#when I’m doing well I feel like a fraud

[sol-draws-sometimes]

Drop off tumblr and the posts vent art instead of doing work.

Something something self-destructive behavior.

[parttimecosmichorror]

I do not understand the people who say that modern or abstract art takes no skill, who just look at the final result and say “even I could do that”. Sure, yeah, you could replicate all these same brushstrokes. You could splash some red paint on a canvas and smear it around. You can do that. But that’s not really the core of the piece though, is it? I deeply admire the skill of having an idea, and then simplifying it and reducing it to its barest parts, and then abstracting those into something visual and expressive. You can smudge some colors around and retroactively assign a meaning to it. But can you take a concept and condense it into shapes and colors? I wish I could. I really wish I could. I wish I had the skill and mental capacity to be truly creative in my art, to make something resonant and unique and abstract. Not enough people realize how difficult it is to have and deal with ideas

[sgt-tombstone]

au where Johnny never joined the military (his knee got fucked up before he could and they wouldn’t let him enlist) but it’s okay because that means he got to go to college and study engineering, which is the closest he could get to being a civilian demolitions expert

Anyway, the city his college is in has an army base nearby, which means that every dating app he opens is flooded with army boys looking to marry the first person who so much as looks at them the right way. Johnny’s never been relationship-oriented; he likes hookups too much to settle down like that, but he loves scrolling through to drool over all of the gym pictures

And then one catches his eye. Simon. He doesn’t show his face on his profile, but his muscles more than make up for it. His appearance, though, isn’t what Johnny is most interested in, because his bio says…

Anyone interested in committing marriage fraud?

And that’s… something.

So of course Johnny swipes. He doesn’t expect to match, because Simon looks like a Greek God, and he almost throws his phone across the room when the little heart appears, telling him that he and Simon have both swiped on each other. Which means that Simon swiped on him first. It’s a heady feeling, but he’s not really sure why.

John: marriage fraud?

It’s not his strongest first message, but sue him, he’s curious.

Simon: I’m not interested in a relationship or even sex, but I have a very vested interest in being able to move off base

John: so, what? we get married and then…?

Simon: we don’t have to live together or even like each other. You can finish your studies, get the tax benefits, and live your life as you choose while I get to move off base and maintain my privacy

Honestly, it sounds like a win/win to Johnny. He’s not struggling financially per se, but being able to live exactly as he is while also gleaning tax benefits is… an attractive choice.

John: and if I meet someone else that I’m serious about?

Simon: I have no qualms about an uncontested divorce

John: let’s meet up for lunch and discuss the details

———

Lunch is a simple affair, just a local restaurant, frequented by students and soldiers alike, so they both fit in well. Simon is unfairly attractive, even if he only reveals the bottom half of his face to eat or drink. He’s massive and blond and his eyes do something to Johnny’s insides that he can’t bring himself to dissect further. They chat over their food, sharing details about themselves. Johnny shares more than Simon, and he has a hunch that that’s on purpose, but he doesn’t mind. They click instantly, and Johnny can tell that Simon is taken aback by that. It’s sweet, almost, the way that such a large military man is floundering in the face of genuine human connection. After they’ve finished, they turn to business.

With a quiet, deep voice, Simon lays out his entire plan, and Johnny is fully on board. He’s ready to sign the papers today, but they legally have to wait a month.

It’s the longest month of Johnny’s life.

They text constantly, or as constantly as they can. Sometimes Johnny feels inordinately young and sometimes very inferior; while he’s talking Simon’s ear off about some explosive compound used in building demolitions, Simon is off… doing god knows what, god knows where, serving the country. But Simon always listens, always sounds engaged over the phone when they call, always has follow-up questions that show he’s actually interested. And while Simon can’t talk much about his work, he can talk about details. Small stuff; the awful food, the hot dust where he’s stationed, the day-to-day activities that don’t give away too much. Johnny learns that he’s a lieutenant, a sniper (though that’s more through context clues than anything else), that he wears a mask all the time to protect himself, that he doesn’t like scrambled eggs (or at least, not military scrambled eggs), that he has a very complex skincare routine, that he respects the hell out of his captain. That he’s a good man, or tries to be. That he’s a sweetheart, deep down, despite trying to hide it.

They eventually get married, down at the courthouse, with Simon’s captain, Price, and Johnny’s best mate, Kyle, as witnesses.

And then life goes on. Johnny continues his studies, continues going to parties and hooking up with people every weekend, continues living his life. He assumes that Simon does the same. They keep in contact, for the most part, except when Simon’s in the field and he can’t have his phone, but he always brings back little inconsequential stories when he returns. It’s nice, in a way. They’d never exchanged rings, but sometimes Johnny wishes they had, just so he had something tangible to tie him to his husband.

I’m not sure how it would end, though…

Maybe it would be Sweet Home Alabama style, where Johnny finds someone that he thinks he loves and has to get Simon to sign the divorce papers, only to realize at the last minute that he really doesn’t want to, that he’s been in love with Simon all along

Maybe Simon gets medically discharged and ends up moving in with Johnny, where they both dance around their feelings for each other, despite already being married

Maybe they just… realize one day, that they’ve slowly but surely fallen in love with each other over the years and suddenly, nothing else matters because they’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for

[taintandviolent]

bend without breaking ; Jimmy Darling x reader

summary and word count: 4.4K! requested by @sugarr-and-spicee. you get jealous of Maggie Esmeralda, and decide to give Jimmy a taste of his own medicine. Angst, smut and a little fluff ensues.

w a r n i n g s: contortionist!reader, unprotected sex, cunnilingus, angst, jealousy themes, rough sex, alcohol mention, clunky writing, uhhhhhhhh Jimmy being real handsy and kinda' manhandling reader a bit. maggie esmeralda hate.

a/n: written partially at work, so if it's clunky or disjointed I apologize!! divder by cafekitsune!

full fic & taglist under cut! ↓ / ao3 link here!

It's not like you owned him or anything. It's not even like he really even cared about you outside of the scope of the general, amiable 'member of the troupe' kind of relationship. Now, of age, he flirted with you casually, like he did all the girls, but you, as delusional as it may have been, thought you had something special – because boy, oh boy, did you care about him. You were obsessed with Jimmy Darling, in all ways possible. 

You'd grown up alongside him, from the age of sixteen when you got kicked out for a plethora of reasons, and ran away to the traveling freak show that was opportunely in town. It had taken the owner, Elsa Mars, almost all day to be convinced, but when you bent over backwards, putting your head through your legs and pleaded with her upside down, a sly smile spread across her thin, aging lips.

You thought that Jimmy might’ve fancied you – that was until Maggie came along. The liar. The fraud. The insolent little brat that she was. She’d taken a liking to Jimmy, and seemed to snatch up every second he was alone – something that you used to do. He had fallen for her fortune teller act, but you certainly hadn’t. Your aunt had been a fortune teller and had possessed a true and genuine gift. This broad did nothing but spin silly little tales about misfortune and good luck, generic things that any person could identify with. 

You’d decided to test the waters one hot summer afternoon. It was before the show, and Jimmy was preoccupied setting up the cash box. With your skirt in your hand, swishing it back and forth, you strolled up to him feeling as giddy as ever. It was rare that you didn’t feel bubbly when you were around him – he had that effect on you. Before you spoke, you took in his appearance; a sheen of glistening sweat covered his bare, tanned shoulders, his caramel-coloured locks hung in a cluster on his forehead, and his dark, brown eyes swept over the cash as he counted it, arranging the tickets neatly next to the box. 

“Hey Jimmy,” you cooed. “Need any help?”

Without looking up, he replied: “Nah, doll. I’m just about finished.” 

“Well, maybe I could help you with whatever you’re doing next…” 

“If I need ya’, I’ll find ya, sweetheart.” 

“Or you could find Maggie.” 

“She’s in her trailer.” 

Your heart quivered and sunk, cracking like a delicate porcelain vase. He already knew; he’d already found her. 

“Of course she is, and of course you’d know that.” 

He grinned crookedly, exhaled out of his nose and shut the cash box, turning the key. He looked at you then, with a pointed gaze. “Now, what’s that supposed to mean? Huh?” 

Your brows rose high on your head, feigning innocence. He, of course, with all his charm and wit, saw right through it. You didn’t care. “Oh, nothing , Jimmy. Nothing at all.” 

“Sure, dollface, sure. You wouldn’t be jealous, now would ya?” 

“Of her? I’d be more jealous of a drowned rat in a sewer than I would be of Maggie.”

With that, you stomped off, your steps crunching the tall grasses that covered the field you called home for this month. Your heart was pounding, your cheeks had flushed. Feeling like a fool, you marched right to your trailer, taking great care to slam the door as hard as you could. 

You spun around, facing the door as thought he was behind it. “How dare he think I’m jealous of her ! That horrible woman, and he thinks – oooooh! ” You clenched your fists, shaking them at the door. 

It had taken you two hours to calm down. Two hours of pacing your small bedroom, fussing with your appearance and reading a magazine you’d picked up in town last week. It also took you two hours to come up with what you thought was the revenge plan of the century. 

An hour later, you found yourself at the local diner, schmoozing with a cute young man in his early twenties. You’d batted your fluffy lashes and pouted your lips and with hardly a few words, you had him wrapped around your manicured finger. He’d bought you a milkshake, which you were nursing, taking small sips in between answers.

“You’re sure you won’t run out of this diner screaming?” 

“No - no. I promise I won’t.” 

“I’m a travelling performer… I’m only here for a few more weeks. I work at the Freak Show in the field down the road.”

“What do you do?” He asked, cautiously, looking you over your body with a suddenly very critical eye. To most, you looked normal . Sure, you were a little longer and lithe than some girls your age, but you didn’t fit the bill of a freak. That was until you bent and contorted your body into the most mystifying, inappropriate positions that they had ever seen a woman in. 

“I’m a…” you leaned in, dipping your chin to your chest, keeping your gaze sternly locked on his. “A… contortionist.” 

“A what?” 

Oh, what a dumb bunny . He was cute, you’d give him that; his pretty, sea-blue eyes, pink lips and dirty blonde hair that had been perfectly styled. The clincher was that he had two very nice hands – strong, and veiny. The truth of the matter was that you preferred Jimmy Darling’s hands – but he didn’t need to know that. To him, this would be a threat, and if everything went according to plan, Jimmy would be red with anger, furiously jealous and looking as though he must bust a vein. 

“I’m flexible. Very flexible.” 

His eyes lit up. It was a predictable response, and one you’d seen before. Men were grotesque, they liked the idea of bending a woman into unique positions like a jointed doll, just to see her body in a fresh, new way. They liked the thought of fucking you while you were bent over backwards, folded up neatly. 

The waitress brought your food; you’d only ordered a side of fries, which you dipped into the remainder of your shake. A habit that you’d learned from Amazon Eve – it was easily the most delicious combo you’d ever tasted. As you two ate, the conversation drifted naturally. You laid on the charm heavy. Every other response contained a compliment, telling him how handsome he was, how you’d never seen a boy as cute, so on and so forth. He fell for it hook, line and sinker. And you. 

Afterwards, he paid and held the door open for you. As any gentleman should, he wasn’t earning any points with you. Only one man could… 

“Can I come see your show?” He asked, playing idly with your fingers.

You reached over and yanked one of the flyers from the nearby telephone pole, folded it in fours, and pressed your lips to the paper, leaving a crimson mark. You tucked it in the man’s shirt pocket. 

“See you tonight. Tell ‘em that I sent you. Front row seats.” 

He stammered out an agreement, looking flustered. With a wink, you were sauntering back down the sidewalk. The great big sun, orange and warm, was making its heavy, tired descent back into the horizon, and you quickened your pace. The last thing you needed was Elsa being upset at your disappearance.

As you made your way back to the field, you hummed the song that was playing in the diner and skipped. There was something to be said about the butterflies in your stomach, though you couldn’t discern whether or not they were for the fact that you were going to see that man in the audience. You suspected not. Jimmy Darling would be jealous and that was the thought that sent you. 

Later that night, as the calliope played, your hands glided up over the curves of your thighs, and over your sides, gracefully, like a burlesque performer teasing a reveal. With one movement, you brought your leg up to your head, pulling it tight. A few oooh’s and chortling chuckles from men in the audience dotted the room. With floaty, delicate movements, you slid down into the splits, never losing your bright smile in the process. More pleased reactions and some applause. You crossed the stage in backbends, working the crowd as they cheered for you. 

At the final backbend, you sunk to your stomach, laying on the floor. You were just nearly at the edge of the stage, and directly in front of you was your diner boy. His eyes were locked on you, enchanted, enrapt and obsessed like a dog staring at a fresh cut of sirloin. With a come-hither smile, you reached out and swept your hand along his jawline before tapping his chin with a single finger. You sucked in a deep breath and brought your legs forward, curving your spine around until your feet were planted on either side of your face. 

The crowd gasped in horror, and little girls shielded their eyes, expecting to hear the dull crack of your spine as it snapped in two. But Diner Boy was fascinated, and still staring at you. He was looking at your body, the unnatural curve of it, and the way that you’d brought your cunt somehow closer to his face. As the seconds passed, he looked more and more like a dog to you, hungry and slobbering. 

You smiled, scanning the crowd again. Your eyes drifted to the corner of the stage, where Jimmy stood against one of the support poles, arms crossed. At least, despite Maggie, he’d retained his habit of watching every performance you did – though this one, he didn’t look as delighted with. You could tell by the way the corners of his mouth were pointed down in an angry frown, his eyes narrowing at the little things you did to entice Diner Boy. You grinned at Jimmy, acknowledging him and tapped the toes of your shoes childishly against the stage before unfolding your body again. 

The rest of your show finished without a hitch, and Diner Boy played his part very well. He took in every moment, and at one point, when you reached your hand out to him, he interlaced his fingers with yours. A nice touch. When you looked back to where Jimmy was, he was gone. You smiled inwardly, prideful and gratified by the way your devious little plan had gone.

As soon as you went off-stage, Jimmy grabbed you by your arm, gripping your bicep hard. Almost too hard. You winced. “What was that about?” 

“What? I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.” Casually, you yanked your arm from his grip and began to polish your nails on the fabric of your shirt. 

“Cut it out! You know what. Who was the guy in the audience? You sure were payin’ him a lot of attention.” 

His words, though loud, were a little slurred, his breath smelled of alcohol; you could tell that he'd taken a few gulps of liquid confidence before approaching you. You didn't mind; your father used to say that the truth came out with booze. You hoped that would remain true with Jimmy and he'd spill his guts to you.

“Just someone I met at the diner, Jimmy. Why are you getting so heated over him? You flirt with girls in the audience all the time.” 

“It’s part of the act, doll! You know I have to act a certain way, I can’t –” 

“Can’t what? Stand to love me?” 

Jimmy stopped abruptly, his mouth hanging slack. His chest rose and fell with hot, angry breaths.

"Just because I can bend without breaking doesn't mean my heart can, Jimmy."

“Dollface, wait.” 

“No.” 

You pushed yourself through the flaps of the tent, storming off towards your trailer. Jimmy followed close behind, calling your name.

“Doll, c’mon, hang on a minute!” 

“No, Jimmy. Maybe Maggie can hang on a minute .” 

“Hey!” He bellowed, catching your arm again. You pressed your back against your trailer’s door, again, yanking it away from him and crossing them tightly across your chest. Your heart thudded against your ribs, deeply delighted at the fact that he was chasing you, pursuing you with an overbearing jealousy. 

“What.” 

“Can we just…” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “...talk about this a second?” 

“Sure.” You snapped. 

Jimmy’s black coffee eyes scanned over you, searching your face for some semblance of softness. He found nothing but a tightly pressed line of lips and a cold gaze.  

“What’s your problem, huh? I can’t flirt with other guys?” you finally asked, your stern voice shattering the awkward silence. 

He shook his head, almost sheepishly. “I don’t like seein’ it. I know they don’t care about you.”

“And you do?” 

Jimmy swallowed again, forcing the lump in his throat down. For the past several years, you’d been a constant in his life, by his side, and taking all his showman flirtations in stride. You’d never once fired back at him, and he thought that it was because you could care less about what he did or who he flirted with. Against the voices in his head, Jimmy pacified the anger in his gut by leaning forward to crush his lips against your red ones, tasting the sweetness of whatever gum you’d been chewing before the show. 

He lingered there a moment before his conjoined digits made their way up your waist, gripping it softly. He waited for you to soften, to ease into his kiss, but you didn’t. You stood your ground, arms still pressed against your breasts. You intentionally filled your mind with thoughts of Maggie Esmeralda and how close he’d gotten with her. You thought of all the times that he flirted with girls in the audience, damn near kissing them with how far he’d lean off stage during his song. 

“Baby, please…” You blinked. His low, smooth voice pulled you out of your hateful thoughts.

With a heavy sigh, you murmured, “I want to hear you say it, Jimmy.” 

“Say what?” 

“You know what.” 

The muscles in his jaw fluttered as he clenched them, grinding his teeth hard. Jimmy spent his whole life being put on the spot, but it never got any easier. Especially not in front of you – the girl he’d fallen hardest for. He inhaled, puffing his chest out and mustering up all the confidence he had. 

“I don’t like seein’ you flirt with other guys… ‘cause… I wish it was me.” 

“Who’s jealous now, huh?”

“I am.” He looked at your lips, then back up to your eyes. A cricket started off somewhere in the field, and your attention flitted off towards it, only to have Jimmy’s large, warm hand bring you back. “Hey.” 

He kissed you again, his strong tongue darting out to taste you again, his plush lips closing around your bottom lip to suck it gently. This time, an undulating warmth erupted deep in your core. You couldn’t help but melt into him and your arms relinquished their position, dropping heavily to your sides. Your fingers reach forward to claw at his shirt, just above the waistline of his jeans and instead latch onto his belt loops, pulling him closer at the hips.

You tilted your head to deepen the kiss, swirling your tongue with his. Mingled with his personal taste, he tasted like warm honey and the liquor you smelled on his breath earlier. Not always admirable, it was something that you knew him to dabble in when his mother wasn’t looking. More often than not, he’d sneak some booze, saying it calmed his nerves before and after shows. You didn’t mind; in fact, you wondered what it would be like to have a drunk Jimmy, sloppy and unable to control himself around you. 

“I’ve waited a long time for this…” you broke the kiss, breathlessly whispering over his lips.

“Me too, honey. Me too.”  

Keeping your eyes on him, you blindly felt behind your back, where the handle of your trailer was digging into your soft flesh. You yanked it open, and took a fistful of Jimmy Darling’s shirt, tugging him inside. 

It was like someone had fired a gun and Jimmy was a racehorse. He charged at you, his big, conjoined fingers wrapping tightly around your hips on either side, kneading the flesh like dough. He kissed you again, hot and in a hurry, like you only had a few minutes to do whatever it was you were going to do. With your hands on his pectoral muscles, you pushed him off gently, just enough to get a look at his face. 

He, being mere centimeters from your breasts, wasn’t looking at your face. His attention was clearly elsewhere. A low, rumbling groan vibrated through his throat as he craned forward to kiss your skin. 

