absorbed specific qualities, specialities within the miasma. Fire, courage, ice, curiosity.

Sleep and dreams.

The fruit of dreams grew fat and heavy quickly off of the trapped and slumbering miasma.

It crashed to the ground with such weight that it broke in half.

And inside were two skeletons. Perhaps it was natural or perhaps an effect of their fruit splitting open instead of fermenting to monster on the ground.

Regardless what once was one was now two. And they shared their labors. Born not children but not quite adults they took duty to tending the tree of their kin and the fruits they grew in.

As they were both full of the magic of dreams they frequently yearned to rest but also took their duties quite seriously. And so they took turns - one would rest during the Day and the other would rest during the Night.

There was some crossover between them, usually the hours of sunrise and sunset, and these the two beings held very dear.

While one rested and tended to their duties in the dream world, the other would look after the tree and its fruits to make sure they did not fall. When a fruit seemed ripe they would wait with a blanketed basket and gently catch it.

Each loved their times for different reasons and would tell the other what they saw. And while their brother appreciated the joy of the other they felt a special connection to their chosen times. Once, early in their time, they stayed up together for an entire day and night. It solidified their preference and respects.

And so Night would watch over his brother while he slept under moonlight, and Day the same in the sunlight. They worked together in the between times to build a home close to the tree.

Day and Night helped the emergence of multiple monsters. Incubated to fermentation in their cozy warm baskets. The other deific monsters were born adults with innate knowledge of what they held connection to.

Destructive fire and that of the hearth, sparking plasma, crashing waterfalls and waves, the joy of entertaining.

And they sought out these things. They did not stay long at the tree and instead set out in the world.

Where they met humans.

It did not take long or far as humans had gathered at the base of the mountain of soul in the times since sealing to reap the benefits of the magically charged landscape. These humans welcomed the new beings, revered as gods, and few were unswayed by their benevolent nature.

Only a handful of monsters were born of the fruits before the tree was found by those curious. And at first they were welcomed, by Day. Just as curious and intrigued, even more so to know of a community close by. Night was more nervous of the company, unmet as they did not stay on the mountain when the sun went down. Always gone before he’d rise.

He did not begrudge them. It was safer to travel by light. But he found himself anxious at the idea of strangers so close while vulnerable.

He did not care for them when he stayed awake either.

He did not begrudge them once more, but they looked at him odd when he sat quiet in the shadows. They were polite but did not approach. Day said that Night should be more friendly and when Night asked how Day had no answer.

Because he loved his brother as he was.

He could keep him by his side, while the visiting humans enjoyed Days presence, but he knew that would not make Night happy. He did not like the brightness of the sun or the focus of attention.

A misunderstanding. A misspoken word.

Though no fight to be had the brothers made up. And they both worked to build the pagoda for the visit of Days friends. Close to the tree, so he could still watch, but far enough to keep others from getting too close, and a distance from the home where Night slept safely.

Night did not need to be more friendly. The monsters they met and said goodbye to were always happy to see him. Both of them.

It started to fall apart without their knowledge. News traveled slow…

The deific monsters could bleed. Could be hurt.

Could die.

And the ones that let their fear grip them tight used it as a weapon.

In the town at the foot of the mountain the festering started slow. A saboteur in their midst. Whispering demons and devils, spells and souls.

The tree of souls…

An investigation was decided. To see what the fruits really were. If these deific beings were demons after all.

Day felt something odd when his friends came to visit. Different from the normal lot. But they were not feelings he recognized and they were covered by the true glee his presence seemed to bring. They invited him away.

He declined.

They offered him drink that made him feel warm while they discussed the sites of the village. They invited him again.

He declined.

And they left.

Day was tired when he spent time with Night that evening and he went to bed early. Night did not begrudge him and made sure to give him water in case he was ill. He found the behavior Day spoke of odd but he did not dwell.

He was surprised to see visitors in the night.

He was frightened to see there were many.

Their ill intentions churned through his soul while he tried to speak with them. His voice trembled like his bones. No they could not approach the tree… it was fragile. It was important.

They did not listen.

And when he pushed someone away from grabbing a low hanging fruit, one that he had a basket waiting for as he knew it would drop soon, chaos erupted.

Monster. Vile creature. Demon. Devil.