“Jimmy, baby, slow down…” 

Between feverish kisses to your neck and chest, he muttered: “I can’t, I’m sorry.” 

He had you where he wanted you, after so long, and he wasn’t going to let that slip through his fingers this time. Jimmy muscled you backwards, urging you towards the small hallway where your bedroom was. He was all hard-working muscle. Having done set-up for so many years  had lined his body in bulky strength, the kind of strength that you only get from hard labour. So, when he started guiding you backwards, you could do little to protest. 

“Jimmy, my god, what’s the rush?” 

“I want you bad, baby… bad.” As proof, he urged his hips against yours; the hot rigidness of his erection pressing into your hip bone. You let out a surprised mewl, and wrapped your arms around his warm neck, fingers slipping into his short-cut hair. His lips found yours again as the backs of your thighs hit the mattress. He kissed once and playfully, shoved you down. You bounced twice on the bed, looking up at him with a heavy, wanton gaze. 

“I’m all yours, Jimmy Darling. All yours.” 

Jimmy didn’t say anything, just sunk to his knees, his hands finding the stretchy hem of your sequined shorts. He pulled them down in a swift jerk, before moving right back up to your waist. Those striped tights were next. He rolled them down off your thighs and over your knees; which fell apart, exposing the already-damp satin of your underwear. You propped yourself up on your elbows, watching him as he worked.

He was in too much of a hurry to bother taking off your shirt, instead just gathering the fabric and pushing it up over your breasts, letting them bounce free. He may have been raised a gentleman, but he wasn't immune to the tantalizing sight of some tits -- especially when they belonged to a girl he'd been lusting over for months now. 

"God damn, baby. Look at those." 

You couldn't help but blush, feeling your cheeks grow hot at his compliments. You bowed your head, casting your eyes to the floor. You were so stern before -- what had happened? Silly question. You knew; he was undressing you in your trailer, all that confidence had melted away underneath his strong, fused fingers.

“Jimmy, promise you won’t flirt with Maggie anymore…” 

He scoffed. “She’s nothin’ to me, honey. Gals like her are a dime a dozen.” He pressed his lips to your kneecaps before kissing his way up your thighs.  You whimpered, your head lolling heavily back between your shoulders. You thought about revealing that she wasn’t a real fortune teller, but Jimmy’s mouth neared your cunt, and the thought disintegrated. 

“...my god…” you breathed, your lids drifting shut. Jimmy nuzzled his face and lips against your soft mound, the hard bridge of his nose teasing at your soaked slit.

“You like that, baby?” 

You nodded, again, whimpering. He pressed his fingers slowly against your soft mound, over the fabric. Feeling the puddle that had settled into your underwear made Jimmy clench his teeth, hissing loud through them. With one hand, Jimmy maneuvered your underwear down your thighs. Once they were off, he tossed them carelessly behind him – you’d find them a day later in your kitchen sink. Now exposed, you gazed at him sheepishly, for the first time since he'd started kissing you. His eyes fixated on the wetness that glistened in the low-light of the trailer.

"I had no idea..." he said, the pad of his thumb sweeping over your clit with just enough pressure to make you writhe in lustful agony, aching desperately. 

"No idea what?" You breathed.

"To be honest with you, that you liked me that much..." 

You leaned forward, taking his chin into the palm of your hand. You stroked it gently, falling deep into his eyes. "Jimmy... I've wanted you since before I could have you." 

You looked on at his face in admiration as the thoughts played out, the realization of what you meant dawning on him. He grinned his bright, lopsided grin and his large hands slid up your legs, caressing the outside of your thighs thoughtfully.

"Baaaby," he hummed before dipping his head down. You gasped, your lids drifting shut in ecstasy as you felt his breath rush over you -- you knew what was coming; one deep sweep of his tongue along the length of your cunt, between your folds to taste you, to savour your silken wetness. Burying his nose in your pussy, Jimmy alternated between using the strong tip of his tongue to flick at your sensitive spots and lapping at your clit with a flattened, thick tongue. Adventurous and hungry, he'd venture further down to get a mouthful of your sweet, heady wetness and would murmur how good you tasted into your cunt -- the vibrations of his voice made you shiver every time. 

After a few minutes of this, you felt the inner core of your legs begin to shake every time he made contact with your clit, your tummy tightening in a warning clench. You reached forward, gripping his head on either side, yanking him softly off your cunt.

To your relief, he straightened up, chin glistening with your fluids. He swallowed you down, growling in satisfaction; the intimacy of tasting your lover's ejaculate was unparalleled, and when your eyes finally opened, they met Jimmy's lust blown ones. He was ready, and so were you. 

"Fuck me," you said, nodding. 

Jimmy made quick work of undressing, pulling his briefs down over his ass cheeks before he lined his red-tipped cock up with your leaking slit, bumping into the sensitive bundle of nerves a few times before he stuck you. He didn't ease in, just bottomed out and you let out a pleasurable yowl, tossing your head back at the sensation of being so full as his thick cock violated you, slipping against your slick walls. He found a rhythm, thrusting his cock up into you as deep as he could. You clenched hard around him, pulling a groan from deep within his chest. He pulled out, looking down at your sopping wet and now reddened cunt.

"'Hoh' my god, baby... do that again." 

He gripped your hips hard, pulling you roughly onto his cock. You clenched again, swallowing him into you. The tip disappeared inside you, hot and leaking, and he held himself there, completely engrossed in the sensations. You clenched again, pulling him further in and Jimmy's head fell back, his hips bucking hard out of instinct. You both found a hurried rhythm, grinding and rolling against each other with voracious desire. 

As he thrust into you, Jimmy watched you intently, holding onto you tight, his thumbs working your hips, kneading them in small circles. He looked starved for your image, the way that his eyes climbed from your hips to your breasts to your face and back down again. You let out a particularly ecstasy-ridden moan, and Jimmy dug his fingers into your hips. 

Rocked back and forth with the strength of his thrusts, you look down, watching as his thick cock pumped in and out of you. Your breasts bounced with each thrust, and Jimmy's dark eyes followed them as they moved.   

"Huuuh... I'm gonna' lose it, baby... you feel so god damned good..."

"Give it to me," you coax, moaning deeply. His thrusts get faster, more feverish and uneven, and before you can say another word, his expression contorted, brows pulling together in pleasured agony. You felt the warmth of his cum as he filled you up with a few spurts, but kept pumping until it leaked out the sides, groaning deeply. Your orgasm raced towards you quickly after that, pulsing around him in a hungry grip. 

With a heavy sigh, Jimmy pulled his softening cock from your cunt and flopped heavily onto the bed onto his back. Your chest rose and fell with every laboured breath, sweat streaming from every pore. Both of you, collapsed in lust, saying nothing, just enjoying the warm scent of sex that lingered in the air. Soon, your sappy gaze drifted from the ceiling to Jimmy. His fawn coloured hair clung to his forehead in sweaty clumps, his cheeks flushed. You'd done that. Made him jealous until he fucked you silly. You smiled inwardly, and adjusted your head on the small mattress. 

"Turn the fan on, Jimmy, it's hot." 

Jimmy leaned over, flipping the small metal switch. The fan rattled to life, blades spinning and washing your sweaty skin with a soft breeze of cooler air. He leaned back, enjoying the change in temperature. 

"I meant what I said, dollface. Maggie's nothin' to me now that we're uh..." 

You pressed your lips against his softly, smiling into the kiss. "We're what?" 

"Y'know..." 

"Fucking each other like teenagers?" 

"More than that, baby. More than that."

You weren't sure what that meant yet, but you weren't about to question a bit of it. You paused, furrowing your brows. You realized that Diner Boy had probably expected to see you after the show, but you hadn't shown. You hadn't even thought about him, far too busy with Jimmy's lips to even remember he was there.

"What?" Jimmy asked, concerned.

"I wonder if he was waiting for me..."

"I hope he was, and I hope he figured out real quick that you weren't comin'."

You kissed him again, inhaling his scent. Jimmy hummed into your lips, pulling you atop of him, his face bright with adoration.

He stayed in your trailer that night, and you two fucked each other, explored each other's bodies repeatedly. When the morning sun peeked through your lacy curtains and your lids peeled apart, a yawn ripping through your mouth... you wondered if Maggie Esmeralda saw that coming.

[tadpoles-and-daydreams]

A ramble on imposter syndrome and the accessibility of witchcraft

So, I’ve been thinking. I think a lot in case you haven’t noticed. Specifically, I’ve been thinking about the major imposter syndrome I’ve been feeling lately in regards to this blog. TL;DR is at the bottom of this post.

People have been, occasionally, sending me asks requesting my opinion on things/how I do things/what I know about XYZ topic. If you are one of these people, I promise I’m not vagueposting about you in particular- in fact, I love these questions! They’re so fun to get and they actually make me sit and think sometimes, or even encourage me to write out something that I’ve been meaning to for my book of shadows. Genuinely, they're wonderful asks to receive. These questions have made me confront something, however; my blog is still small, but some people actually like what I write and value my opinion even if just a little. 

I feel like a mimic hiding in the witchcraft community. I feel like, were people to truly understand my experiences, they would want to “expose” me for knowing so little.

So I sat down with those feelings and turned it over in my head and I’ve come to a conclusion. The fact is, I don’t do research. At least- not what I think of when people talk about research. My "research" consists of the occasional rabbit hole I go down, one and two halves of different books I never finished under my belt, what I see scrolling through various social medias, and conversations I've had with other witches. I check to make sure I'm not stepping on the toes of any closed practices- in fact, that's what most of my energy goes to when it comes to research. This isn't a complaint; I'd much rather know that my craft isn't appropriative.

But I don’t know much about mythology, even that of the deities I work with. I don't even remember the holidays and what they're for. I thought Nyx was an Egyptian deity until like four months ago because I'd just heard her name in passing as a child and had never looked into the mythology... Even though I mainly work with the pantheon she belongs to. Y’all, I’ve done like three spells that I remember. My book of shadows is a messy disaster and I love it but it's got so little information in it, because I rarely write things down. Most resources (especially mythology resources) are academically worded or difficult to read for me personally, and all of these things feel like secrets I have to guard with my life because if I were to ever say them aloud, people would know I'm a fraud.

Today I've come to the conclusion that that is, in fact, absolute bullshit.

Maybe it's not, maybe this post will make some people really upset, but in my practice it's bullshit. All of the above is a result of my ADHD and the fact that I am nothing if not a hands-on learner. My craft is mostly my own experiences because that's how my whole life is; I learn by doing. My ideal learning style is sitting with another autistic person whose special interest is whatever I'm learning about and just talking for five hours, but if that's not something I can do, puzzling it out myself is the next best thing. That's what I've been doing ever since I felt had a basic foundation for my craft. Hell, even before I had a foundation I was putting my own experiences into my craft because "Well that rule just doesn't fucking vibe with me."

This post is mostly for me, but partially for anyone who feels similar. We are not broken or doing witchcraft/paganism wrong. We are simply what happens when the kid who could never do homework ends up practicing the "religion/spirituality that comes with homework." Witchcraft and paganism, in my experience, is far from accessible when it comes to the typical image of it. UPG is what makes it accessible. So yes, my practice is heavily UPG, and I don't do as much research as I think people have assumed. But I'm going to let go of the idea that I'm a fraud, because frankly I know enough about witchcraft to have supported my practice this whole time and my deities haven't smited me yet so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

TL:DR:

Fuck the rules, I don't do much research. I've researched the "basics" and what I need to so I'm not stepping on any toes of closed practices, but people seem to think I know way more than I actually do. I've felt like I was lying this whole time but frankly witchcraft just isn't accessible to someone with my flavor of auDHD, so my craft relies heavily on UPG and I've decided that I'm not broken or wrong for that and neither is anyone else. I'm tired of seeing myself as an imposter just because I make my practice doable for me.

[steddieas-shegoes]

is that tax fraud?

for @corrodedcoffinfest warm-up round prompt ‘taxes’

rated t | 671 words | cw: language | tags: they’re just so stupid, and I love them, look Steve is here!

🎸🎸🎸🎸🎸🎸🎸🎸🎸🎸

“What the hell do you mean you’ve never filed taxes?” Jeff asked Gareth as they sat around trying to write a song.

Keyword: trying.

Now it looked like they were gonna be figuring out how to keep Gareth out of fucking prison for tax fraud.

“I thought our band accountant handled it!” Gareth exclaimed.

“We don’t have a band accountant! The label just handles our money!” Jeff exclaimed back.

“Okay, let’s calm down.” Eddie, the voice of reason at this moment, held his hands up towards them. “Technically, Gareth only turned 18 two years ago. That’s only two years of back taxes. And if he’s honest, it’ll be fine! He probably didn’t even make enough the first year for them to care.”

“Well, I did get an inheritance from my grandpa who died,” Gareth said unhelpfully. “Does that count as income?”

Everyone stared at him in shock.

“This is a joke,” Freak said from his spot on the couch. “Has to be.”

“Oh my god, our drummer is actively committing tax fraud,” Jeff put his head in his hands.

“Guys, it’s fine! I’ll just file it all this year,” Gareth assured them.

“We should call someone. Right? Someone should be told about this,” Eddie started pacing the floor, wearing a trail into the shag carpet.

Who even put shag carpet in here? Shag was terrible.

The door swung open and Steve walked in holding three large pizzas and a grocery bag full of sodas.

“They didn’t have any Mountain Dew, but that’s probably for the best. You guys have a conference call in an hour so eat up,” he said as he started setting everything on the coffee table. He looked around when he realized it was way too quiet. “Everything okay?”

“Stevie. I fear our drummer may be going to prison.”

Steve paled. “What? Why?”

“He forgot to tell the government he has money. For two years.”

“He what?” Steve looked at Gareth to explain.

“I didn’t know I was supposed to file my own taxes! I thought we had a guy!”

Steve looked between all of them. He looked at Gareth.

“You do have a guy. The label provides a guy. I think his name is Sam? Maybe Shane.” Steve shook his head. “Either way. You have a tax guy. He filed for all of you last year.”

You could hear a pin drop in the silence.

“What do you mean? We all filed for ourselves last year. Except Gareth, apparently,” Jeff was frowning at the floor.

“Uh, well, you may have given double the money, then,” Steve laughed, though this wasn’t exactly funny.

“So let me get this straight: the label provided a guy to do our taxes without telling us. We all file our own taxes after this guy already did. No one caught it. Gareth’s the only one who hasn’t double paid into the fucking government?” Eddie asked, face red with shame or anger, it was hard to say which.

“Yeah, appears so.”

“Fuck you guys. Had me worried I was going to prison and I’m the only one who’s done shit right!” Gareth laughed. He reached for a slice of pizza and sat back in his chair, smug smile on his face. “Feels good to have my taxes paid.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Freak rolled his eyes. “So how do we get money back if we double filed?”

“Not sure we can,” Jeff sighed. “Probably isn’t worth figuring it out anyway. It’s not like we were rolling in for last year’s taxes.”

“But this year…” Eddie started.

They all looked at each other and nodded.

Yeah. This year would be different. They’d skyrocketed after the release of their first album and their first tour. Money was…pretty fucking great.

“So…pizza?” Steve asked.

They all nodded and started grabbing for their food.

“If you guys want, I’m sure Nancy can try to find a way to get money back. She’s good at that stuff,” Steve suggested.

“Nah, she’d call us idiots.”

“Well, if the shoe fits.”

“Hey!”

[sefinaa]

❝𝐏𝐀𝐂: 𝐁𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐢𝐜𝐬, 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐮𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞. 𝐈 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐮𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤. 𝐌𝐲 𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬. 𝐈’𝐦 𝐬𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦.❞

Are you balanced with your emotions and intuition? (Detailed)

YouTube | Masterlist

Tips | Paid Readings

Not a tarot card reading, only based on my intuition. I added advice and solutions.

18+ readings @enchantressiren

Pictures | divider

Pile 1

No.

I see you questioning if you have intuition or not; you question many things, and you’re a skeptical person. You don’t believe intuition is even a thing, and yet you read intuitive and tarot card readings for fun or to see if they are legit and work with your current life. I see that you are starting to believe it because you’re getting some signs and it is freaking you out. Some supernatural situations are happening to you, and some people mention things you said to others who do not know the person or that you thought about. You are having visions in your dreams as well, and if not, your dreams have signs you see in your waking life. I also see you having great intuition, but you brush it off, and when your intuition is right, it truly freaks you out.

Everyone has intuition or a gut feeling, but it’s our choice if we want to be in tune with it or brush it off. I believe intuition can be a scary thing because we are forced to believe certain things when they're not true. For example, we are taught to believe that psychics or mediums are crazy people; they lie, they’re frauds, and/or they’re out for money. And though some people may be doing it, not all of them. Because society has shaped us into something different, Intuition and gut feelings are unfamiliar and can feel frightening. You don’t need to brush it off, but you should learn to be in tune with it because it can also help you understand your emotions.

I can see that you aren’t inclined with your emotions either; you brush them off as well. I see you focusing on your logical mind the most because that’s how you survived as a child growing up. I see toxic relationships and environments in which you grew up. I see some of you are actually orphans or have grandparents or uncles as guardians. Bad relationships with your parents if you weren’t an orphan. I see most of you struggle with your father figure, and some of you deal/dealt with an alcoholic guardian, but father is what I see the most. Some of you don’t even have a father figure. I also see abusive and sexual abuse.

So with all of these types of traumas, trusting yourself is already hard enough, and now you’re trying to understand whether or not you have psychic abilities or not. I see some of you are actually getting visions of the future, even if it’s those small ones—where you take another path in a hallway and you brush it off as if it’s a daydream or nothing. But an hour later, you actually do it and change the routine.

What my intuition tells me is.. “you must follow your intuition, your gut feelings, and your psychic abilities. The more aligned you are with them, the more powerful you will become and get out of the hellhole or environmental space you are in. We don’t need to be stuck in one place, questioning who we are or if we are good enough. We can rise above it and realize how strong our potential is as people. I’m aware of how strong your psychic abilities are, but are you?”

So to summarize my intuition message, you have a lot of potential to get where you want. That dream life you crave so dearly but don’t know where to start. Sometimes you start, but then you automatically give up, like it’s too challenging. You cannot have the life you want if you aren’t aligned with your emotions, especially your intuition. Our intuition leads us to answers we didn’t think were possible. Of course, second-guessing yourself is bound to happen, but you shouldn't. Trust yourself. I know it is easier said than done, but that’s what I’m hearing. You should trust your intuition, and your emotions. Instead of relying on your logic, when you do that, you will go far in life.

Pile 2

Rocky middle.

I see you’re in tune with your emotions but not your intuition. It’s not that you don’t trust it, per se, it’s more like you mistake your emotions for your intuition and vice versa. Sometimes you have anxiety for no reason; you cannot figure out the reason why. Sometimes you will bite your nail, rip the skin off your nails, pluck your eyelashes, remove a scab, etc. because you cannot tell the difference. Random anxiety without reason, even when you cannot figure it out, is intuition. Your intuition is telling you something, but because you aren’t in tune with it, you don’t understand what’s going on, thus the anxiety.

Anxiety is a silly emotion, not because it's irrelevant, but because it blocks out your intuition perfectly. It is a very sneaky disorder, and sometimes people will get diagnosed with it, but they actually have intuition. And intuition can hide in the form of anxiety. Understood? Anxiety can be intuition, what you think intuition is can be anxiety.

The only way to figure out if it is your emotions or intuition is based on how you perceive things. For example, I am channeling your message for you; all of this is written based on my intuition. But at times, I want to write more channeled messages but cannot because it’s not meant to be and I’m just bored. I can’t work it out, because I base it on my feelings. In that moment, I want to do that because I feel bored. But when I'm bored, the messages are short and miss a lot of details. Whereas, I do it based on my intuition, you get a lot of things in your messages and a detailed one at it to get you on the path you desire.

This example is like your situation right now. You need to figure out how to balance your emotions for certain things and your gut feelings or intuition for others. Intuition for me is, I just know and I go along with it. Emotion, for me, has some doubts about it. You can try it like that or use inspiration from the way I do, but, I do have a message from my intuition. It should help.

“When you talk to the people you like, you start to feel anxious sometimes and zone out from the conversation. Of course, this is unintentional, but they don’t know that. You get lost in your own world when it’s really your anxiety or emotions eating you alive. Remove those thoughts and tell yourself you can control them because you can. You are the creator of your reality. Your intuition is your friend, even though you don’t want to hear things, it is there to help you. Don’t ridicule it and keep it in touch like a friend. You like to socialize at times, so why not do it with yourself? Are you not close to yourself, or do you prefer to surround yourself with others to block out all those messy feelings and emotions eating you alive? Why don’t you try to journal about your feelings, daydream, throw it out of a window, burn it in your daydream, or meditate? It surely should align you with your future goals and make you successful!”

Summary and explanation of my intuition thoughts, sometimes you zone out and you think you’re daydreaming, perhaps it’s to bury your feelings into a bottle, ignore them, or such, but by doing that, you're making it harder to understand your intuition and align yourself with your higher self or future self. Sometimes people get annoyed that you zone out and that they want your attention on them, and sometimes you tell them, but they don’t understand it, so you get frustrated and brush it off to keep the peace of the friendship. Either you feel bad, guilty, or act like you don’t care, but you do. Intuition tells me, “tell them you don’t like it and explain it to them in the way they do understand. If it fails, set a boundary and take social breaks with them. If they do not accept, they are not meant to be in your life.”

When it comes to anxiety eating you alive, change your thoughts into the way you want to be. For example, if you desire to have a positive mindset, change it to that. When a negative thought pops up, instead of ignoring it, suck it up with a vacuum in your mind and change it to “this won’t happen because they truly care about me, and i know it’s true because they always show it.”

Sometimes you hear negative things from your intuition, and you don’t like them, so you brush them off. Don’t. It’s a warning, and you must accustom yourself to it. It is there for your benefit and your benefit only.

I see some of you want to have your own business or be successful, but how can you be if you aren’t aligned with that part of you that wants YOU to succeed? How can you brush it off just because it doesn’t make sense to you per se or because it gives you information you don’t like when you know it’s true? How else did you find this pile and know it was right for you?

You can find techniques that help you learn to balance your spirituality and emotions; you can even talk to yourself if you don’t want to do the things my intuition suggests. All of this is up to you, but take my guidance the way you see fit.

Pile 3

Yes :).

You guys are fully connected to your emotions and your intuition. You guys see your emotions as something to be taken care of, like a fragile antique doll, whereas most people would just push them away and distract themselves, but when you see that happen with other people, you feel bothered. You feel bothered because you take care of your emotions, and you wonder why they don’t. I feel that the majority of you guys had a somewhat great childhood, and the rest of you guys had to pick yourself up, so then you also question why other people aren’t like you. But you must remember that human minds are complicated, and those people are not you; therefore, they don’t have the same luxury as you. It is the same with your intuition. You have come to terms with the fact that intuition is real and that every human being has it, but they must practice for it like you have. I am proud of you guys for coming to terms with intuition because I know that a lot of you struggled to believe in it or that you now trust yourself more than you have before. I’m getting a lot of competitive energy from you guys, but it’s not from other people. It’s with your past self. You want to prove to your past self that you were able to come to terms with both your emotions and your intuition, and you have done that now. So instead of competing with your past self, start to show gratitude to them, because without them, you wouldn’t have been here today with this. I know you guys are very in tune with your emotions, but I do want to point out that you must forgive yourself for your past and show more appreciation to them. I’m just getting this pain in my chest and stomach; it’s a pit feeling, like something is missing. There is something that you have been meaning to do, but you have not done it out of frustration, anger, blame, and fear. And because of this, you are starting to doubt your intuition and emotions because you cannot figure out what this thing is. But the thing is right in front of your face, but you guys have been distracted by wanting to go into the past and fix the situation. Don’t go into the past. Keep moving forward. We do things in our lives because, in that moment, we think it’s the right thing to do, and maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t, but what is done is done. And now you have to come to terms with the fact that it has been done because, let’s say you were to do the other thing you had in mind. How do you know that was the best choice for you? How do you know that it is going to give you what you desire as of now? You don’t know. Now, all you can do is strive forward and enjoy life as it is.

I’m getting some doubts right now about this pile. Some of you guys are wondering why I put yes, as in, you have balanced your intuition and your emotions. Well, my intuition told me you had mastered it to a high degree, but human emotions came into play. If I were to say yes, somewhat, you have mastered your emotions and intuition. I would be lying to you. People have doubts; I have doubts, and I do readings for you guys, but that does not mean I have not mastered my intuition; it just means it takes time to find out the solution to something. And that’s okay. And that’s also okay if you have doubts; it’s normal, and that does not mean you guys have not mastered it. It just means you need to take some time to think about what you were missing or what is a fact about you and to deal with it.

How can I deal with this? Well, my intuition tells me, “the thing you want to deal with is within you. You already know the answer to the outcome, but you push it away out of fear and anger. Anger is there to protect you. It is showing your inner child is hurting. Your fear is there to show you what it is that triggers you. You have guilt in your heart when it’s not necessary. It’s okay to show boundaries; you must accept that. You cannot be everyone’s best friend and make sure that they’re always secure with themselves when you cannot feel that way as of right now. Move along with them. They are not worth your time. If you believe that they will leave your life because you do not speak to them, you must fix your thoughts. You have mastered both your intuition and your emotions. Masters of different forms of art or science doubt their abilities. No one truly knows what the answer is until we get feedback, so why the heck are you doubting yourself? You cannot improve yourself as a person and grow even further, if you doubt yourself. I know the situation right now is very confusing, and you do not know what happened. But listen to it—listen to your intuition and your emotions. You already know the answer. You already figured out the answer, you have it with you, so why are you procrastinating?”

So what my intuition is saying is that fear is what is keeping you away from the solution. Fear can be hard to deal with, but sometimes it is important for us to go after that fear, and let it get away from our hearts. Fear comes in different forms, and right now, for you guys, it’s with your friends or connections that you are becoming attached to. It’s okay to be attached to things; it's human nature. I’m getting the feeling that you guys are feeling embarrassed to be attached to some people in your life because it has never happened for you or because you’re trying to heal from your last relationships. But intuition tells me that these are good people. These people are there to help you grow as a person, and you finally found your people who except you for you. Even when you make mistakes in your life or something embarrassing happens, they genuinely care for you, and that is hard to come by. If the feeling is still there, speak to them about it and explain how you feel, and they will help you with that fear. You know, it truly is okay to realize these people mean a lot to you, and you don’t want to ruin their friendship with your worries, but you’re not going to ruin anything. You’re actually going to make the friendship stronger. I know that sometimes when people have communicated with their friends about their feelings, their relationship has gone sour. But these people are like sweet candy; they look sweet on the outside and are sweet on the inside. You guys are so blessed to have good people in your life, and I am very glad to see so.

[ddarker-dreams]

Nexus II.

Yandere Blade x F Reader.

Warnings: Descriptions of Blade's body regeneration ability, Blade is just kinda weird idk, some spoilers for his backstory. Word count: 6k.

Nexus index.

The LOTUS-EATER’s maximum capacity tops out at 124. This number takes current fire codes and oxygen generator parameters into account. There are eight Arbiters — including yourself — and fifteen other employees who work The Club floor on rotation. Additionally, some automatons assist with carrying refreshments to clients. Lucky for you, those fellas aren’t on the payroll. 

The other twenty-two are, though. 

Nona swings her legs back and forth while sitting on the main bar’s countertop, humming a song from an underground band she likes. She’s sent you a link to their discography enough times that you recognize the URL immediately and know not to tap on it. 

“Hey, mom, dad, we’re on the news. ‘IPC Places Eris Under Temporary Travel Ban While Investigating Claims of Fraud’. Why didn’t anyone tell me we were doing fraud? Was I not invited to the group chat?” Nona hums. 

You glance up from your account book, sigh, then glance back down.

Meanwhile, Lear carries a hefty wooden crate from the back and places it on the floor. The sound of muffled glass clinking together can be heard, along with liquid sloshing.

“You shouldn’t make jokes like that,” he frowns. He shoos her off the counter with a wet rag, to which she takes refuge behind you. He rolls his eyes at her shenanigans, ties up his sandy hair, then gets to cleaning. “People could get the wrong idea. It’d tarnish [First]’s reputation.” 

Snickering, she replies, “And casually referring to Our-Lord-And-Savior-The-Exalted-One by her first name wouldn’t?” 

He bristles. “You…!” 

On instinct, he winds up his arm, wielding the now dirty rag as his ammunition. He pauses when Nona points at you. Seeing that there’s no way to hit his target without you joining the casualties, he huffs, and returns to shining glasses, using excessive force this time. 

Nona sticks her tongue out at him. After celebrating her victory, she situates herself on a nearby barstool, stretching her arms out beside your workspace like a content cat preparing to nap. 

“You’ve been staring at that silly book forever,” she notes, exasperation coloring her tone. “I know you aren’t reading it, either. Your eyes give you away. So, what’s up?” 

You shuffle in your seat. This line of questioning was inevitable as the four moons that hang everlasting in the sky, taking in everything as impartial observers. During instances like this, you envy the marvelous masses, how they can exist peacefully without living. No one asks the moon troubling questions. Or, if they do, they have more pressing issues at hand than their spoken query. 

“It’s nothing,” you dismiss. 

She blows a tuft of hair from her face. “Hey, Lear.”

“Mm?”

“Did you hear that?”

“Well, yes, I’m only standing a few feet away.” 

“Right, right. Let me ask a trickier question then, since that one was obviously way too easy for someone of your intellect. Do you believe her?”

“I…” he swallows thickly. “... Yes?”

Nona throws her arms up. “Gah! I’m surrounded by liars who can’t lie. That’s almost worse than liars who can lie— blegh, hey, did you actually throw a rag at me?” 

The rag in question slides down the side of her head and hits the ground with a sad squelch. 

“I’ll do it again too. You shouldn’t bother [First]—” Lear abruptly cuts himself off at the last syllable of your name, “The exalted one when she’s trying to concentrate.” 

You raise your head and frown. “Lear, I told you. Call me by my name when it’s just us. It feels wrong if you don’t.” 

“Seriously? That’s what gets your attention?” Nona laments. 

You both elect to ignore her. 

“I know, I know. It’s just… what if he comes back?” 

Silence descends and clings to the three of you like the suffocating scent of smoke. It’s there again, the uncomfortable, skin-prickling sensation of eyes sticking to you. Amber and sapphire coalesce into one, unspoken plea, forming a disconcerting shade. Nona’s visage betrays nothing, whereas Lear’s concern would be obvious from galaxies away. 

You square your shoulders and try to make yourself appear as decisive as you need to sound. “I’ll know when he’s back. He’ll text so I can let him in.” 

The two exchange knowing looks. It’s Nona who tries her luck. 

“That’s reassuring and all, but, I think the question Lear wanted to ask is why that man’s here in the first place.” 

Magenta eyes, rosy iris’, words that drip like venom-coated honey. 

When you asked how you should explain Blade’s presence to your staff, she told you she’d hate to abuse her authority, and that you’re free to decide those specifics yourself. You would’ve preferred some guidance or hint at her expectations in such a pivotal situation. It’s easier to avoid a landmine if you know how to best watch your step. The uncharacteristic lack of instructions goes on to birth unease. 

“My answer hasn’t changed. He’s here to act as my bodyguard until some concerns are settled.” 

Nona’s lips twist to the side. “You never wanted a bodyguard before.” 

“I never needed one before.” 

A glass shatters violently. 

You and Nona snap your head toward the noise’s origin, finding Lear’s face wound tight in pain. You both jump the counter. The remains of crystal shards are strewn across the floor, catching and refracting light. Watching your step, you make your way over to Lear, who is muttering expletives under his breath. 

No, that isn’t right, you realize. His lips aren’t moving. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he tries waving off Nona, who is inspecting the hand that held the glass, “Just an accident, s’all.” 

The private tumult boiling in his head threatens to overflow, stating loud and clear thoughts no one other than himself should be privy to. You grimace and focus on blocking the intrusive voice out. It’s so resounding, so sharp, that snippets penetrate through and spill their scathing secrets.  

‘My fault — should’ve killed — now she’s — because of me…!’ 

Block it out, block it out, block it out, you chant the mantra incessantly. 

Lear’s psyche wishes to illuminate itself to you in its entirety. The spotlights turn on one by one, focusing intently on the visible portion of the stage that any audience member can see. The overlapping beams penetrate the stage’s back curtain, revealing the silhouettes of the backstage crew. 

You don’t want to witness these delicate inner workings. It isn’t for your eyes, his thoughts aren’t for your ears. Sins committed in days past grant you a front-row seat and sew your eyes wide open. You haven’t attended this theater in some time, so it brought the show to you. 

It requires great effort to struggle against the needle and thread that wants to practice its stitches on you. This pain that feels like your skull is being crushed beneath an anchor could ease away if you were a good audience member who sat still and mute. You resist subservience at the cost of yourself. Eventually, the lights dim. The stage’s back curtain turns opaque. The actors shift their shouts into a normal speaking volume, a whisper, then finally, stop orating altogether. 

Your mind’s dictation is decided by you — the ink of Lear’s thoughts expunged. 

You’re aware of your physical surroundings again. 

Presently, you’re crouching down on the floor. You move your foot back to maintain balance, and there’s a crunch, warning you to tread carefully. You inhale and exhale shakily. At this sign of lucidity, Nona and Lear crowd over you, repeating your name on a loop. You check twice to ensure their mouths are indeed moving and you aren’t hearing what you shouldn’t. Once you dispel your fears, relief embraces you. 

This paroxysm has run its course.

Nona’s shoulders slump. “It’s okay, it’s over. She fixed it.” 

They both hold their breath until you nod in agreement. 

Lear extends his hand to help stand you up, to which Nona swats at it. 

“No touching,” she reminds. Sternness doesn’t sound right in her cadence. He considers arguing, only to decide against it. His fingers twitch, go still, then recede. 

You have to stand on your own strength. 

Neither of them knows what to say in the immediate aftermath — it’s been so long that they’re out of practice. While they think over the best-sounding platitudes, you spare your phone a glance. Several messages mar the screen from an unknown sender. The most recent is time-stamped at five minutes ago. 

You grumble a few choice words. 

“Mr. Personality is back?” Nona asks. 

“Yeah, I’ll handle it,” you close your account book and fold it under your arm. “You both should head home, it’s late. Just let Loopy take care of the glass shards.” 

Nona gives a mock salute. After a moment’s consideration, Lear nods. 

And so the three of you part ways. 

Your fingers blindly grope at the expanse beneath your desk. Finally, you come in contact with a protrusion, then press it. Electricity thrums then turns hushes. For peace of mind, you glide your hand through the air. A holographic keyboard flickers into existence and responds to your vigorous keystrokes. The monitor reads that your noise-canceling software is up to date. It prevents sound waves from escaping a perimeter you’ve set. It’s installed in every room on the second floor, which includes the private rooms in The Lounge, your office, and the bedroom attached to said office. 

Ever since Kafka started slinking around, the software’s uptime has increased exponentially. 

Unlike Kafka, Blade doesn’t sit across from you or relax on the couch against the silver-colored wall. He stands by the door that leads to the hallway like a statue. He hasn’t so much as uttered a word to you since you let him in, not that you put in much effort to rouse conversation. It isn’t as childish as him ignoring you, either, you swear his eyes haven’t left you for a millisecond. 

The keyboard and monitor dissipate at the flick of your wrist. 

“I know I said I didn’t have anything major scheduled this week, but the IPC’s new policy changes things,” you start. Still no reaction. Frowning, you continue, “I’ll have to break the house arrest you’ve imposed.” 

He doesn’t so much as blink. You thought a little provocation might earn you some material to work with, but you thought wrong. 

“Who will be there?” Blade asks. 

Instead of experiencing relief that he’s broken his vow of silence, tension coils its barbed limbs around you. It refuses to squeeze or apply any pressure. No, it intentionally denies you that, for it knows pain precedes understanding. A motive, an intention. Any degree of emotion is better than an unknowable void. Frustration, you can soothe, doubt, you can dispel, but total apathy? That’s a nightmare crossed into reality. 

“The other two leaders of the quadrants and myself.” 

At long last, there's a sign he is indeed a sentient lifeform and not the latest android model. A flash passes over his eyes. Suspicion or disbelief, perhaps. 

“Shouldn’t there be four leaders, if the city’s divided into quadrants?” 

“That’s a fair assumption. As far back as our records date, the southwestmost quadrant, Arc, has rejected the idea of having any fixed governance. They act however they see fit. It’s where that man who attacked me a few cycles back was sent to, since we look down on involuntary confinement.” 

“The prison planet without prisons,” Blade’s wry wording belies his flat tone. 

It’s always been a divisive topic, earning scorn and acclaim alike. You’ve had the misfortune of listening to clients regurgitate talking points that were made digestible by popular media, who started the cycle by devouring journal articles they read one paragraph of. They repeat what’s been said thousands of times with the bravado of the original theorist. Normally, you’d consider it more agreeable to bash your head against a wall than speak on the exhausted topic. 

So why is it a kindling of intrigue burns by a Stellaron Hunter’s offhand comment? 

“What’s this? The wanted criminal isn’t a proponent of prison abolition?” 

“Every decision comes at a price,” he says. “Sins should be punished.” 

You blink. Sins? Punishment? Is this a textbook case of cognitive dissonance, or another beast entirely? 

“What do you consider a sin?” 

“Anything that defies the natural order.” 

“Such as…?” 

The maelstrom that envelops him is potent enough for you to feel it breathing down your neck. Your body prickles all over. 

“Defying death.” 

“Not inflicting it?” 

“No,” Blade’s response is immediate, straight from the heart. “Taking life is permissible. It’s accelerating the inevitable.” 

This callous sentiment should chill you — maybe it would, if you heeded the alarm bells ringing in your mind — but fascination triumphs over any deterrent. This isn’t a creed one stumbles into by happenstance, it’s a burden made to order. His preoccupation with death is personal. A necessity. 

“Show me what it’s like to die.”

Is this request self-flagellation or redemption? 

If you’re ever to fulfill the Synalink you promised, you’ll need to dig deeper. 