The fruit was momentarily forgotten while they took the pain of fear out on the skeleton. They only stopped at the sick crack of his orbit caving in.

He had barely fought back.. unwilling to actually do harm.

Until they plucked the drooping fruit.

And smashed it on the ground.

The soul inside dissipated to dust leaving only the husk behind. He cried for them to stop. Struggled to his feet.

Only to be sent back down when another was plucked and hurled at his face.

He did not rise right away.

They plucked. And they smashed. They plucked. And they tore. They plucked. And they rose it to their lips.

And spat blood.

Broken and hurt. Unable to move right away. Tears drooled from Nights good socket while the plucked decaying flesh of the fruit of his kin sunk into his broken socket and oozed down his face.

It dripped into his mouth.

He swallowed.

Thump.

It tasted awful. It hurt his soul.

He swallowed.

He felt he was dying anyway. Yet somehow he could move.

He swallowed.

He grabbed the rotten husk of soulless flesh from his face and brought it to his mouth.

He swallowed.

And his soul accepted.

He hurt he hurt he hurt he hurt

He was so angry and it hurt.

There was screaming.

He hurt he hurt.

Terror and pain.

He hurt…

Fear.

He…

Days head ached as he rose. In his bed at what felt about the usual time. It was bright outside. Yet something was…

There was screaming.

The sight that met him on exiting the house forced anything inside his body to exit as well. Corpses and fire. Screams and chaos.

The tree was on fire.

The fruits were broken.

A terrifying demon with dripping branches or tendrils, Day knew not what, impaled a human on one such oozing stick before he flung the body to the surrounding trees of the forest. It cracked grotesquely as it hit and the human did not move again.

Face wet with tears Day could only stare until his eyes caught one fruit left. On a branch that fire licked its way towards.

He ignored the screams of another human, the screams of the demon that fought what looked to be the whole town on its way, and ran for the fruit. It was not ready but he could not let it die either…

He plucked it.

And it burst.

Drenching Day in a coating of soul and magic that made him scream from how it burned. From how much it was. From the power that it forced into his very soul.

He drew the attention of the demon.

Night.

That’s Night.

And the ooze of concentration began to solidify.

Day loved his brother so much.

The mountain of soul vanished from that world and became another. Small and quaint. Lifeless of sentience. Covered in rotting corpses that over time will be reclaimed by the land.

A statue of a skeleton faced a grand tree, twisted and broken. A scene that followed them into their dreams. Where Night, changed by the rot inside, remained bound and trapped inside, and his brother watched over him as his keeper.

Their physical forms both bound, at least in their dreams Day can journey and explore. And bring tales of his ventures back to his brother.

But unfortunately these journeys leave an opening…

And one day a dreamer will come and eat Nights offered fruit…

————

Might change the end. Specifically how Daydream gets frozen. Previous notes had him eating the fruit but I kinda like how it worked out in this word sketch (Nights change in particular) and the humans trying to destroy as opposed to take the fruits.

The very ending is more a reference to symbiote au Idea I had wherein oc would get possessed by Night/Sandman because they found his tree while dreaming and Day didn’t come back in time. (Another version has oc stumbling on a bad boys vs stars battlefield in their sleep)

So I might change that to letting Sandman be free instead of trapped (like he usually is.)

Names for the guys

Nightmare -> Night/Sandman

Dream -> Day/Daydream

Might change Days name when I get a better idea.

[vinylspinning]

Carcass: Reek of Putrefaction (1988)

Yes, I got tired of waiting for an affordable vinyl reissue of Carcass' seminal long-playing debut, with its uncensored, bodypart cover art collage in all its gory glory, so I settled for this recent Earache pressing's comparatively 'clean' layout.

BO-ring!

Of course, I'll be happy to include the original cover art above (along with the stylish, green-tinted, mid '90s CD reissue alternative), and I'll apologize in advance that I can't also provide a virtual barf bag -- you may need it!

Some 35 years after its release, Reek of Putrefaction remains one of the most daring, distinctive, and sonically devastating debuts in heavy metal history -- and punk rock history, for that matter -- given grindcore's fundamental debts to both musical genres.