“There are ‘sins’ committed with altruistic intentions, though.” 

“Hah,” he barks out a bitter laugh. “Those… those are the worst kind.” 

This is a personal slight he’s grappling with. The shards scattered around him like stardust condense, though the sight they create remains out of focus. It doesn’t have to be a sharp picture for you to discern its immense stature. 

Each person’s psyche is distinct in its manifestation. This image is a culmination of everything that defines them. Their core values, history, relationships, culture, ambitions both met and not fully realized; these colors leave an indelible imprint. In truth, this detailed representation is but a single dot amidst an ocean of stars. The mind of a sentient being must be vast if it is capable of ascending to an Aeon’s status. Still, you need something to work with, even if it doesn’t encompass the full scope. A pianist cannot play their instrument if there are no keys. 

This scale, this sheer magnitude that towers higher the more you crane your neck up, it’s unlike anything you’ve ever encountered. 

“... You’re going to give me a run for my money, Mr. 8.13 billion,” you murmur. “Your head looks like a warzone.” 

He leans against the wall with a hmph.

“With all your impending problems, that’s what you choose to focus on?” 

“I can multitask.” 

“Can you?” He challenges. Sensing your confusion, he elaborates. “You look awful.” 

Blade must be irresistible across all genders with that nuanced level of word crafting. 

“I appreciate your candidness,” you deadpan. 

He shakes his head at your sarcasm. “Don’t act obtuse. Your complexion’s off, your eyes are bloodshot… everything was fine when I left. Must have something to do with your earlier delay, I take it?” 

You underestimated his acumen. This would explain why he’s been sizing you up since you opened the door. His sword proficiency isn’t the only threat you should be wary of. You know to be mindful of your presentation when Kafka’s skulking about, you didn’t think he’d need to be treated with a similar caution.

“It’s nothing serious, just your typical mental overexertion. There’s a lot on my plate, you said so yourself.” 

“Hm.” 

Whether he believes you or not, the conversation is left at that. 

Transportation on Eris functions differently than what’s commonly found in other worlds. 

Traditional gas-based motors aren’t favored due to the frigid climate. Instead, a gemstone mined in the Nectary by vetted groups is the preferred resource. It contains special thermodynamic properties that can emit immense power under the correct conditions. The gemstones have been altered and assembled in such a way that they function as a railroad for insulated cabins to travel from one station to another. These paths were nicknamed 'nectar guides’ or ’guides’ by the first engineers to embed them in the ground. This is in reference to how the eight main paths lead to Perianth II’s center, built above the Nectary. 

The design serves a dual purpose — it optimizes travel and the heat radiating from the ground produces light. The accommodations have outworlders in mind. Your species, the Nymphalians, have long undergone enough natural selection to survive the hostile conditions fine enough. Your species’ eyesight excels in the dark and your physiology resists the cold. Aside from that, your body functions identical to any other humanoid species. The lone visible difference is a thin white ring around most Nymphalians’ iris’. You and Lear display this quality, Nona does not. 

The cabin you sit in has a quaint design. There are plush, brown loveseats lining the wall, glowing orange lights in the arched ceiling, and light refreshments atop wooden table stands. It’s split into a common area and a bedroom suite. More enchanting than any ornate embellishment are the expansive windows. You only get to see your quadrant in person during these trips to Perianth II’s center and back. 

“You warm enough?” You call over to Blade, who is bundled in extra layers of clothes and wearing an especially dour expression. 

He doesn’t dignify your quip with a verbal reply. 

This brief jaunt has earned his ire. For someone who’d likely prefer to be anywhere else, he’s taking this guard assignment quite seriously. He explained that taking this straightforward travel route begs for people with nefarious intent to come slithering out. You could see his point, but the matter isn’t up for dispute. Recent cyberattacks have called electronic communication into question. What you’ll be discussing with the others — Chrysus of Ade and Caicias of Mele — is highly sensitive information. The IPC catching any sliver of it could prove disastrous. 

“You shouldn’t be by the windows,” Blade eventually says.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a major buzzkill?” 

Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t respond. 

With some reluctance, you pry yourself away from the glass granting access to the outside world. 

“... Just a bit longer?” You try plucking a sympathetic cord he distinctly lacks. 

“If you like it so much, why not experience it in the safety of your room where your head is a less visible target?”  

“It isn’t possible to perform a Synalink on yourself.” 

“Have an underling do it.” 

The presumptions air to this suggestion eliminates any grace you may have extended.

“The only other Arbiter capable of performing Synalinks on me was my mother,” you say. “Note the past tense.” 

You experience a phantasmal ripple with him as the epicenter. It’s the weakest emotion you’ve inadvertently picked up from him, so you assume it’s nothing of consequence. 

“Passing blurs aren’t worth risking your life over.” 

You rise to your feet. 

“How do you know that?” You challenge, heat rushing to your cheeks. “These homes, these buildings, these streets… they’re either data on my screen or conveyed to me through someone who acts like they’re listing parts in a machine. I have to see it. I have to commit each ‘passing blur’ to memory. Otherwise…” 

What have I sacrificed my freedom for? 

Blade’s eyebrows furrow. 

“Otherwise…” you shake your head. “Forget it.” 

During the ensuing silence, your phone buzzes. 

You had set it on do not disturb for the upcoming meeting. A few contacts were granted an exception, meaning that this message must be urgent if it went through. You swallow the lump growing in your throat. An exhausted part of yourself reasons that it can wait until the meeting’s conclusion. It wouldn’t do you any good to get worked up beforehand, would it? The message will still be there when it’s finished. Then you’ll be able to commit all your bandwidth to its contents. This reasoning is a tempting mistress cooing at you to come join her in bed. The momentary relief will be as sweet as the aftertaste is bitter. 

Responsibility triumphs in the end. After inputting the necessary passcodes, a message four words long scrawls across your screen.

The product is ready. 

A simple code had been devised between you and the alchemist entrusted with testing Kafka’s synthetic tonic. The product isn’t ready yet would mean the sly woman bluffed, or at the very least, exaggerated her 70% comparison claim. You’d gladly take either. She’s sewn deceit before, she’d have no trouble doing it again. In case the alternative was true, you prepared another code; the code you just received. 

You reread it once. Twice, then thrice. You check if the message came from the right number. It did. You check again. 

This frantic fixation consumes you to such a degree, you don’t register the cabin jerking aside. The delay from your reflexes throws your equilibrium off. Squeezing your eyes shut, you brace yourself for an unceremonious rendezvous with the floor. Your right side does come into contact with a hard surface, except it’s sooner than you anticipated. Warmer, too. 

This heat is different from what’s produced inside the Nectary’s gemstones. It’s personal, containing the distinct thrum of life. There’s also an aroma. Slightly floral, mostly spices you don’t recognize. Then there’s this steady sound — consistent enough to put a metronome to shame. A slow thump, thump, thump. 

“How have you survived this long, clumsy as you are?” 

Blade isn’t speaking any louder than he normally would, but you can hear him better. 

“Hey, I’m… not… clumsy…?” 

It’s only when you open your eyes that you’re able to piece together your current predicament. 

Blade’s steadying you by your shoulders and your cheek is pressing against his chest. You always knew he was tall, but having him tower over you this close gives you a new perspective. As does the fact he doesn’t immediately shove you off after breaking your fall. Your body goes stiff enough to rival rigor mortis.

“Accident prone, then.”  

This swipe has you desperate to reaffirm your authority. “You should’ve just… let me fall then! Maybe I wanted to, what do you know!” 

(It sounded better in your head). 

“Are you positive you’re over a century old?” 

An equally snarky rebuttal blooms on your tongue, only to immediately wither, turning to ash that coats the ground. 

There’s the sound of a dying star, a dirge announcing the end. 

What one hears before their name is reduced to an epitaph or an alphabetized list neatly organizing the recently deceased. It’s loud, then it isn’t. Hideous, then hypnotizing. Yellows and oranges and reds swirling in a serpentine motion that mocks you for thinking you ever conquered it. Civilizations can temporarily subdue it, bend it to their will, but it’s not ever truly theirs. The sovereignty of flame is a dynasty everlasting. It may rise, it may fall, but it can’t ever be truly extinguished. 

You’re sent flying back with enough power that the air is forced from your lungs. It’s as if an Aeon’s hand had pushed your body aside, dragging you to the edge of the universe. You’re released from the scorching maw and into an icy nothingness. 

The planet itself is frozen for a time. 

There’s no strength in your body. Your system has been injected with pure, raw adrenaline, causing your limbs to shake and ignore your commands. Your ears are ringing and your eyesight is blurry. Tears cleanse the pollutants from your eyes. A dark swath covers your body, its weight hindering your feeble attempts to move. Determination alone wills you to emerge from this shadowy cocoon. 

The ringing fades and all is quiet, save for the crackling of fire. 

Then the screaming begins. 

You try identifying the source. You think you may have found it, then it starts elsewhere, a different pitch, a different soul lot in lament. Bloodcurdling shrieks rise alongside the thick smoke. You’re being a stretch of buildings that loom imposingly, obsidian spires reaching up to the night sky. The masonry required to maintain their reign basks in the flames. The unusual surplus of light unveils its secrets, from the cracks in the stone to the faded graffiti bored kids left behind. 

The ground is uneven, unlike the glossy pavement found in the entertainment district. This dull, grayish-blue soil with the consistency of fine powder exhibits the true nature of Eris’ untreated exterior. It’s cool to the touch and takes pleasure at the chance to stain your fine clothes. 

Your wandering mind is brought back upon hearing a sputter nearby. You’re not sure where you are, what you’re doing, or why you’re doing it; but you remember you weren’t alone. 

“Blade…” The name comes out as a croak. “Where…?” 

You can’t call out to him, it’s like cotton has been stuffed down your esophagus. 

There’s movement in the corner of your eye. 

You make the mistake of trying to stand. Your arms might’ve begun to heed your commands, but your legs do not. The worst insurrectionists are your ankles. The instant you try putting any weight on them, they collapse as if you were a newborn doe. Recognizing this strategy’s incompetence, you drag yourself over to where you saw movement instead. The coarse ground rubs at and scratches your skin. 

Upon closer inspection, your heart stops. 

The dark swath — that’s Blade. 

He’s in a far worse state than you. His entire backside has been scorched, displaying angry red blisters and split skin just barely hanging on. His right arm is bent in an awkward position, most certainly broken. Then there’s his left arm, or lack of it. Clumps of limp sinew hang where his arm should be joined to his shoulder joint. The force of the impact must’ve blown it off or eviscerated it entirely. 

He’s lying on his side, facing away from you. A pool of blood forms beneath him, mixing with the soil. The coupling results in a sickly mauve that creeps and seeps inch by inch. 

The fire… it’s coming from the guides, you realize. The cabin has been torn to pieces!

This begs the question: how are you alive? 

You should be covered in burns at the very least. Some of your clothes got charred, you think a rib or two might be broken, but you’re living and breathing. There’s a gap in your memory where the previous events should be. You try recalling whatever you can, no matter how seemingly insignificant. You were moved aside as the roaring got louder, and then there was the sound of glass shattering, heat to cold… 

Blade must have intervened. Did he use the few seconds before the fire caught up to break the window and toss you out? That can’t be right; you’d have glass entrenched in your skin and burns on whichever side faced the explosion. Surely, with his inhuman reflexes, he could’ve come out relatively unscathed. 

Unless he chose to shield you. 

You don’t think, you just act. First, by tearing the hem of your long skirt, then second, pressing it against the gaping wound where his shoulder abruptly ends. Gushes of crimson spill through your first makeshift bandage. You throw it aside, rip at your garments again, repeating the process in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding. A Stellaron Hunter must have a robust constitution, right? He was able to act faster than you could think. He can survive this — you just need to stop the bleeding until you can get help. Kafka has to have connections with advanced medical factions. 

Tears stream down your face and you sniffle relentlessly. Your hands are caked in soot and blood, the scent of burnt skin and metal clings to your nostrils. Is he going to die? Is he already dead? You can’t bring yourself to check his pulse. How could he be willing to die for you in the short period of time you’ve known one another? He could’ve concocted any excuse for why he failed Kafka’s assignment, you’re certain he’s more indispensable to their cause than you are. 

Blade stirs. 

You think that it’s your imagination playing tricks on you. A cruel joke to remind you that you make your living off shaping reality for others, temporarily giving them what they want at the price of never truly having it. 

Or so is your conviction until he moves again. 

You’ve heard of muscles twitching after death to give the false impression of life. However, you’ve never witnessed the phenomenon yourself. Is this how it works? It isn’t sporadic, his right arm is sweeping over the ground, fingers flexing. Much to your astonishment, he pushes himself up with the arm that was contorted into a horrible shape a minute ago. The pain he’s experiencing must be excruciating and yet he merely grunts as he shifts into a sitting position. 

“Stop moving,” you rasp out. With your most recent bandage in hand, you go to apply pressure to the left arm socket. 

He responds to your fervent desperation in a low, gravelly voice. 

“Don’t bother.” 

Don’t bother? Is he in a coherent state of mind? If you don’t attend to his gushing wound, he’s at risk of bleeding out. You prepare to ignore his utterance when a strange sight freezes you in place. 

A white structure emerges from his raw, mangled arm socket, descending like water pouring from a pitcher. It solidifies and takes the shape of a humerus. Once finished, it goes on to create the radius and ulna. Next are the carpals, metacarpals, then phalanges. Tendons join them together, fibrous muscles envelop the bones. Finally, in the blink of an eye, fresh layers of skin build atop one another in sheets. He clenches and unclenches his newly formed hand. 

If defying death is a sin, he is laden in iniquity.

“What hurts?” Blade asks. 

You’re too aghast to respond. His body just stitched itself back together without any medical treatment or esoteric healing techniques. Is it possible you’re hallucinating? Can a visual hallucination be this vivid? 

He reaches out. Seconds prior to his hand coming into contact with your bare skin, you furiously shake your head, flailing backward and narrowingly avoiding him. His eyes bore down on you like molten magma. He retracts his hand after a drawn-out pause. 

“If you can’t speak, point instead.” 

Dazedly, you follow his instructions, focusing primarily on your ankles. They’ve swollen since you last checked. The flesh is tender and puffy. 

“I’ll carry you,” he says. “Stay still.”

“Wait,” you manage to wheeze out. “This area… residential… have to help…!”

A coughing spell cuts your hoarse plea short. 

“That explosion was meant for you. Whoever set it off will want to ensure their job’s success.”

Blade reaches out for you again. You duck to avoid his grasp, despite the pain throbbing in your chest cavity from the hasty movement. The adrenaline must be fading if your brain is doing inventory on the damage you’ve sustained, rather than focusing on survival. Hot waves test your resolution. You grit your teeth. If you make a show of your pain, he’s not going to change his decision. 

He speaks your name in a low, warning tone. 

Adamant in your refusal, you point to where the cries for help are the loudest. 

“It’s not my priority,” he says. 

He easily grabs you on his third try and you yelp. The sluggishness of his previous attempts must've been out of consideration for you. His right arm interlocks behind your knees while the left supports your back. You thrash to no avail, his grip remains ironclad. Your struggles amount to nothing but perspiration clinging to your skin and more aches. 

The nearest medical unit to this street is at least thirty minutes away, now that the guides are out of order, you think. That isn’t fast enough…! Every second counts!

In your panic, a sacred vow made decades ago is desecrated. 

You cup Blade’s face in your shaky hands and stare him straight in the eye. 

The previously formed shards come into focus.

It’s monumental, this psyche you’ve barged into without permission. A violation of another’s autonomy. You know this, you condemn yourself for it, yet you press on nevertheless. The previously unknowable architecture that hulks over you is of Xianzhou design. It’s pieced together by bricks as infinite as the stars in the universe, though there is no magnificent shine, only matte stonework. 

This structure… is it a garrison? You wonder. Was Blade a member of the… what’s the name of their military again… Cloud Knights? 

You’ve had Cloud Knight clients before. Their psyches take the likeness of their favorite, scenic expanse on the Hexafleet, the area that they cared for enough to risk their life. The skies would be blue, clouds fluffy and prolific. A sense of duty and patriotism felt palpable. Occasionally, you’d be made privy to grief’s scent carried on a breeze, perhaps from a loved one’s passing or comrade’s untimely death in battle. 

This is a riddle you need to solve swiftly. With a little tampering, you can form a link. It’s immoral, a blight to your personal code, but you’ll leverage enough influence for Blade to stay and help any survivors until help arrives. Whatever consequences arise can be dealt with later. 

Even with the heightened mental sensitivity from making direct physical contact, this is proving a challenge. You can see his psyche but you can’t interact with it. It’s like running your hands through vapor. For you to successfully exert enough influence to change a decision he’s dead set on, you’ll need to go deeper. Inside this fortress sits the recesses of his mind, the bottom of an ocean you’re merely skimming the surface of. The intrusion’s necessity twists your gut as if your intenses were being kneaded. 

Your incorporeal form flutters to the gates, standing solitary against a leaden backdrop. 

The closer you get, you become increasingly aware of a malicious entity permeating behind the doors which strain to contain it. This is the same harrowing presence you felt when he protected you from Alister. Now that you’ve spent more time with Blade, you can discern its essence is different from his, although they’re forcibly intertwined like a rope. Blade emanates this unremittingly morose energy. It’s bleak, unconcentrated. 

This substance oozes a need to satiate bottomless bloodlust. It wants to sink its teeth into flesh, lacerate muscles, and slice through bone. Mayhem and viscera are its highest raison d'être. There’s no sensibility, no reasoning with it, it acts in one way then shifts on a whim; chaos inside a splintering bottle. 

How is Blade capable of functioning with this slumbering beast ready to wreak havoc at any second? 

Steeling your resolve, you prepare to enter.

A seal halts your progress. 

Impatience urges you to dispel it. Blade’s psyche is rejecting you, any further delays will give it ample opportunity to flush you out. 

The kaleidoscopic seal thrums and wards off your efforts. 

Someone put this here, you discern. It’s deliberate. 

What perplexes you is that the seal prohibits entry yet does nothing to contain the miasma writhing behind it. Wouldn’t whoever created it intend to keep that salivating beast at bay? It’s well-crafted too, denying your every attempt to eliminate it. Kafka dabbles in mind-altering. Could she have left this here? You know what her aura feels like — calm, confident, cunning — this seal radiates none of her trademarks. 

An invisible force hauls you back. 

You took too long — Blade’s psyche is expelling the foreign invader. 

You blink and you’re back in reality. 

Blade is grimacing, the lines on his face highlighted by flickering flame. There’s a pallor to his complexion brought on by the aggressive expulsion his mind pulled off. An act such as that leeches off of one’s vitality. He takes a moment to recompose himself, as do you. Any subsequent attempts to form a link are going to be wrung from a desiccated source. You don’t know how many attempts you have left in you, 

“A first offense, I could pardon,” Blade pants out, blood-red hues shining, “A recidivist like yourself, though… can’t go undisciplined.” 

Your eyes widen. How did he know your intentions so quickly? You hadn’t so much as moved yet! 

There’s a dull discomfort blooming from your nape. 