Indeed, no album other than Napalm Death's Scum and From Enslavement to Obliteration (both of which featured guitarist Bill Steer, pre-Carcass) did more to establish grindcore's (a.k.a. goregrind, deathgrind, pick your grind) incomparably fast-and-brutal musical aesthetic.

And, like Napalm, Carcass delivered their vision of the form with remorseless amounts of volume, heaviness, and distortion -- even to the point of disguising their already impressive underlying musicianship.

Plus, there was really no precedent for Jeff Walker's penchant for cannibalizing (get it?) medical textbooks for legitimate scientific jargon for stomach-churning lyrics like "Pyosisified (Rotten to the Gore)," "Suppuration," "Mucopurulence Excretor," and "Manifestation of Verrucose Urethra."

Granted, additional gruesome delights such as "Vomited Anal Tract," "Excreted Alive," and "Malignant Defecation" (so, diarrhea, basically?) were a little less, erm ... clinical; more like sophisticated (ahem!) butt jokes, but give Carcass a break: boys will be boys!

In fact, lest we forget, the members of Carcass were still merely teenagers when they produced this blessed cacophony, which would explain their short-lived, but highly amusing aliases:

Bassist Walker dubbed himself 'Frenzied Fornicator of Fetid Fetishes and Sickening Grisly Fetes,' guitarist Steer went with 'Gratuitously Brutal Asphyxiator of Ulcerated Pyoaxanthous Goitres,' and drummer Ken Owen settled on 'Grume Gargler and Eviscerator of Matured Neoplasm.'

But don't be fooled: Carcass had already come a long way since recording 1987's Flesh Ripping Sonic Torment demo with fourth member Sanjiv (real name Andrew Pek) on vocals, and they proceeded to slice and dice many of its 13 cuts for Reek of Putrefaction's 22-strong track-listing, split and splattered across a 'Faecal Disarticulation Side' and an 'Anal Disgorgement Side.'

Bon appétit!

Anyway, back to the music at hand, personal favorites like "Genital Grinder," "Fermenting Innards," and "Pungent Excruciation," make the best of the trio's alternating lead growls, roars, and shrieks, as well as Steer's sludgy riffs and piercing leads, Walker's molten bottom end, and Owens raging blast-beats, which convey visions of wild animals feeding on this generous bounty of human entrails.

Heck, if all else fails, there's the grizzly pleasure of reciting positively poetic song titles like "Microwaved Uterogestation," "Feast on Dismembered Carnage," and "Oxidised Razor Masticator" again and again ... what's not to love?

But perhaps most remarkable of all was that, despite all these anti-commercial ingredients working against it, Reek of Putrefaction climbed all the way to No. 6 on the U.K. Indie Chart, thanks in no small part to some unlikely critical support, including the championing BBC Radio 1 DJ John Peel, who declared this his favorite album of 1988!

NOW, are you tempted to reach for a spoon and stethoscope in order to dig into this Carcass?

Hey, you might just be surprised (at the very least horrified, nauseated, etc.) at the sheer extremity of Carcass' grindcore labors, which continue to entice modern metallic masochists, challenging them to dig through all of these slimy, rotting entrails until Reek of Putrefaction's genuine revolutionary genius is revealed.

More Carcass: Symphonies of Sickness, Necroticism – Descanting the Insalubrious, Heartwork, Swansong, Surgical Steel.

[yourreddancer]

Don’t Call Stephen Miller “bile”. That’s not fair to bile.

Don’t Call Stephen Miller “bile”. That’s not fair to bile.

JoJoFromJerz Jun 9

It’s another day ending in Y when the last thing I want to be thinking about is Stephen fucking Miller—America’s crustiest, cucked little cryptkeeper. But here I am. Again.

I should be doing literally anything else—half-reading emails, cracking open my third can of sugar-free Red Bull, pretending my to-do list isn’t a personal attack. But instead, I’m sitting here on a Monday morning thinking about ICE raids and tear gas and masked goons snatching people at courthouses while that ghoulish toe fungus walks free in a spray-painted scalp and a smirk.

Because it never stops. Not for a second. It just churns—relentless, merciless, and loud. The next outrage is already pulling up in jackboots—whether it’s deploying the National Guard to a blue state that didn’t ask for it, criminalizing breathing while undocumented, or erasing the Constitution via tweet. It builds. It stacks. It crushes.