Your eyelids feel heavy and your breathing slows. Black spots float around in your vision. They start small, appearing as if they were polka dots, then grow to be the size of black holes. Your muscles won’t move. The unconscious realm beckons. Its gravitational pull is irresistible, a tide you can’t swim against. 

What is this? Your neck… did he strike a nerve…? 

“You’ll be fine,” a distant, sonorous voice promises. “Just sleep.” 

The sentence has been delivered. 

You’re made prisoner to a dreamless slumber. 

[happy74827]

Prisoner of Love

[S6! Mike Ross x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: Making the effort to explain himself, Mike certainly has a lot on his plate, including breaks, not just from jail.

WC: 3205

Category: Slight Angst, Slight Fluff

This was an intrusive thought that I just wrote up last night… so, enjoy! (thanks for your wonderful feedback @yoursacredqueenmother)

『••✎••』

“Mike?”

You were in utter shock to see your friend Mike standing in front of you. Your best friend, the one person who always seemed to be there for you no matter what had turned out to be not only a complete fraud but also now a criminal. You were in such a state of disbelief that you hadn't realized you were standing there, looking at him, with your mouth agape and eyes wide.

After you said his name, you didn't know what else to say. Mike stood there with his hands on the door frame, not wanting to take one step forward and risk coming inside your apartment. He looked nervous, his head darting all over, trying to avoid eye contact with you. His breathing was quick and short as if he had just run a marathon, and his lips were pressed into a fine line, which meant that he was thinking of something to say.

Mike was arrested, he was in jail for two years because of a plea deal, and now here he was, standing in front of you only weeks later like it was any other day.

The silence was killing you. Mike still wouldn't make eye contact, and you were starting to feel the anger boil up inside of you. You felt betrayed. You had spent almost four years working at Pearson-Hardman with him and Rachel, and you considered yourself friends with him and his “on a break” girlfriend, so this came as a huge shock to you. You never saw him as a fraud, never would have suspected it in a million years, but here he was—a liar, a con artist, and now a fugitive.

Mike finally looked up at you, and the first thing he noticed was the tears forming in your eyes. Seeing you cry hurt him, but not as much as the words that came out of your mouth.

"Go away."

His eyes gave away the fact that he clearly was expecting this, but that didn't mean it hurt any less. The blue turned a dark gray, the way they always did when he was upset, and his eyes fell back down to the floor.

"Look, I— I’m not here to make excuses. I know that I just… Don’t you even care to know why I’m here? What happened to me?" He asked, finally finding the strength to keep eye contact.

"Could be more bullshit," you said, folding your arms across your chest and leaning against the door. You didn’t want to admit that you did want to know what happened to him. You were concerned; of course, you were. That was part of the reason you were so upset with him. Even after all that he put you through, the worry for him was still there.

"Can I at least explain myself?" Mike asked, and you rolled your eyes at his question.

"You already did, Mike. Well, everyone except me, apparently. You, Rachel, Harvey, Jessica, Louis. All of you knew about this, but I didn't. And why is that?"

"I told you I didn't want you to get involved," Mike replied. “You don’t deserve to go down for my mistakes. It was selfish of me to do that, I know that, but I thought I was protecting you."

"Yeah, well, you just stabbed me in the back instead," you said.

"Can I come inside? I only have so much time before—"

"Oh, so you’re protecting me again?" You asked, not waiting for an answer. "By breaking out of prison and coming to my place. I don't even want to think about what would happen to me if someone found out I'm hiding a fugitive!"

"I’m not—” Mike took a second to compose himself and start again. He couldn’t blame you for being so mad, not after everything he did. "I didn’t break out. I got released… sort of. It’s a bit messy, but to sum it up, I’ve got six hours with an ankle monitor."

"Then why are you here? Why not with Harvey?" You asked. "Or Rachel? I'm sure she’d be glad to see you, and she's better equipped to handle this."

"’Cause we need to talk. Now, can you let me inside, please? I’m feeling a little exposed out here," he said, his hand motioning towards the outside hallway.

Jokes. Of course, he would use jokes at a time like this.

“… Fine. You have an hour, tops. Then you have to leave," you said, taking a step back to let him inside.

Mike wasted no time stepping into your apartment, and as soon as you shut the door, his hands were on your shoulders, and he was pulling you into him. Your eyes went wide, and you had no idea what was going on. It was only when you felt his wet cheek against your own that you realized he was crying.

"I missed you," Mike said. “So so much."

It was like your brain went on autopilot, and suddenly, your arms were around him, and you were squeezing him tight. It was like nothing had changed. It was like no time had passed since you had last seen him, and it was so overwhelming that it had brought tears back to your eyes.

"I missed you too," you said, your voice quiet and barely above a whisper.

Mike pulled away from the hug but still had his hands on your shoulders. He was smiling at you, and his eyes were no longer that dark gray they were before but back to that bright blue.

"I’m sorry I never got to explain why I did what I did," Mike started, his voice a little shaky. "I wanted to tell you, I really did, but I couldn't. I didn’t want to put you in that position."

"But you were able to tell Rachel, Donna, and even Louis?" You asked.

"To be fair, Rachel figured it out on her own, and Donna knew from the moment I started working at Pearson-Hardman."

"What about Louis?"

"That was a whole different thing," Mike said, chuckling a bit. "He was a bit… theatrical, to say the least."

"But that still doesn't explain why you were able to tell them but not me."

At this, he looked away from you, his head turning and looking out the window. The night sky was beautiful, the way the full moon shone, and how the city lights made everything glow, including his face. The reflection of the moon against his skin made his eyes stand out, and the streetlights made him look like he was glowing.

"I knew you would understand," he finally said. "You would be the one person to listen to me and actually give me a chance, and I was afraid of that. If I had told you, I would've been afraid of what would've happened, and I would've probably ended up convincing myself to leave."

"Leave and do the right thing," you said.

"Maybe. But it doesn't matter. I'm here now, and we're talking," he said, the corners of his mouth turning up into a small smile. “I’m making up for it now."

"Yeah, yeah," you said, rolling your eyes. You couldn't help but smile as well.

"But, there's one other reason why I didn't tell you. And it's not because I didn't trust you, because I trust you more than anyone. It's just that I— I—" Mike stopped himself, taking a moment to figure out his words. His eyes were looking everywhere, but at you, and the more he avoided your gaze, the more concerned you became. "I just, I wanted to protect you. Because I—"

Before he could finish, a knock came from the door. Mike looked at the clock, and the time read 2:04 AM. Who would be visiting at this time? You didn't have to wonder long as Mike's watch started to beep, and the knock became a more forceful bang.

"Mike, let's go!" Someone yelled from the other side of the door. A very familiar voice, too.

"Who is that?" You asked.

Mike ignored your question, instead walking towards the door. His hand was on the knob, and he took a deep breath, preparing himself.

The door flew open as soon as he opened it, and a very angry Harvey Specter stood on the other side.

"Where the hell have you been?" He asked.

"Calm down, Harvey. I was with her," Mike said, motioning towards you. "We were catching up."

"Catching up? Mike, do you not care about getting out of this mess or not? I told you I had a plan, but if you go running off on your own, it's not gonna work."

"Oh, is this another one of your great plans? The ones I get left out of?" You asked, moving past Mike and standing between him and Harvey.

Mike practically face-palmed himself when he heard you speak up. This was definitely not the way he planned things to go. Just as he finally was on the path of making things right, things went downhill once again.

"I would be happy to explain the details of the plan to you if someone," he glanced over at Mike, who looked down at his feet, "cared to follow it. Now, can we get going? The car and Cahill are waiting."

"Five minutes, Harvey.”

"Mike,” Harvey said, his tone showing how frustrated he was becoming.

"Five. Minutes."

Another minute was wasted with the two men staring each other down, and the air was filled with tension. It was a stare-off, and neither seemed like they were going to back down. You stood there, watching and wondering whether you should make an escape or not, but were too intrigued to move.

Harvey broke the silence with a sigh, his head dropping.

"Fine. But if you aren’t downstairs in five minutes, I'm dragging your ass down whether you like it or not."

And with that, Harvey turned around and walked away with that sense of confidence he always seemed to have. You watched him until he turned the corner, and when you turned back, Mike was smiling.

"What are you smiling about? Your best friend is still mad at you," you said. It came out more sarcastically than you had hoped, but you didn't really care at this point.

“Are you? Still mad, I mean," he asked, ignoring your snarky remark. “It seems like you aren’t."

"I am. I still feel hurt, but I can't stay mad at you. You know how much I suck at staying mad at people," you said.

"It’s a problem, yeah."

"Hey!" You exclaimed, hitting him on the shoulder.

"Well, it is. You have a tendency to let people walk all over you and forgive them for the shitty things they do. Which, might I add, is not always the right thing to do."

"So, I shouldn’t forgive you? Logic isn’t really logicking, Michael," you said, raising an eyebrow and smirking.

"It is, and that’s not a real word," Mike laughed. “Besides, Michael? When did that start happening?”

"You’re the one with the photographic memory. Shouldn’t you know?"

Now you were both laughing. Like the good old days, the two of you would sit in his office or at his apartment, cracking jokes and laughing about the most ridiculous things: movies, TV shows, music, whatever.

You missed this. You missed him.

"I have to go," Mike said, the smile not leaving his face.

"Yeah," you said, the same sad smile on your lips. “Hey, is uh… is prison any fun?"

"Why, you wanna come visit?" Mike asked, chuckling a bit. You could tell he was faking his laugh, though. He was putting up a front, trying to seem like everything was okay when it clearly wasn’t.

"No, I mean… You’re okay, right? Harvey’s been talking about this Gallo guy, and it seems pretty bad," you said.

"I’m okay. I’ll be okay," Mike said, placing his hands on your shoulders. You couldn't help but notice how cold his hands were, and he couldn't help but notice the sadness in your eyes.

"Don’t look at me like that," he said.

"Like what?"

"Like that. The thing that you do when you know that something bad is going to happen," Mike said.

"You can't know that for sure," you said, your eyes not meeting his.

"But I do. Look at me."

You lifted your head, and his eyes bore into yours. It was almost as if he was trying to look straight into your soul.

"I will be fine. I promise. As long as you're not mad at me," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Can you do that for me?"

"Of course, Mike," you said, staring into his blue eyes. They were brighter than ever despite the situation.

Mike's hand reached up to cup your cheek, and at first, you thought he was just wiping away a tear, but he didn’t move. He just kept his hand there, and his gaze never left yours.

"Mike..."

He was staring at your lips, and his eyes had a look in them you had never seen before. It was almost like a hunger, a longing for something.

"Yeah?" He asked, his voice just as quiet.

"What are you doing?"

Mike moved his head closer to yours, and the distance between you was getting shorter.

"Mike," you said again, and he finally looked back into your eyes. The longing look was still there, but this time it was more prominent, and there was a slight fear. “What about Rachel?"

Mike's thumb stroked your cheek, and he let out a long breath, closing his eyes.

"She knows."

"Wha—"

But you couldn't finish because, in a split second, Mike's lips were on yours. His kiss was soft, and his hands were pulling you in closer. Your arms found their way around his neck, and one hand ran through his hair, which was much shorter than before. It didn’t take long for him to part his lips and allow your tongue to meet his.

Your heart was racing, and the butterflies in your stomach were going crazy. This wasn’t like any of the other kisses you had before, not like the quick, rushed kisses you shared with your ex or the ones that felt like dead weight against your lips.

This kiss was perfect. A well-crafted masterpiece that was made to make you feel loved. You didn’t realize just how badly you needed a kiss like this. You didn't know that was what was missing, but now that you had it, you realized how empty you were without it.

And when the two of you finally pulled apart, Mike was smiling. It was a big, genuine smile that lit up his face and made his eyes bright. It was a look that could light up a dark room.

"Rachel and I talked a lot while I was inside, and we decided that... that she deserved better. I couldn’t give her the life that she deserved. She was still stuck with me, even when I was away. We were both miserable, and it was time to put an end to it," he said, and a sad smile made its way onto his face.

"So…”

"She's okay. Really. She also knows about how much you mean to me, and she's okay with this."

"Really?" You asked, raising an eyebrow.

"She also told me a wonderful piece of information about how you apparently love me."

"You did not just—"

"I did, and now we have to talk about that."

"Nope," you said, popping the 'p.' "You have a prison to go to and a plan to complete. So, get going. You've already wasted enough time."

"Aw, but I love talking about how much you like me," he said, a teasing smile on his face.

"Out."

Mike's smile widened, and he gave you one last quick kiss.

"Okay. I'm going."

Mike took a few steps towards the door, but then turned back to look at you. He didn't say anything, but instead just stared. He didn't have that hungry look in his eyes anymore, but a more content look.

Like he was taking in the last few moments he would have with you. A picture in his mind to cherish, and to remember you by.

"Mike?"

He took a deep breath, and looked at the floor, preparing himself for the next few moments.

"I don’t regret anything. And, if I had a chance to go back and do things differently, I wouldn’t change a single thing. Except maybe not getting caught," Mike said, his laugh coming out dry. "But, besides that, I don't regret any of it. Everything that happened, the people I've met, and the things I've done. The only thing I regret is not telling you sooner… about my feelings. How much I care for you. But, I want you to know that, I would do everything a million times over. If I knew that, in the end, it would lead me here, to this moment, with you, I would do it.”

He paused, and took another breath. It was clear he was struggling with his words, and the way he was looking at the ground showed that he was trying his best not to cry.

"I just wanted to tell you all of this before I go because I don’t know what will happen next. When I see you next, you know? I'm I just— I needed you to know, and I hope that, wherever I end up, and whatever happens, I’m glad we worked things out. At least, a little bit.”

You just stared. You knew Mike could feel your eyes on him, and that he probably didn’t like the silence, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say anything. Instead, you just took in everything that was him.

He was standing in the doorway, his hands in his pockets. He looked so casual, despite the fact that he was about to go off to prison… well, not at that moment— but soon. It was like it was a normal day, and he was just hanging out with his friends.

His blue eyes were no longer on the floor, and instead were back on you. He gave you one last small, sad smile, before turning around and leaving the apartment.

You watched as he turned the corner and disappeared from your view. It was quiet, the only sounds were your own breathing and the sounds from the city below. You could hear the cars driving by, and the faint sound of sirens in the distance.

Everything was so different now. Everything was so strange.

Before, your world revolved around Mike. No matter what, he was always there. He was the thing that held you together and what tore you apart. And, for the past couple of months, everything had fallen apart. You were in a state of chaos, and nothing was right.

And yet, in just a matter of minutes, everything changed.

You weren’t sure if everything would work out, and you weren't sure what the future held. But, at least now, things were back to how they should be.

Or as close as they could be.

[ohitsthemindstuffagain]

Wade: Logan!

He turned around and Wade was there on the sidewalk looking at him with that big eyes of his. And so the annoying bastard was running to him as if he was a girl in a romantic movie.

Wade: Wait.

Logan: Whats it?

Wade: I’ve fallen in love. I’m an ordinary woman. I didn’t think such violent things could happen to ordinary people.

Logan: Excuse me?

Wade: I wanted it to be you, I wanted it to be you so badly.

Logan: Woah… I…

Wade: So it’s not gonna be easy. It’s gonna be really hard. We’re gonna have to work at this every day, but I want to do that because I want you. I want all of you, forever, you and me, every day.

Logan: Wade, what are you…

Wade: I wish I knew how to quit you.

Logan: Well…

Wade: I could die right now. I'm just… happy. I've never felt that before. I'm just exactly where I want to be.

Logan:

Wade: You had me at hello.

Logan:

Wade: I guess when you’re young, you just believe there’ll be many people…you’ll connect with. Later in life, you realize it only happens a few times.

Logan:

Wade: Listen to me, mister. You’re my knight in shining armor. Don’t you forget it.

Logan: I think I got it.

Wade: I think I'd miss you even if we'd never met.

Logan: I said I got it.

Wade: I hate the way you talk to me, and the way you cut your hair. I hate the way you drive my car. I hate it when you stare. I hate your big dumb combat boots, and the way you read my mind. I hate you so much it makes me sick; it even makes me rhyme. I hate it, I hate the way you're always right. I hate it when you lie. I hate it when you make me laugh, even worse when you make me cry. I hate it when you're not around, and the fact that you didn't call. But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you. Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.

Logan: Oh, my god, what are you even about?

Wade: You could make it true. What are legends anyway but stories about ordinary people doing extraordinary things? Of course, it takes courage and imagination… not everybody has that. I may be an old fraud, Logan, but I do know this: something that two people who are in love create together against impossible odds, can hold them together… forever.

Logan: Oh…

Wade: You liked that one, I see. Good movie, really. No, I… just wanted to say I'm sorry.

Logan: What about?

Wade: You know the whole kind of kidnapping thing, dragging you from your world against your will and I'm really dead sorry we can't fix what happened.

Logan: Okay, two things. One, it wasnt kind of kidnapping, you really kidnapped me. Two, I'm cool with all this, even if it feels very crazy.

Wade: You are?

Logan: Yeah. No hard feelings, actually very good feelings. I'm glad we could team up.

Wade: Oh, ooh. Nice. It's very nice. So, I was wondering…

Logan: Just say it.

Wade: You wanna stay at mine for a while? Just till you, you know, find out where you wanna go.

Logan: Sure.

Wade: I knew it.. WHAT?

Logan: I would like that.

Wade: Really?

Logan: Yes and also someone has to keep an eye on you, so you don't get into trouble, right?

Wade: So you're saying you wanna live with me so you can look at me all the time?

Logan: Well. Thats a way to put it.

Wade: Oh my god!

Logan: Shut up.

He takes hold of one of Wades hands, the one not holding the dog.

Logan: Lets see how this goes.

They start to walk together.

Logan: That first line was from 'Brief Encounter' right?

Wade: Do you like romantic movies?

Logan: You will find out I like a lot of things.

Wade:

[blasphemecel]

PAIRING: Michael Kaiser/Reader WORD COUNT: 0.9k TYPE: Meet-ugly (community service 💀), Crackfic WARNING(S): None? Dick jokes ?

There is a pair of shears in your hands and an ugly man to your left.

Actually, he’s not that unfortunate looking, but he seems like he should know better than whatever that excuse of a hairstyle is supposed to be.

You snip away at your government-assigned bush little by little while humming and stroking your chin in fake artisan appreciation, eyes darting between him and the shrub. Though you’re supposed to be working on this together, he hasn’t been doing much aside from pretending to prune whenever the supervisor passes by.

“Do you think I could shape it into a penis?” you ask, flicking a leaf with your finger.

The guy spares you one hateful glance before he crosses his arms, perhaps to signal that this is your battle to fight alone.

“I know they want them to be squares, but I’m into abstract art. Like really into it,” you say, lying.

He doesn’t respond.

You cut a dead branch and throw it at him, which prompts him to evaluate you like one might examine a particularly watery piece of shit out on the street. “So what’re you in for?”

“I’ve been ignoring you for fifteen minutes,” he snaps, picking up the specific stick you tossed at him from the ground and aiming for your eye when he returns the favor, possibly trying to blind you. You dodge with a smile of mild contentment. “Stop talking.”