And yet—despite how terrifying all of this is—I still need to laugh. I have to. Humor is the emergency exit. It’s how we breathe when the house is on fire. So today, I’m choosing to laugh at Stephen Miller. Loudly. Hysterically. Unforgivably. Because yes, he’s f’ng terrifying—but he’s also a clown. A greasy, bone-dry loser-clown in fascist drag. And sometimes, the only way to fight monsters is to remind them how ridiculous they look when they think they’re gods.

So let’s begin.

Stephen Miller is what you’d get if a skin tag and a hate crime had a baby, then left it under a heat lamp in a motel room on the Oklahoman panhandle, where it learned how to write “immigration policy” from a series of DVDs narrated by James Woods and Jon Voight.

Not a man—a resentment barnacle in a funeral suit. A creature molded from forgotten gym socks, expired printer toner, and the unsettling confidence of a man who’s never made eye contact during sex. He acts like he was stitched together from burned library cards, weaponized loneliness, and the crust from a thousand uncried tears. His aura radiates “left the group project and still demanded credit.”

If a botched exorcism learned to say “anchor baby” before it learned empathy, you’d have Stephen Miller.

He doesn’t blink—he recalibrates. He doesn’t speak—he oozes. Oozes cruelty. Oozes disdain. Oozes the stale funk of high school debate trophies and weaponized loneliness. He oozes petty fascism like it’s pheromonal. He is the reason babies were torn from their mothers and locked in cages with no names, no paperwork, no plan. He authored that. He signed it. Smiled about it. He didn’t inherit that policy—he dreamed it up.

Stephen Miller is the guy who saw a refugee child crying and thought, “Good branding.” He’s the bastard behind ICE agents in hospitals, schools, courtrooms—anywhere immigrants show up to comply. He’s not interested in justice. He’s not protecting anyone. He’s hunting for numbers. Data. Charts. Deportation quotas. Human beings logged and loaded like fucking logistics.

This isn’t governance. It’s sadism in a spreadsheet. Fascism by bullet point.

And he doesn’t stop. He stagnates. He ferments in his own cruelty. He is the unflushable turd of the Trump administration, bobbing in the bowl of American democracy.

He sees compassion as a liability and empathy as a virus in the code. He doesn’t make policy—he mass-produces suffering and slaps a flag on it.

And if this all feels eerily familiar, that’s because we’ve seen this little authoritarian test tube baby before—just with fewer press gaggles and more bottle rockets.

Stephen Miller is Sid from Toy Story if Sid grew up, got radicalized by Breitbart, and started sending masked DHS agents to snatch housekeepers from bus stops.

Sid tortured toys. Miller tortures families. Sid glued Barbie heads onto spider legs. Miller glues razor wire to immigration policy and calls it Western values. Sid shaved his head because he was a sugar-crazed ten-year-old. Miller’s hairline bailed the moment it realized it was stapled to the skull of a soulless bureaucrat in fascist cosplay. Sid was a fictional chaos gremlin. Miller is the sequel nobody wanted—same dead eyes, same cruel streak, now with government clearance and a standing invitation to CPAC.

He’s not just Sid all grown up—he’s what happens when a child sociopath skips therapy and instead gets a Bachelor's degree in political science, a grudge against humanity, and an Excel sheet of deportation quotas. Pixar gave Sid a slight redemption arc. Trump gave Stephen Miller a policy portfolio and an unmarked van.

And somehow, while orchestrating a domestic terror regime disguised as immigration enforcement, he still managed to get publicly, galactically cucked. Because while he was busy whispering bedtime stories to border agents about chain-link fencing and national purity, his wife quietly tiptoed out of the White House—and into Elon Musk’s neurodivergent thirst dungeon. No one’s conclusively saying she left him for Musk, but she sure as hell didn’t stick around to help him organize his hate binder.

So now, he’s presumably alone. Rage-scrolling. Spray-gluing wisps of self-respect onto his haunted scalp. Wondering how the apartheid billionaire who thinks pronouns are communist managed to steal his girl, his thunder, and his last shred of plausible masculinity. While Elon’s out testing penis rockets, Miller heads home to perform unauthorized “medical” experiments on discount deli meat.