“I imagined you to be the kinda pedantic asshole who’d argue that maybe penises aren’t abstract, or about how technically we’re not in jail, so I shouldn’t act like we are.”

“I don’t give a fuck about what you imagined,” he says before ripping out another dead branch with his bare hands (even though he also has gardening scissors like you do), immediately ruining the minimal progress you’ve made. “And you’re doing this way too slow.”

You nod, not bothering to inform him of how unhelpful he has been in this endeavor. Not that it matters. You’re not here to be productive. You just have a set of hours you need to fill out.

After a short while of mundane passivity, he realizes your chatter, while irritating, at least provided something to stimulate his mind, meaning an excuse to be annoyed. He says, “I got a parking ticket.”

“Really? Community service just for one parking ticket?”

“... I got sixty parking tickets.”

“Well, sounds to me like your parking is more in the style of post-impressionism than realism, but what do I know, I’m not a doctor.”

He ignores the twine of bullshit you just strung together, asserting himself above the usual game you fall into with people where they run around in circles riling themselves up trying to explain to you that you are talking nonsense. Instead he takes it in like it is natural and asks, “And what did you do?”

“Fraud,” you say, lying a second time. In reality you tried to shoplift a mop, although apparently both you and the item were not as inconspicuous as you believed.

“Since when do they give community service for fraud?”

“Hey,” you raise your hands in mock surrender, “it was a small-time fraud.”

“Yeah, whatever that means.”

“It means I ball like Milken,” you say.

“I don’t know who that is.”

You feel generous enough to elaborate, “Michael Milken.”

“That wasn’t an invitation for you to keep talking,” he rolls his eyes with the attitude of an invisible camera capturing his expression and turning him into a gif for people who describe themselves as ‘sassy’ to use, “nor is it helpful to anyone who doesn’t concern themselves with trivia about American scammers.” The way he says the word ‘American’ makes it sound like some kind of malaise.

“What do you concern yourself with, then? What’s your name?”

“That’s cute, but you don’t need to pretend you don’t know who I am.”

Your eyebrows scrunch together and wrinkle your forehead in an ugly manner as you struggle to conceive of what he’s on about. “Know you? Have we met before? I admit I went to that lame piano bar once, but I don’t remember anyone from there.”

“Do I look like you met me at a fucking piano bar?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Michael Kaiser.” There is a cadence of importance in his tone, so maybe he thinks his name means anything to you, which it doesn’t.

“Mike Kaiser.”

“No, not like Milken. You know how. You heard me say it.”

You turn around to go back to your gardening, deciding to work on your penis shrub project. Of course, it’s not coming out successful — there is not even a hint of a phallic shape, but even so, you must persevere.

This ‘Michael Kaiser’ watches you for a while. “You really don’t know who I am.”

“No, Mikey.”

“You’re fucking irritating,” he says. After some consideration, he adds, “Give me your number. We should go out sometime.”

“Maybe,” you agree noncommittally.

“Alright. Here’s what you’re gonna do. If you can come up with a way for us to get off community service early, I’ll give you my number,” Kaiser tells you, acting like you’re the one who came up with the idea of you two seeing each other again, or as if you’re begging to go out with him on a date.

It is very audacious. He’s standing there with a smug smirk on his face, arms still crossed. You think something’s wrong with him.

Either you’re falling in love or his display of unmedicated mental illness is arousing you because you’re suddenly feeling compelled by his advances out of nowhere, but one thing is for sure:

You’ll never really be able to trim the shrub into a penis.

[mamayan]

20, 92, 52, 99

Could you do this with Douma and a fem reader pretty please? Also very many congratulations!

Bang! … No bullet was shot—

Douma

“You’re pathetic, you know that right?” || Taste of Iron || Size || Praise/Worship

tw: NSFW • Biting (Blood play) • Rough Sex • Corruption K!nk • NONCON • Douma doesn’t stfu • Bondage

wc: 1086

“Ah~ really though, there’s nothing more wonderful than when you’re like this for me,” his voice was a soothing purr as he trails one cold hand up the smooth expanse of your thigh.

Luminescent rainbow eyes gazed down at your fragile figure tied and helpless. A pretty silk gag knotted and slotted into your mouth prevents any retorts.

“My most naughty little follower, are you enjoying this?” He wasn’t truly asking to hear your answer, more fixated on how much he was enjoying this. He could feel it, the blood and vitality rushing through your veins as adrenaline pumped and kept you acutely aware of every touch he placed on you. The fear and clarity in your gaze which the majority of his cult never figured out until it was far far too late.

You saw something you weren’t supposed to, and sadly, that meant you couldn’t be allowed to separate and mingle without him.

Tears flow down your cheeks as you struggle, bound and powerless under the beautiful male.

He was a fraud. A liar. A monster.

None of it mattered now, not when he’d sunken his claws too deeply into your family and friends to save them. You couldn’t even save yourself it seemed.

“Don’t cry sweet thing~ I’m not going to eat you~” yet, his smile was disarming, blatantly lying to your pretty face as he coos and hushes you.

“You’ve always been my favorite, you know? It makes me so sad to think about harming you, so we’ll do something else instead, okay~♡?” The cute way he spoke didn’t match Douma’s large body as he discarded his top, muscular unblemished figure on display.

He easily settled between your spread thighs, enjoying the view of your dripping pussy while you silently begged for mercy. “Such a shame I had to muffle your cute voice…” he laments to himself, nuzzling your soft inner thigh with his face and enjoying the texture of your skin. “I kind of want to hear you scream for me but, oh well,” he gives no warning before his sharp teeth are sinking into the flesh of your thigh, your pained squeal silenced by the fabric stuffed into your mouth. Douma delights in the blood and mark on your body, his mark, as he laps up the small rivers leaking from the puncture wounds he’d given. “Shh, no need to cry, I just wanted a taste,” he giggles, beautiful blonde hair falling into his eyes as he looks down at his handiwork. His large hands shift, moving to your exposed cunt where he uses two fingers to spread your folds and reveal your small wet hole.

“I just knew you’d like this~!” You flinch away from the image above you, his lips stained with your blood, sharp canines on display as he grins.

He pays no mind to your repulsion, soon you’d come to like the blood as he did, he just needed to show you why it all felt so good.

“Y/N, sorry, I’ll prepare you much better next time, but I want to see you bleed a little more me, yeah? You’ll be a good girl won’t you?” Douma ignores the shake of your head, the clear useless struggle you attempt against your bindings. Instead, he loosens his belt and allows his pants to drop past his upper thighs, releasing his hardened cock.

“I promise it’ll feel good after a bit, just be patient.” He assures, voice so calm and patient compared to your panic and trembling body. “Your pussy is so cute Y/N, tiny like you, it might hurt a bit.” You imagine it’s going to hurt more than a bit as he lines himself up with your quivering unprepared entrance. The thick blunt head pressed and kissing you, pre-cum leaking freely from his tip, the only lubricant he’s offering as he presses forward.

You jerk, unable to voice the pressure overwhelming you as he takes you, mind going hazy with the burn and sensations forced upon you.

“Oh my, hng,” his head goes back, muscles tensing and flexing as he moans. “This hole is pretty naughty too, hm?” He gasps, voice strained for the first time all evening, “You’re so tight, it’s like you're sucking me in.”

He laughs when he realizes you’re nearly passed out, sweet features languid and drool soaking through the gag as you whine deep in your throat. He doesn’t stop, thick cock spearing you open as he rocks and slicks himself up with your arousal and blood from his initial cruel entrance.

“My cute little follower, it’s almost like you’re worshiping my cock now right? Isn’t it a dream come true for you?” He’s gleeful as he begins dragging along inside of your walls, rocking you with how heavy each thrust is. He delights in your struggle to resist, but it’s clear you’re falling quickly to the feeling of fullness and pleasure as your passage becomes wetter with each slap of his pelvis against you.

“Good girl, you don’t need to do a thing, just feel good for me.” You don’t have a choice as he fucks you sensesless, eyes rolling back as you cum around him with a silent shout. His hips don’t stop, only his moans and nails digging into your hips increase while he works himself deep and hard into you, savoring the scent of iron in the air while blood smears on his lower half and cock.

“Ah, you came right? How cute,” he coos, loving your cock drunk appearance juxtaposed to your earlier fear and revulsion of him. “You’re pathetic, you know that right? Do you still want me to stop?” He chuckles, hand reaching up and untying the gag, pulling the dripping wad of fabric out of your mouth. “Answer me quickly, do you still want me to stop?” He asks, voice deepening as he rams the head of his cock against an area that has you wailing.

“L-Lord Do-Douma please—!” He twists one of your nipples harshly, loving the pretty arch your back makes as you clench and spasm around him again.

“That’s not an answer~” he coos, your pretty eyes unfocused as you drool and babble after your orgasm.

“Don’t—! Don’t stop! Fuck me! Please!” You’re quick to lose yourself, pleasure consuming you as he rocks you on his cock and thumbs your clit with a smug grin.

“That’s what I thought,” he chuckles, glad he doesn’t have to kill you earlier than he’d planned.

You are his favorite after all.

Post dividers/@cafekitsune

@desi-the-blue-eyed-kakushi

[isalisewrites]

A Deep Dive into JKR's Terrible, Amateur Writing - Reflective Interlude

Hello and welcome to my ballsy series where I will prove to you, dear reader, that J.K. Rowling, author of the Harry Potter series and resident Twitter TERF, is actually a very, very poor writer.

And when I say ‘poor writer,’ I’m talking about her prose, her sentence structure, and her scenes in the Harry Potter series. I am not going to discuss anything about the HP world nor the overall plot of the books. 

This is all about the nitty gritty in the craft of writing itself.

Part One Link.

Part Two Link.

However…

Hiya! *waves* I’m Isa, the author of this… Actually, I dunno what to call this series anymore. Anyway, thus far, you’ve heard a very satirical tone from me in the previous two posts, but that’s not my normal tone. I’m a rather laid back kind of gal with a side of sarcasm and deluge of emoji usage.

I have used quite a confident, even bombastically obnoxious tone in the effort to be entertaining and engaging with these posts. It was meant to be playful and sarcastic. It’s the internet, so I’m aware everyone’s attention is… kind of like a commodity, unfortunately. Look at TikTok or YouTube. How long does a 30s video hold your attention before you’re scrolling to the next? It depends for me, I’ll admit. People don’t have the attention span for long style posts such as these and that’s fair. Sometimes, I don’t either.

Thus, I used repeated ‘catch phases’ to maintain a rhythm and a thematic style through the series with a controversial title meant to hook a reader. I repeat the opening, even in this post. I repeat ‘Class is in session’ to show the beginning of the major section of the post.

However, in this interlude, I’ve toned it all down because I wanted to give you a window into my heart, my purpose, and my intent in this series. It is a reflective post that ends with writing motivation to you, my dear reader, as well as links to writerly resources. 

I’ve had a lot to think about this week and I realized that many writers (and other creatives) have to battle against an enemy found within themselves. This enemy often torments many with cruel, destructive thoughts; they burrow their way into so many writers’ minds. It whispers: “Can you really do this? Are you really sure you’re any good? Aren’t you just fooling yourself? They’re going to find out you’re just a fraud. So… why bother?”

Whose voice is that?

Let’s talk about the destroyer of creation, Imposter Syndrome, why I refuse to let the bastard infect me anymore, and why my confident tone in previous posts has grated nerves.

Remember: take what resonates and leave what doesn’t.

(This means I write my posts with the honest acceptance and expectation that not everything will fit with your style, your vibes, or your personality. That’s okay.)

All right, let’s buckle up, my dear writing friends. Grab a snack. Hydrate. Let’s begin. And yes…

Class is in session on this little Tumblr post… should you wish to attend.

Having confidence or pride in one’s work seems to be taboo. Any brief moment in time where I tried to be proud about my writing or say, Hey, I’m a good writer, I was always told to be humble. “Don’t be prideful. Be humble.” It would often chip away at my self esteem. I could be a good writer, but I couldn’t allow myself to feel like a good writer.

But no more.

I have only given myself permission to be confident about my writing within the past month. This is why I started this series in the first place. I wanted to share knowledge and in an entertaining way. I make a bold claim that I’m a better writer than JKR; I analyze her writing to both improve my own understanding and to help others as well.

However, this does not mean I’ve ever been under the delusion I’m perfect. Absolutely not. God, that’s so fucking laughable! I am not perfect. I am not a perfect writer. I definitely don’t know everything. Someone once corrected me, informing me that snakes are venomous, not poisonous. Bless them, wasn’t aware of that. Immediately fixed that. One of the recent reblogs said geodes do not contain emeralds. God bless, I didn’t know that, though in the case of how it was used in TBG, I won’t be changing it since it’s within a character thought.

Sorry, Tom. I guess you need to take a geology class, too.

Ugh, and I have so many godforsaken typos. My soul withers when I catch a typo after I’ve posted a chapter. I miss things all the time. I repeat things because ‘that’s my thing’ and I don’t always catch them in my edits. I forget things all the time. Thank GOD for Dede, someone who loved TBG so much she spent countless hours archiving data from it, where she caught a number of inconsistencies and alerted me to them. I still haven’t been able to fix them yet, but I’m so grateful to her. I’ve noted them all down. Harry’s height often is incorrectly implied to be taller than it should be because my brain isn’t wired for imagery. My brain forgets TBG Harry is a short king at 5’4” while TBG Tom is 6’2” and I need to go back to fix all of those. 

I am not a perfect writer and I don’t claim to be.

My goals with this series are to study/learn for myself, teach/share knowledge with others, and learn some more from this experience. I love this kind of analysis. But there’s difference between my analysis of JKR’s writing and a number of those who have retaliated with an analysis of my writing. 

Instead of looking at my imperfections with the desire to learn from them, they were illuminated in the attempt to ‘take me down a notch.’ To those who put in the effort to make counterpoints, I do thank you for your contribution to this series. It is appreciated, even when given impolitely and with the intent to ‘put me in my place.’

Despite all of my errors and imperfections, I still stand by my statement: I am a better writer than J.K. Rowling.

Do you know who else is a better writer than her? I could list thousands of them. They’re fanfiction writers. They’re indie authors. They’re other traditional published authors. They are so many other writers that, yes, I do think are stronger writers than JKR. 

And you’re a better writer, too, so long as you wish it.

I sincerely want you to believe that.

Why? Because it’s clear within the Harry Potter series that JKR did not make attempts to grow as a writer. She just wrote. Perhaps she was under deadlines, but the lack of editing is pretty apparent to me. When you write a lot, you will inevitably get more skilled over time, but you have to actively be seeking improvement to see drastic change in your own skill. It is this lack of drive that I see within her work. She’s not making attempts to push the boundaries of her abilities and skills with each new book.

I’m not at the end of my journey of learning. I never will be. I love expanding my skills. I’m even learning during the process of writing these posts, too. I’m seeing more weaknesses in my own work and I’m now thinking on ways to strengthen my writing even further.

That’s the point of this series.

In the end, it’s not really about me. No, really, it’s not about me. I truly think it’s about the jealousy of seeing another writer be confident in their work. You see, I’m not supposed to be confident; I’m not supposed to act like I can help and teach others to write. How dare I. Posting anything about my work is an act of attention seeking. I’m supposed to be ‘humble.’ I’m supposed to be silent. I’m supposed to wave a shy, dismissive hand at compliments.

Why?

Why is being proud of one’s work and loving one’s own work such a controversial idea?

Imposter Syndrome often cripples creators. There’s already so much self doubt and anxiety in the world, but Imposter Syndrome can really wreck with a creator’s mind. It’s a poison. It stops you from creating what you love most. When you believe you aren’t good enough, then it becomes harder to try. Your belief becomes truth to you, whether or not it was true in reality in the first place. Perhaps, you sink into depression. You become anxious about sharing anything, for fear anyone might say even the slightest negative comment. The heart becomes fragile and brittle, and the muscle which builds skill atrophies over time. You see your work through a lens of self hate. You can only see flaws.

“I will never be good enough.”

When you’re in this state of mind, it’s hard to see the truth about your work.

But let me promise you something: your writing is far more beautiful than you realize.

In spirit, all creative writing is perfect to me with all of its typos and mistakes (yes, even all of the Harry Potter books!), but no single work is objectively perfect. There will always be room to improve your creation because you’re constantly growing. It’s why so many aspiring novelists fall into an endless cycle of editing their first few chapters. The more they write, the more they improve; thus, when they go back to their earlier chapters, they get stuck trying to update those chapters instead of pushing forward to the finish line.

Your work is valuable, no matter what. It’s beautiful. You’re allowed to love your work. You’re allowed to see the good in it and you’re allowed to have confidence in yourself. You’re allowed to say to yourself and to others, I’m a damn good writer.

You deserve to have love, for yourself and for your art.

I have often sincerely complimented other writers and, many times, after they respond with their thanks, it becomes clear to me they’re not confident in their work, yet they have still bravely shared it with us.

I’m so proud of them. Thank you for your bravery.

My heart breaks for them, too. They’re such good writers—such damn good writers. And I wish they knew and believed this.

I will always do everything in my power to encourage others.

How do you feel about your writing? Do you like your writing? You should. You really should because it is good. You created it, after all. There will always be space to grow and refine your craft, of course, but you are a good writer now. You’re going to be a better writer tomorrow and the next day, so long as you desire this growth in yourself. There’s no destination, though. There’s no magic level you have to reach before you’re allowed to have some confidence in yourself and your abilities. The only trap to avoid is remaining stagnant. Writing is a skill. Writing is a craft. This means it gets better through study and practice.

You can achieve that.

I know it’s hard, though. There are so many naysayers in life. There are so many people waiting to attack and bring others down, both on the internet and in our own families. How many precious fanfics have been lost because a writer received horrible, hateful comments? How many writers have disappeared from the internet because of this cruelty? We have lost many in all fandoms. That is unacceptable to me.

Uplift others. Spread love, not hate.

You’re allowed to be proud about your work, imperfect as it may be. Please, I beg you, don’t let the negative voices of others—including your own!—drag you down and steal the joy of creating. I know it’s so very, very hard to stand strong against such voices. Words have power, but you have more. Resist the naysayers.

What you have to offer the world is precious. Please lift your head and acknowledge that what you create is good. It’s great. It’s amazing. It’s fucking fantastic. You’re not an imposter nor a fraud. No one can offer what you can to the world. No one can write the stories you have in your head the way you can. Your style is unique to you. You’re allowed to love it as it is now and you’re allowed to love it whatever form it takes in the future.

Imposter Syndrome is a thief; toss it into jail and throw away the key.

My writing is not perfect and it never will be, but I’m a better writer today than I was ten years ago. I’m a seeker of my own growth. I’m often reading books on writing and watching YouTube videos on writing. I absorb it all because writing is my truest love and passion. My style has evolved from reading endless amount of novels and fanfics. I devour both. 

But I wasted a decade thinking I didn’t have what it takes.

And life is short. I can’t waste anymore time.

Don’t be like past Isa, please.

There’s a difference in refinement between an episodic fanfic posted over the course of years and a traditional novel published in whole, but I still stand by my work. I recognize my style will not be enjoyed by all those who read it. It’s okay if you don’t like my style. I’m eternally grateful for the many readers who do love my writing. I’m humbled and honored by the sheer volume of people who have commented, bookmarked, and have left kudos on my work. Thank you.