And still—still—ABC suspended Terry Moran for calling him “bile.”

Bile should be insulted by the comparison.

Bile has a purpose. Bile breaks things down and makes them easier to stomach.

Bile contributes to the body’s well-being.

Stephen Miller doesn’t break things down—he spoils them.

Look at him. The translucent skin. The sun-averse stare. That haunted-egghead glow that screams “banned from 23andMe for ethics violations.” His eyes don’t reflect light. They reflect contempt. His smile is what happens when trauma gets tenure.

He doesn’t believe in government. He believes in punishment. He believes happiness should be taxed. That brown joy is treason. That anyone not born inside a Bass Pro Shop should be monitored.

Stephen Miller isn’t some washed-up fascist mascot—he’s a policy arsonist who never put the matchbook down. A beige Gollum in business casual. A haunted sleep paralysis demon in wingtips. The final boss of bureaucratic hate-fucking. He doesn’t break laws—he rewrites them to break people. He’s laundering white nationalism through executive orders, reshaping federal power in ways that will take generations to undo.

He is not a thought leader. He is a loneliness leak. A man powered entirely by rejection, rage, and fiber supplements. He doesn’t evolve—he festers. He doesn’t inspire—he haunts.

So no, Stephen Miller isn’t bile.

He’s what bile would cough up after being fed a steady diet of bad policy and unsupervised power.

He’s the ideological equivalent of freezer-burned authoritarianism—left in the back of America’s fridge until even the mold gives up and moves to Canada.

He is what happens when a debate club incel gets a government badge and no safe word.

And when the next outrage comes—don’t act surprised. This isn’t theoretical. It’s happening now.

Immigrants are being arrested inside courthouses. Thrown into vans in front of their children. Ripped from jobs, from hospital rooms, from school pickup lines. These aren’t criminals—they’re volleyball captains, bakery owners, straight-A students, and mothers holding toddlers. They’re not fleeing justice. They came for it. And Stephen Miller made sure justice never showed up.

Because that’s who he is.

A monster.

Not misguided. Not controversial. Monstrous.

He doesn’t care about law. He doesn’t care about safety. He cares about numbers. He cares about cruelty. He wakes up every morning thinking about how many innocent lives he can uproot before lunch.

He is the blueprint of the Trump administration’s moral rot.

He is the whisper behind the policies, the shadow behind the cruelty, the ghoul in the server room printing out deportation quotas like they’re CVS receipts.

And he’s not alone.

Because none of them are different. Not really. Not anymore.

They’re all Stephen Miller—just with ring lights and better handlers.

The cruelty isn’t a glitch. It’s the operating system.

The Republican Party didn’t sideline Miller. They mainstreamed him.

They turned his fever dreams into federal memos. They made his spite into strategy.

They didn’t just nod along. They handed him the pen.

And yes, the fish is rotten.

But it’s not just the tail, and it’s not just the stink.

It’s the whole thing—gutted, glassy-eyed, and rotting from the head down.

And this—the bans, the raids, the stolen futures—is the smell of a nation being hollowed out by cowards who confuse power with punishment.

So when Terry Moran called Stephen Miller hateful and got suspended for it, he wasn’t crossing a line.

He was drawing one.

He said what needed saying.

What more of us need to say.

Because if we can’t name the villains, we can’t fight them.

And if we can’t fight them, they win.

Miller’s not just hateful.

He’s what happens when we stop screaming, stop voting, stop laughing, stop looking.

He’s what grows in silence.

So laugh loudly.

Call it out.

And for the love of every immigrant child this bastard tried to vanish—don’t look away. Not for a single goddamn second.

[oldsalempost-blog]

The Old Salem Post

Our  Local Tamassee-Salem SC Area News each Monday except holidays                                          Contact: theoldsalempost@gmail.com      Distributed to local businesses, town hall, library & more.                            Volume 8 Issue 25                                                                                  Week of June 2,  2025                https://www.tumblr.com/settings/blog/oldsalempost-blog                         Lynne Martin Publishing                                                                                                                                                          

EDITOR: School is out and summer time is upon us.  It is time for freedom from tight schedules and to enjoy the kids and grandkids.  It is time to go on an adventure and get out in God’s beautiful creation.  Pack a peanut butter sandwich, fruit, and water and hit a hiking trail to a waterfall.  Surround your senses in the pure therapy of nature that will drown noises “of the world” that robs our peace.   Be grateful and enjoy each day.   Lynne R Martin                                                                                                                  Town of SALEM: 5 Park Avenue  Monday-Friday 8AM-5PM. Closed 12-1 for lunch.  864-944-2819                                                        Salem Library:  5 Park Avenue Mon 10AM-6PM, Tues-Fri 9AM-5PM. Closed 12-1. 

MOBILE PRIMARY HEALTH CARE thru the Clemson Rural Health comes twice each month to Downtown Salem located across or beside the Fire Department, offering  primary and acute care including chronic disease management. June Dates for Salem: 10th and 26th, 9AM-3PM.  Walk-in or call  864-656-3076.                                                                                                                    Healthy Choices: Keep a daily journal on how you feel, how much you exercise, how much water you drink, what foods you are eating, friends you hang out with, and how much you sleep.  Notice patterns of when you feel good and when you feel lousy.  This will help you be more disciplined in healthy choices.  

Jottings from Miz Jeannie  by Jeannie Barnwell   Laughing Out Loud!                                                       *I  married Mr. Right.  I just did not not know that his first name was ALWAYS. *George hasn't spoken to his wife in 5 months.  He doesn't like to interrupt. *Susie is always late.  In fact, her ancestors came to America on the Juneflower! * If Fed Ex and UPS merged, would their new name be FED-UP? *The journey of a thousand miles usually begins with a broken fan belt and a leaky tire. * What three words humiliate men everywhere? Hold my Purse!  *Missy ran after the garbage truck shouting, "Am I too late?"  "No Mam," said the driver. "Just jump on in!" *Money can't buy friends, but it will get you a higher class of enemies.  * Never hold a dust buster and a cat at the same time.   Source: Great One Liners by Marcia Kamien.  Happy End of School! Summer is almost here! Now go churn some ice cream!                                                Love you Lots!  Miz Jeannie

ASHTON RECALLS by Ashton Hester   REVENUE OFFICERS RAID STILL BUT CAN'T CATCH BILLY GOAT - (The following story was in the April 14, 1915 Keowee Courier). . .Last Thursday, April 8th, Revenue Officers H.W. Murph and A.T. Reid raided in the Salem section of the county. About five miles north of Salem they destroyed a distillery outfit, but no one was captured, the plant being cold at the time and no one about the premises. . .They destroyed about 800 gallons of beer, seven fermenters, flake stand and doubler. The copper still had been removed from the place. . .They were not able even to capture the Marino billy goat that meandered about the place as though he was a lord's proprietor, clanging his bell as he skipped about. . .(Footnote written by Ashton Hester: The Courier's Little River correspondent (who was not named) also mentioned the above incident in his column, as follows). . .We have often heard of “Billy the goat” holding sway. This seems to be the case on the east side of Smeltzer mountain, where some riding deputies came in on a mountain blind tiger “Billy” the past week. . .“Billy,” with some thousand gallons of beer, was all they found. As they had no authority nor desire to molest the quadruped for State or United States offense, they retreated, leaving Billy. . .One of the raiders affirmed that Billy's horns were three feet long, and the last they saw of him he was wading to his knees in beer, looking over the spoils, and now and then sniffing some of the mountain beer.

JOCASSEE VALLEY BREWING COMPANY,(JVBC) & COFFEE SHOP* 13412 N Hwy 11  Hours: Wed–Sat 9am-9pm & Sunday 12pm-7pm   Events this week: Wed: BLUE RIDGE GRILL & BLUE GRASS JAM 7PM Thurs: 9AM-9PM  Fri: Food:  KODESH   Music: CODY GENTRY  6:30PM    Sat:   Food Truck:  BLUE RIDGE GRILL  Music:  RACHEL VAN SLYKE  6:30PM    Sun:  12PM-7PM                                                                                                                                           

2025 Golf Tournament for Crime Stoppers of Oconee County & Oconee County Sheriff’s Foundation:  Friday, Sept 12 at the Oconee country Club, 781 Richland, Road, Seneca SC.   $500 per team (4 per team) 8AM registration.  More information call 864-247-4083 pr 864-775-9810