My style has evolved into what it is today due to a combination of two things.

I have ADHD. It’s why my style uses smaller paragraphs as a whole.

I have aphantasia. I lack a mind that can visualize pictures. I literally cannot see anything in my mind. When people say, “I can picture it in my mind,” that’s not me. I cannot at all. When there’s a lack of description in prose, it feels blank and empty to me. This is why I use vivid descriptions in the way I do because otherwise I feel nothing from my work.

It’s okay if this style doesn’t work for you. I love my style because it caters to what I need. I also love other styles that don’t use as much description; however, I can’t always follow what’s happening because of the wiring of my brain. I can get lost sometimes, but I still appreciate their style because I can’t effectively do what they can.

If you find no value in my style and what I offer in this series here, then that’s okay. I’m not offended. This series is for those who benefit from it. For you, there are so many other writers out there from whom you can learn and I’m more than happy to send you in the direction that benefits you the most.

Here’s a list of YouTubers you might find interesting.

ShaelinWrites has been working on many unpublished projects through the years and has lots of great discussion videos on writing.

Abbie Emmons is a self published author with solid writing advice in all of her videos. 

Alexa Donne is a traditionally published author with great insider information into the traditional publishing world. 

Ellen Brock is a professional editor. She knows her stuff.

I hesitantly suggest Jenna Moreci and her content on YouTube because I think she has some major weaknesses in her writing. Many others have seen this about her books. However, she is a successful indie author and her YouTube content has a lot of value.

Brandon Sanderson has an entire college course in a playlist on his channel. It’s a fabulous free resource if you vibe with his style of writing. Highly recommend. 

Here’s a list of writing books I recommend.

Elements of Fiction Writing, a five book series. My TOP recommendation is Elements of Fiction Writing - Beginnings, Middles & Ends.

Sin and Syntax: How to Craft Wicked Good Prose

Let the Crazy Child Write!: Finding Your Creative Writing Voice

Novelist's Essential Guide to Crafting Scenes

All right then.

Thank you for sticking around. I hope you accept this post in the good faith it was given and was always given in the previous posts. Next post, I’ll be returning to my playful satirical tone. Hehe~!

Please do the world the greatest of favors and write. Create. Share your fanfiction. Become best selling authors, traditional or indie. I promise you’re far more capable and skilled than you realize.

Until next time.

Isa

[siconetribal]

Put it on My Tab (20)

Pairing: Jason Todd x Fem!reader

Warning: Interview pressure, No filter

A/N:

Please comment/like/reblog. If you’d like to be tagged moving forward, please let me know! I’d also greatly appreciate it if rebloggers remember to add the tags (or some at least).

As always, a huge thank you and shout out to @harlequin-hangout for the amazing banners you made for me.

If you’re new to the story, please check out the master post for the rest of the chapters.

An ache started at the base of the back of her head. How long had she been standing here with her neck craned back, looking up at the tall justice building that held the Gotham City Police Department. Y/N could count the number of times she had been her on one hand. This visit was not breaking that record, but she hoped this would be the only one needed. She appreciated the department as a whole, but like all places, it had rotten personalities. 

And now weirdos like Dick Dick. She snorted at the little nickname she had for the detective she was working with on the claim case. “Well, I guess he really isn’t all that bad. There are weirder people in this city, like criminals with themes.” The mumbled words were hers alone to hear as she rocked her head side to side to ease the tension before walking in. The ‘enthusiastic’ receptionist barely moved when pointing to a hall of doors, she eventually found her way to the right place and was led to an interview room. 

“Y/N, good morning, glad you could make it.” The young detective flashed her a swoon worthy grin. She was not sure if he was trying to charm or disarm, so she gave a small polite smile back.

“Well, it was either come or possibly have a warrant out for my arrest for fraud. As dull as everyday life can be, I like not having a noose around my neck. Plus, my boss would fire me, and I lack a sugar daddy for that luxury.” The casual shrug was in stark contrast to the wide-eyed shock that currently adorned the face of the handsome detective. His brows were so high that they were slightly covered by his bangs that swept across his forehead. “Everything ok?”

“No-yes, sorry, yes. I was just trying to figure out if that was a good morning or something else.”

“Did I forget to say good morning? Where are my manners, good morning…and now you can tack all that I said after that.” She said with a triumphant smile, taking a seat. “Have a seat, let’s get this statement down, and I’ll be out of your well-kept hair and back to grinding coffee beans and whipping up crazy drinks for overly privileged teens.” She motioned to the seat that was clearly meant for him to take. 

The corners of his mouth twitched as he pulled out the chair and angled it to face her better. He was thrown off. This was good for her, a little victory for her in all this. It was only fair that he be equally thrown as she, a normal Gothomite, would feel while in a room like this. “I’m guessing your dream job isn’t being a barista.” He chuckled.

“What job could be more satisfying than slaving away in a tiny spot with a few others, a single counter keeping you from the rabid coffee-addicted zombies that come rushing in impossible demands that they don’t even know they want?” She raised a brow at him, her voice was flat and dry. He chuckled again.

“You make a valid point, working for the public is not fun.” He briefly raised his hands, palms facing her, before resting on the table again. “Shall we get started then? As you know, this meeting will be recorded. It’s nothing serious, just formality and procedure. We can stop whenever you want, you’re not under arrest or being interrogated.” He placed a tape recorder on the table between them and clicked the red button. “If you don’t have any questions, we can begin.”

“Oh, one question Dick Dick, Nightwing gave me a tip that evening, do I need to hand that over to you as part of the claim or do I just keep it as a usual tip from a customer?”

Dick Grayson sat frozen in place, the reels of the tape slowly turning as it caught all of her words. This was the second time today that this odd young woman rendered him speechless, but this time was different. He was not sure if he should be laughing at her words or at himself. She had not said anything wrong, and he knew that. It was informal, possibly derogatory to some, and very old-fashioned. It was something he never expected, and yet he knew he was at fault for forgetting he was currently speaking with the very young woman who had his usually grumpy little brother even grumpier than usual. 

But did she actually say that on purpose, or was that a slip of the tongue? She was calling me Detective Grayson up until now. Did I miss something? I can see why he’s all knotted up, she really knows how to throw a guy. He watched the slow realization of her words dawning on her. Her eyes widening, her back going straight as she sat taller, and her jaw silently opening and closing until words finally started coming out. A series of apologies and reassurances that she had no ill intentions.

“Can you strike that from the record? Like erase it?”

“I can have it stricken from the transcript, yes, but not from the audio recording, no. That’s, that’s going to be staying on here forever. It’ll just be disregarded, since we’re officially marking it as struck from the record.” He swallowed the laughter that threatened to take over him as she slumped forward with her face hidden in her hands. Her words were low and muffled, but he was certain he heard a few more apologies in there before she forced herself back up and looked at him. “As for your question, a tip is a tip. You said you gave them coffee, they decided to give you a tip. It’s got nothing to do with the claim, since all that’s being asked to be covered is the restoration of the window. Now, shall we officially begin?”

As soon as the interview had concluded, Y/N was out the door before anything else could be said, mostly by her. The last thing she needed was for the detective to try to pry out anything more embarrassing from her. Her heart rammed into her chest as her mind so mercifully replayed her words and the look of horror that came across Detective Grayson’s normally jovial expression on an infinite loop. The flirtatious cop had shrunk away, and the look had to be disgusted, what else would he feel after someone called him something so utterly ridiculous. Regardless of his highly unprofessional dalliances, he never actually crossed a line with her. She, who kept it completely professional throughout the time, had blown everything up to the high heavens.

Because clearly, my mind is willing to give up the idiotic things that come to me, for free. Slapping a hand over her eyes, rubbing up and down a few times before combing her fingers through her hair. “Don’t say it, Y/N, don’t say it. If you say it, something worse will happen.” Climbing up the steps of the bus, she quickly took one of the few available seats and plugged in her earbuds. She sank into the uncomfortable seat, actively pushing the mortifying memory that would haunt her for the rest of her days, as she increased the volume. With her favorite playlist playing on shuffle, she mindlessly went through her phone and realized she was now staring at the old text conversation between her and her ‘capeless crusader’. Automatically, her thumb moved to close the screen, but the finger hesitated. It hovered between tapping back to her home screen and the input box in the chat. 

Maybe he’s a bigger dumbass and thinks I’m happy he’s out of my hair? She bit her lower lip as she warred with what to do. There’s no harm in texting, right? What’s the worst that can happen? He doesn’t read or leaves me on read? He wasn’t the best at texting right away with his work schedule. Not only that, but he could be busy. She reasoned in favor of him. “What do I even text him? It’s not like I’m living an exciting life.” She grumbled when one word from the chat came into focus. 

<Hey, I know this is late, but thanks again for helping me out. I let my brain just shut down and enjoy the first few days of debt-free life. The brownies you made were amazing. Didn’t peg you as the baking type. Books, bikes, and now baking? You’re a triple B threat, Boy Wounder. Are you still planning that meet up, or should I quash my hopes before they’re dashed?> She reread the message several times, tweaking the tiniest of things. It got to the point that she was getting frustrated herself and just hit the arrow to send and shoved the phone into her pocket. It was done and there was nothing more she could do except wait for would inevitably feel like an eternity or will actually be an eternity, if he decided not to reply. Nothing to worry about, but why would her mind side with logic? Today was to be a day of mental anguish, all thanks to herself.

Tags:

@vbecker10 @wordsfromshona @harlequin-hangout @harpy-space @tild3ath @gone-batty-fics @princessbl0ss0m @dakotall @antiquecultist

[val-cansalute]

PICKING UP THE ———- PIECES -———

ch. 6

ch. 1 ch. 2 ch.3 ch. 4 ch. 5

don’t be a piece of shit

cw - set in jackson with an unclear timeline, no mentions of joel or jj, kind of half proofread, profanities, depictions of mental illness, graphic situations, CUNNILINGUS 🤰, mdni

Seconds, which blur the line between moments and hours, drag by, yet breaths still come in sharp, ragged gasps.

Your chest still feels heavy, bearing the lingering weight of the memories that overwhelmed you, and the stale, dust-ridden air of your old home still churns maliciously within your rib cage though you’re far from it now. Nothing is proving helpful in satiating your ravenous lungs.

Her hand is already soothing tender circles into your back before you can register it and the violence of your inhale softens.

“Shimmer?” you repeat, words veiled by winded breaths.

“Yeah, that’s right,” like it’s second nature to her, Ellie moves her calloused hand so that it’s splayed across your thumping heart to gently ground you and the room stops spinning so frustratingly.

Your focus shifts to her touch, to the warmth that radiates from her palm.

“It’s kinda fuckin’ impressive you managed to go so long without learning any of their names,” as always, her voice is a quiet rasp, intimate and gentle as a smile plays at her chapped lips.

In contrast, your gaze is intense and, somehow, distant. It makes Ellie’s stomach twist with anxiety.

“Wasn’t planning on staying.”

“… Right. Well, you should probably learn them now.”

You’re back in Jackson – not in your home, but in Ellie’s decrepit hybrid shed, which somehow managed to outdo your actual house by miles.

What your home lacked, hers carried in abundance; warmth and soul, with pictures and posters scattered across the dulled walls and memories laced through the trinkets lining each shelf. It was alive with the force of her affection.

Coming back invited the questioning gaze of the townspeople, but your mind was too tired to pay it any mind, or to pay the fact that she was leading you away from your house any mind either.

“The place you went to... You used to live there? I, uh, saw a carving of your name and your brother’s, I think it was, in the fence. Soren, right?”

“Yeah… Me and Soren…”

“… Listen… Why did you do it? You didn’t wanna be there, I know that much. You were... fucked up, to say the least, when I found you. I don’t understand.”

“I don't know… I don’t want to be safe; I don’t deserve to be safe-”

Your heart beats sporadically at the sudden overbearing guilt inside you, the source of which you can’t trace back to a specific moment, and your breath hitches in your throat so you can't meet her worried eyes. There are so many actions you cannot justify at all, save for the fact that there was a massive remorseful compulsion to do it. For Soren, even though you know, deep down, he’d never have wanted this, you know you did it for him. You’ll never fully be able to explain why, or why you ended up going back with Ellie without argument.

“Hey, I'm here." her soothing voice cuts through the dense anxiousness in the air and, for a moment, the fog clears - the sight of her softened face, so endearing.

“It’s okay. I’m okay.”

Her eyes are so beautiful; it's so easy to forget what you were even thinking about when you dive into them.

"You- fuck- you know that’s stupid, right? Of course you deserve to be safe, y/n, how could you not deserve that?"

You’re a fraud. You had everyone fooled, thinking you had morals, but you can’t let her believe in a falsehood. The words burst out like rust-ridden water from a burst pipe; so explosively that she jerks back slightly, eyebrows knitted in worry.

"Because I’m bad person! You don’t know me, Ellie! I killed him! I fucking beat him to death! I am so fucking disgusting!"

"You-"

"Oh my god, Ellie, he was just a fucking kid! And he was terrified! Terrified of what would happen if he let the infection take over and terrified of hurting me! Fuck, and he begged me to do it before he turned, but I couldn't fucking do it! How could I?! And then I beat him to death as soon as he came for me, because I am a coward, and when it came down to it, all it took was a little scare for me to hurt him so fucking badly... God, Ellie, it didn’t have to be like that; it shouldn’t have fucking been like that but I’m so selfish… He was all I had left… Without him, I’m nothing… But I fucking deserve it. I deserve all the shit that comes my way. And I have to take it. All of it."

Somewhere amidst the fire, she grabs your shoulders and pulls you closer,

"Y/N, no. Deep down, you know that's not true. He was just a kid but -fucking- so were you! You were just a kid, and it's not fair that you had to fend for yourself! It's not fair that you and your brother had to live like this! It's not fair that he got infected, or that anyone did, and it is not your fault that your choice had the consequences it did when you were panicked and desperate and young. It is not your fault it happened the way it did. This world... Nothing about it is fair. Even though I can’t replace him, and I don’t know you as well as him, I care about you and I want to be around you. And I know for a fact that you are not a bad person, and I fucking know that. You are not a bad person. What happened back then was not evil, it was tragic, not evil. You can’t forget it, and you shouldn’t! But your brother would never want you to be stuck in this awful cycle. He would never blame you like this. Shit happens, we do things we regret and life doesn't go the way we plan, we lose people we love, but we move forward. We have to. And you are not alone, not while I’m here, you can never be."

Her words are harsh and sharp, to get through to you, nicking little chips at the edges of your iron-strong resolve. For the first time, you let yourself consider it, and the strength of your guilt’s hold loosens up just a bit.

Through pooling tears that threaten to fall and the lump that sits tight in your throat, you reach out your arms to bury your face into the warmth of her shoulder, and push your shaky, cracking voice out.

“I miss him so much… I can’t stop thing about it… I can’t stop feeling like this…”

Ellie immediately collects your draped body into a fervid hold, trying desperately to cling onto the rare openings you allow her.

“It’s gonna be okay. Just give yourself time. Everything’s gonna be okay, I promise you.”

6 MONTHS LATER

The Tipsy Bison’s doors are held wide open, but great gusts of wind are no match for the laughter, clinking of glasses and constant hum of conversation within.

Somewhere amongst the bundles of life, you are sat at a rickety table beside Ellie, Dina, and Jesse, and are fitting in like a puzzle piece beyond all capabilities of your imagination when you first arrived in Jackson.

Jesse’s eyes held fast to Dina, who’s head was thrown back in a wholehearted cackle over something relatively insignificant. You were all slumped in your chairs with great big grins, flushed faces and strands of hair clinging to your clammy necks, in high spirits.

Your heart feels full. For the first time, you can go out and laugh freely without the intense gaze of your overwhelming guilt or constant, racing thoughts of Soren. Panic attacks lie dormant for longer than you’d ever dreamed of.

Ellie’s gaze reaches you, and the way your heart swells with all-consuming affection is mutual. You can tell from the way she looks at you, all warm and admiring.

For a second, the sight of the people behind her falls away and you are the only people left in the room, in the world. Here, you are with people who care about you, want to be around you. Here, there is a sense of belonging that you hadn't felt in a long time.

After a moment, the pink-tinged apples of her cheeks fatten with a sincere, toothy grin, hazy eyes squinting as they flit down to her glass, and you notice that the number of people here has actually dwindled.

“Oh shit, everyone’s gone, I didn’t even realise.” Dina mumbled, scanning the room. Jesse lazily rose from his chair, stretching as he looked back at her,

“We should probably get going too, huh. I'll see you two tomorrow, then.” He nodded over to both of you before huddling together with Dina and drunkenly walking off.

You look back to Ellie; she’s leaning back in her chair, legs spread in a way that brings on certain feelings, raising her glass to her parted lips and her eyes never leave yours.

You watch her swallow the last traces of whiskey and set the glass down before tilting her head at you with a smirk. You’re both drunk, warm, fuzzy, tingly.

Her eyebrows raise before she gets up and leans over, and whispering,

“C’mon, babe,” into your ear.

As you stroll back, you’re met with the refreshing cool night air and you can’t help but feel a sense of contentment, hand in hand with Ellie, watching her ramble on. Your hushed giggles carry through the empty paths.

When you arrive at Ellie's place, stumbling through the door, you collapse onto her bed. This place has become more of a home than your real home; you’re almost never not spending the night. Among the clusters of trinkets and piles of clothes, your belongings have found a place, as well as the acrylic image of your face amidst her paintings.

Candlelight, the room is bathed in the soft orangey glow, casting shadows that dance and flicker across Ellie’s grinning face. You cling onto her dearly, intertwining your limbs with flushed cheeks and gazing up at her longingly, light and airy.

You settle into a comfortable silence with your bodies pressed against each other while she stares up down at her rough palm as you trace, with gentle and loving touches, the lines engraving it, the weight of the world momentarily forgotten.

She pecks your cheek,

“Are you sleepy?”

You look up at her with a sly smirk,

“No. Are you?”

“Nuh uh, you know what I’m thinking?”

“Oh, I know exactly what you’re thinking?”

You rise from your spot, nestled into her side, taking the hand you were playing with and entwining your fingers as you hover over her. The look on her face is mellow yet excited, her hands already reach out for your waist, already making your body feel hotter.

“You gonna show me, babe?”

She pulls you closer so you dive into the soft crook of her neck, sensitive with trails of tingling skin where you place kisses, desperate to feel the warmth her body emits, desperate for her to feel so incredibly real to you, for her to overwhelm your senses. You’ve never been infatuated quite like this before, never felt quite so comfortable with the love you hold for a person. But with Ellie, it’s simple, easy, comes naturally to you. She’s so many things, but, especially a sanctuary. A sanctuary weathered by the storms of your past but still standing firm.

“Mhmm, I’m gonna show you, Els.”

Ellie’s slumped at the head of her dingy bed.

Her body is bare and her muscles are tensing with each desperate, visceral movement, glowing with a thin sheen of sweat and slick,, as she kneads her fingers into the fat of your ass and meets your lips hungrily.