Foothills Group of the Sierra Club National Trails Day Service on Saturday June 7, 2025, 9AM-2PM  Location: Chau Ram County Park 1220 Chau Ram Park Rd, Westminster, SC 29693

Residential Recovery Resource:  New Life Women’s Program ( Oconee ):  kingdomoverculture.org   864-723-7548

EAGLES NEST ART CENTER                                                        Located 4 Eagle Lane, Salem SC 29676                                                                                                  2025 UPCOMING EVENTS                www.eaglesnestartcenter.org                                              Email:   eaglesnestartcenter@gmail.com                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Earth Art Camp for ages 6-12 years  June  2-6   9AM-12PM    Cost $50  Children express care of Creation through multiple types of art.  This is educational and a fun focus for children interested in art!  Register  864-280-1258  We are having fun this week!

DON’T MISS OUR FIRST Friday night Comedy Night June 6 at 8PM– Tickets at the door or on the eaglesnestartcenter.org web site $10.   You have questions about baby carrots and why Guadalcanal isn't a canal and why palm trees don't have fingerprints. You love to laugh but don't want to feel like you need a shower after a stand up comedy show, especially if they aren't smashing watermelons. Eagles Nest Art Center is now your home for clean comedy in Salem. Peachy Tom and his gaggle of comedians will have you laughing for days. Tickets are only ten dollars at Eagles Nest Art Center dot org. If you're old enough to remember when coloring books were black and white, we'll see you at 8pm June 6th at Eagles Nest Art Center.

Oconee Mountain Opry: July 19, 2025 7PM    Original variety show of local and regional talent. Enjoy  a fun entertaining evening.  Unique Old Time Entertainment!  Come early for homemade concessions,  visit the OPUS museum, the Alumni Room, or search for nice gifts at our Treasure Store.  Tickets $10 on line or at the door day of the event.    For more information 864-280-1258                                        

A CHRISTMAS TEA!- If you enjoyed the Mother’s Day Tea, save the date for A Christmas Tea, Saturday, December 6, 2PM-4PM!                SAVE THE DATEs for October  10-11, 2025 for original play at ENAC.  Stay tuned.                                                                                                                   Ongoing 2025 Events                                                                                                                                         Treasure Store Open every Saturday 9AM-12PM and will begin opening on the first Wednesday each month from 12PM-6PM. Call to deliver donations 864-557-2462.  We have some very nice items, vintage and brand-name clothing.  Come check us out!  We need more volunteers to open more hours!                                                                                                                      

YOUNG APPALACHIAN MUSICIANS – Cost is $50 each month.  3rd grade through adult.    Call 864-280-1258 for lessons!

Senior Exercise every Tuesday and Thursday 9:30-10:30AM and  Saturdays at 10AM.  Evening classes each week on Mondays and Wednesdays at 5PM-6PM.    Cost  $2.50 each class or $22.00 each month for unlimited classes.  Classes are growing and the ladies are really enjoying the benefits of exercising and socializing together.     

Keowee Krafters is a nonprofit Maker Space for crafts, artisans and skills. Contact makekeowee.org                        Upcoming Classes at ENAC:      June 4: Natural off loom weaving 1-4 $40      June 5: Basic Woodturning 1-5. $75   June 10: Origami Swam 5:00-8:00. $10  June 16: Open Sewing: 12-4. $10     Email:  Events@keoweekrafters.org 

MAKE KEOWEE and EAGLES NEST ART CENTER HOST  MIDSUMMER MAKERS’ FESTIVAL will be June 21, 2025 9AM-2PM at the Eagles Nest Art  Center 4 Eagle Lane, Salem SC  .  Contact Susan Hansen 732-330-8471  to be a craft vendor or more information.  Demonstrations, Crafts, Hot Dog Plates. Baked Goods. Music & more. Jazzy Jeff of Sony 107.9 will be broadcasting!                                                                                                                                                                       

FUNDRAISER FOR BRINLEE CANNON  The Salem Fire Department located 115 E. Main Street Salem will host a fundraiser fish fry plate complete with slaw, and hushpuppies on  June 7th starting at 12 noon.                                                                                                      

Scripture:  Ecclesiastes 3:1."To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven." 

Take time to enjoy the life around you.  LRM