You hold onto her freckled face, looking down at her fucked out, beautiful eyes. They’re just begging for more after giving it to you for so long, consolidated by the sparkly feeling of her grinding up onto you,

“You’re so hot,”

“Oh, am I?” you mutter, pushing her back against the mattress and watching her eyes widen while chuckling to yourself,

“Wha- Alright, jesus fuck,”

You crawl off her lap with deliberate sexuality, pushing her legs apart abruptly. She clambers up onto her arms but you push her back, watching her tits bounce as she collapses,

“Shut up, El,”

“Oh, I see how it is, you aren’t fucking around anymore. No more mr nice guy, no funny busin-”

“Dude, fucking stop, you just, like, made me un-wet,”

“Oh shit, gotta get serious.”

You smack her thigh gently.

She grins and folds her arms behind her head, her eyes never leaving yours as you lower yourself in front of her pussy. Yours narrow ever so slightly when she grabs the back of your head and pushes it into your mouth, moaning at the contact of your lips with hers.

It gets you warm, placing a kiss filled with genuine love on her puffy clit before borderline making out with her pussy,

The sight of her eyes rolling back as her jaw goes slack has you begging for more, so you run your tongue up from her slit before lapping at it like you’re starved and watching her go cross-eyed from the sheer pleasure.

You can’t help but dip a finger a finger or two into her dripping hole, wanting nothing but to make her feel good, for her to come undone on you, slick smeared over your mouth, nose and chin, dripping lewdly down your palm.

You watch her body convulse, mattress cover clinging to her sweaty back as it arches up off the bed and her legs pull you in graciously.

You rest your head on her thigh and relish in the sight for a moment before she’s looking back into your eyes and urging you to come up so she can hold you, and also to stop breathing onto her clit because her “legs might spasm and strangle you or something,”

You laugh and lay your head down on her naked chest to hear her heart thump within her, in the tender embrace of the arms she holds out for you.

“Els?”

“Hmm?”

“Remind me to take those really fluffy socks I have home with me later. So much stuff is here now, I keep getting annoyed whenever Im actually home for once.”

“Sure, I can do that, if I don’t also forget.”

“Great.”

She lulls your eyes into a soft close with the feeling of her stroking your hair, and as she watches you exist, she realises she’d like to do that for longer. So, she leans into your ear and whispers,

“Hey, babe?”

“Yeah?”

“Why don’t you just… bring all your stuff to my place, you know, move in with me?”

You raise your head from her chest (she immediately misses the warmth) and meet her eyes, face slowly morphing into an adoring smile which she reflects, before placing a kiss on her forehead and then locking your lips with hers.

PLEASE READ

a/n - last chapterrrrrr ahdgstihaveahugepenisdtyf, banners by cafekitsune and saradika-graphics, my condolences to anyone who has read this bc i kinda hate it but thanks anyways. im not gonna write anything for a while after this (except for this one req thats been sitting in my drafts for an ungodly amount of time) because of the situation in palestine and the upcoming global strikes. i dont want to think abt a game made by a zionist who embedded zionist propaganda into it and donated money to israel most likely earned from the game. upwards of 30,000 palestinians, 11,000 of which were children, have been murdered by israel since october. yeah, for now, it’s only gonna be palestine-related posts. please, please do not buy the remaster, im begging you. its just a remaster, im pretty sure we can all go without it.

[pikablu410]

His Mayoral Duties

“Mayor Bradley! How do you feel now that you’ve just won a second term in office with a surprise landslide victory?!” A man with a microphone asked.

“I’m honored the people of Stocksville have chosen me to lead them again. I’m excited to get back in my office and make changes for the better.” The man confidently said, adjusting his casual yet sleek blue suit. He combed over his curls with his hand to make sure they weren’t frizzled.

“Mayor! To what do you contribute to such a meaningful success?” A blonde woman in a red suit nearly jumped out of the crowd. She, of course, was talking about how a black man, like himself, was the first to win a reelection as mayor in Stocksville.

“I think my policies speak for themselves. Our economy is doing better, crime is at an all time low and people are content with their lives in the city.” The mayor confidently responded.

“And mayor, what do you have to say to those who believe your victory was the result of fraud?” A man asked before being pushed back into the crowd.

If the people had known him personally, or had studied his body language, they would’ve known Scott staggered for a brief moment before responding. “I ask that they wait for the voting office to put out their data, and, for now, work with me in making progress towards a better Stocksville.” He smiled.

“How could they have known?! I was completely certain it would be a secret-” A man with shaggy brown hair walked back and forth before being interrupted by Scott.

“Just shut up! I know my office isn’t rigged with cameras or mics I’m not aware of. There’s no way it could’ve gotten out.” He said, leaning forward onto his desk. 

“Then how would they have known we used dark ma-” Scott almost literally zipped the man’s lips this time.

“Roger. There is absolutely, assuredly, zero reason for people to believe we did anything suspicious other than their own conspiratorial beliefs. We have done nothing wrong, and there’s no proof otherwise.”

Roger wiped the sweat from his neck, “Well…”

Scott glared, “Roger.”

“I’m not saying I kept the book, but-”

“Roger!” Scott growled. A rarity for him.

“What if I need a demon for a hot chick or something? You never know.” Roger, now much more casually, admitted.

“If by ‘demon’ you mean ‘advice’ then sure, but you definitely don’t mean what you said literally, right?” Scott said, with a thick emphasis on the sarcasm.

“Relax Brandon, there’s nothing to worry about. I’m like, ninety-nine percent sure there’s no negative side effects.” Roger started, “You did do what the de- what the advice told you to do, right?”

Brandon sighed, pulling out the greasy takeout bag, “Yeah, I bought a burger after I won. I really don’t get how this was equivalent to whatever that…advice did.” 

He took a large bite out of the burger, finding the taste divine. Scott quickly took another, and then a sip of his soda.

“Woah, slow down their champ. Just because you won doesn’t mean you can’t get sick from eating like that.” Roger advised, but it seemed Brandon wasn’t listening.

“Mmph, sorry,” Scott swallowed the last of his burger, “I don’t know why, but that was the best burger I’ve ever had from McTasties.” Finishing his soda and the fries, Scott went on, “I think I’m gonna get another. They must’ve changed their recipe or something!” 

Roger noticed how Scott wiped the grease onto his blue suit, which, thanks to the dark color, didn’t detract much from it. However, he thought back to how Brandon got pissed off when he spilled water onto a similar suit. 

“Yeah, I’m gonna head home. Call me if you need anything not politics related.” Roger said, the drawstrings of his green and gray hoodie flipping through the air. 

Despite his calm demeanor, Roger was still thinking about his friend’s behavior. Just what was it that they had summoned the night before?

“Destiny! Two more orders of McTasties double cheeseburgers. One with fries and one with onion rings. Of course I want two milkshakes!” Scott said over his newly installed desk microphone. He had gotten tired of constantly walking down to ask her to order him more food. 

“Right away Mayor Bradley. Oh, city council wanted me to notify you that they’re meeting for ordinance 5507 in 10 minutes.” Destiny replied.

Scott smiled and thanked Destiny. He slowly sat up from his chair and walked over to his mirror. His stomach bulged against the white undershirt and blue suit he adorned. A ketchup stain marked the white and a grease one the blue suit. It had been a stressful…2 weeks in office. Scott hadn’t taken the time to think about how he had gained weight so quickly, or how fast time had gone by. 

Regardless, Scott decided to head down to the council room and wait for his colleagues there. 

Opening his doors, he found an unwanted surprise.

“Scott! I really need to talk to you ri-” Roger nearly shouted.

“Can it wait? I have McTasties and a council meeting waiting for me downstairs?” Scott replied, rolling his eyes.

“I really don’t think you should. I’m not sure how much longer you have?” Roger panicked, welcoming himself into Scott’s office.

Raising an eyebrow, Scott now fully entered the conversation, “What, do I have a disease or something?” “You might as well! You know that ‘advice’ we summoned the other night?” Roger asked, using his hands to sign quotation marks in the air, “Well, apparently that deal was just its way to get ahold of you.”

“Wait, you mean I’m possessed?” Scott scoffed at his own words.

“Basically! It’s like an infection,” Roger opened the book Scott had berated him for 2 weeks ago, “The longer you don’t treat it, the more it affects you. This weight you’ve gained isn’t natural.” Roger poked Scott’s belly to emphasize his point, Scott smacking his friend’s hand away.

“So what, I've gained a few pounds. I’ve been stressed and cooped up in this office, I’ll be fine.” Scott said, stifling a belch.

Roger looked at his friend with glazed eyes, “You’ve barely done anything but eat McTasties and watched how the media is praising your election.”

Scott didn’t want to admit it, but as he looked at the greasy takeout wrappers on the floor, Roger was right. He hadn’t done much other than eat and pass a few laws that were already in the works before he was elected. But then, a lightbulb.

Well, a buzz on his desk microphone.

“Mayor Bradley. City council is meeting in 5 minutes now. Also, your McTasties is here.” Destiny rang.

Now with a smug look, Scott smiled at Roger, “I’m actually in the process of passing a new city ordinance right now. And you’re making me late. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

Scott then headed down the hall and towards the city council. Roger looked at the book and sighed. At least this wasn’t going to ruin his life. He hoped.

Entering the city council meeting room with his two bags of McTasties, Scott settled in before the last of the council members arrived. Immediately digging into one of the cheeseburgers and fries, the other city council members stared in shock. 

“Uhm, Mayor Bradley. Mayor Bradley!” An older council member nearly shouted.

“Hmm? What is it?” Scott replied, licking ketchup off of his fingers.

“We’re starting our meeting…is it truly necessary for you to eat your lunch during our meeting?” The older man inquired.

“Oh, I’m almost done with it,” Scott casually replied, sucking down his milkshake, making a loud slurping sound in the process, “You all should try it sometime. Now, where were we?” 

The following months saw historic change for Stocksville. Probably in the most insipid way possible. Ordinance 5507 gave more freedom to “inexpensive food companies” that was cited to help “impoverish citizens attain a more consummate meal.” 

In reality, Scott just wanted more McTasties near city hall and his house, both of which now had 2 within a block. 

Not that Scott walked to the fast food restaurant, but it certainly alleviated the weight on his employees. Though, it didn’t relieve weight in other areas. Within those months, the Bradley office staff had all put on at least 70 pounds of fat. Dozens upon dozens of McTasties orders came to the office each day, a majority of them coming from Scott himself. 

Speaking of the mayor, he had gone up 3 suit sizes in the several months following ordinance 5507, which of course was followed by ordinance 5508, 5509 and 5512. All of which gave the McTasties company more power in Stocksville. 

None of this caused the Bradley office any concern because, like Scott, they had all become addicted to the greasy junk. Seemingly overnight, the town had transformed into some Las Vegas for greasy restaurants. A competitor, Patty’s Burgers, was on the rise and produced even more restaurants for Scott- for the Stocksville citizens to order from. 

Though, not all hope was lost for the town.

“Scooooooottttt!” A man with shaggy brown hair shouted down the hall. The guards were too fat and lazy to stop him from bursting into Scott’s office. “Scott, I’ve found out how to solve this- what the hell happened to you?!” 

The mayor’s first response with a burp, followed by him trying to sit upright in his chair.

“Do you mind, URP, Roger? I’m trying to eat my pre-lunch snack?” Scott replied, taking a chomping bite out of a burger that looked much too large for human consumption. 3 more bags were filled with food next to him on the desk, Roger being able to tell they were filled because he couldn’t take a step in the office without his legs brushing up against an empty one.

“How fucking fat have you gotten? Do you realize what this is all from? That “advice?”” Roger, again, emphasized the word advice.

Scott slurped down a soda before literally dumping a carton of fries into his gaping maw. “What, the fucking demon? Yeah, whatever. Like anyone believes that shit.” He let out a very noticeable fart before going back to chowing down on a burger.

Roger noticed his friend’s new dialect. “Dude, since when did you swear? I thought you had to uphold an image or something.” 

“Yeah, what-fucking-ever. People are so happy with all the McTasties, and now Patty’s! Who cares if I fucking swear!” Scott said with a little too much enthusiasm, finding himself wedged between his office chair, “Damn, this thing is getting old.” “Uhh, yeah. Anyways, I’ve figured out how to stop all this and get back to normal. All you have to do is eat some vegetables and fruit, lose a bit of weight and the possession should slowly go away. If that doesn’t work we’ll need a priest and-” “Bro, you’re actually still on this possession thing? I told you, I’m in complete control.” Scott said, taking a final bite out of his burger. 

Then, a squeak was heard, followed by a snap and then Scott falling to the ground. Rips could be heard behind the desk as the mayor sat behind his desk.

“Fuck…that actually felt kinda good.” Scott mumbled to himself.

Roger, however, was much more worried, “Dude! Are you alright?!” He went behind Scott’s desk to help his friend up.

He immediately noticed that one of the buttons on his suit had burst off from the fall, leaving a portion of Scott’s belly wide open to the public. As he helped heft his friend up, Roger noticed that Scott’s pants were now torn at his thighs, exposing a significant amount of cellulite. After helping Scott up, the fat man waddled to the mirror in his office. 

“Damn, I don’t look too bad.” Scott admired himself. Roger hadn’t taken the time to notice in his rush to save his friend, but as his friend looked on in the mirror, he really saw how far Scott’s appearance had fallen. The once well-shaved man now had a scruff that was forming a goatee, and the same furry situation could be said for his now-exposed belly. His suit was tattered with stains, and had torn in places Scott hadn’t even noticed. 

“Scott I really think you should reconsider-”

“Roger, my time in office has been incredibly successful. Employment is at an all time low. People who were starving in the streets now have homes and food! Public transportation goes all over the city and our economy is thriving and healthy. All because I’ve invested in McTasties and fast food restaurants.” Scott went on, looking over the city, then back at Roger, “Don’t think I haven’t noticed your extra weight too.” He poked Roger in his belly, to which the pale man sheepishly backed off.

“Just listen to me dude, I think something is really wrong. I mean, how did you even convince the city council to get all of this done? Aren’t they notorious for stopping all your ideas?” Roger asked.

Scott smiled devilishly, braggin, “They attributed it to my “charisma.” They’ve really fallen for me.” He walked over to Roger and put his arm around his friend, “Look me in the eyes when I tell you this, Roger.”

Listening to his friend, Roger looked into Scott's eyes, but they weren’t Scott’s. They glowed a deep red, and were almost…hypnotizing.

“Go get yourself some McTasties on your way home. Tell them it’s on me, they’ll cover it.” Scott ordered, very persuasively. 

Roger couldn’t help but slowly nod his head and turn around to leave Scott’s office. He could really go for a McTasties burger.

The next month saw Mayor Bradley’s only roadblock in his reign of ordinances. A group called “Alternatives for Health” rose to political distinction as a, you guessed it, alternative to Scott’s campaign. Not that there would be an election any time soon, but they aimed to rally support against all of the fast food-centric regulations that had recently been put in place. Lobbying Scott’s office near daily, they would’ve annoyed the hell out of any other group in office.

But, by this point, Scott’s staff had grown too fat and tired to care. 

“URRRRRP, Desti-URRRRRRP. Destiny, where’s m’ damn order of fries?” A sweaty, double-chinned, bearded face mumbled over the desk microphone. When there wasn’t a response in 5 seconds, he repeated himself. “Destiny! URRRRRP, I need m’ afta’noon snack!” 

“It’s, URP, on its way now. Sorry, thought it was for me.” A voice that was distinctly deeper than it was 4 months ago replied. 

Just then, several bags of greasy food then came elevated up through a small nightstand-like desk. Grumbling as he slowly stood up from a wider chair, the fat mayor waddled to the bags of food. Not bothering to waddle back to his desk, he plopped his fat ass down on the ground and started devouring the food. 

“God…this ain’t gonna be enough…it’s sho good…gonna need more…” Scott trailed off, plowing through the food like he had the littered takeout bags in his office. Sweat poured down his barely clothed body, pooling into the rolls that were made from hours of eating. A white wifebeater and black basketball pants were what Scott adorned, since nothing else fit and he had to keep up “public decency,” whatever the hell that was.

A voice annoyingly came through his microphone desk.

“Mayor you, URRRRRP, have a visitor.” Destiny rang.

Grumbling again, the mayor heaved his beanbag-esq belly off the ground and waddled back to his oversized chair.

“Send ‘em up!” Scott said, farting as he settled back into his chair. Just moving across the room had gotten him drench in his own salty perspiration. He rubbed his hairy, sweaty belly to coax out more gas before his visitor arrived. Though, he figured he already knew who it was.

“URRRP, Scott, I got more sco-URRRRRP-op on that health group.” Roger barged in. The trip to McTasties a month ago had treated Roger well. Some might’ve said a little too well. But Scott said it hadn’t treated him well enough, and sent his friend back for more.

“Good man! Whadda they want? URRRRRRP” Scott belched out, not bothering to stop eating. 

Pulling out a bunch of graphs and research papers, Roger messily placed them all over Scott’s desk.

“So basically, URRRRP, ‘scuse me. Basically they’re tryna’ prove that bein’ fat is bad. Apparently it raises your chance for “heart disease” and “cholesterol related illnesses” but I haven’t heard of anyone hospitalized for those things recently.” Roger explained.

Scott’s brain was still trying to process the papers in front of him. Months ago these would’ve made sense, but for some reason he could barely comprehend the words. Words like ‘arthritis,’ ‘artery,’ and ‘high fructose’ were hard to read. Almost like he was realizing his descent into slobdom, Scott almost put the pieces together.

That was, until Roger shoved the straw to a milkshake in his mouth.

“Ya looked starved. Thank god I brought more McTasties.” Roger said, with Scott eagerly reaching for the bags with his sausage arms. 

Roger rubbed his own exposed, pale belly that pushed out underneath his green hoodie. Surprisingly, the same hoodie from 4 months ago still fit the growing lard boy, but he was too addicted to the junk most of Stocksville ate for breakfast, lunch and dinner to be bothered to notice.

“So,” Scott pause for a monumental fart, “Heh, that was a nice one. Anyways, what’re we talkin’ about?” 

“This, uh, health group.” Roger explained.

“Oh yeah, how do we get rid of them? They’re gettin’ in the way of me buildin’ more McTasties.” Scott shoveled another handful of onion rings into his mouth. Roger couldn’t even tell what was grease and what was sweat on the man’s face.

“Jus’...lemme handle it.” Roger smiled, with Scott appreciating the simple reply. “How’s the move goin’?” 

Processing the question, Scott remembered he had ordered the leanest of his staff to move his home necessities to his office. 

“Awesome dude! I got a TV and internet, so I’m basically set. All I need is a personal McTasties and I’d never have to leave.” Scott replied, his rolls and moob jiggling as he went to wipe sweat from his forehead. 

“Sounds like the next ordinance at city council.” Roger smirked.

Scott belched and threw an empty milkshake cup into the trash pile that littered the room. “Oh, I disbanded that. They all got too lazy to come. So now they put their trust in me to make the laws.”

Roger’s eyes perked up at those words. “You’re just telling me now?!” Scott let out more gas and continued to eat, “Sorry, forgot I guess.” 

Roger went over to Scott and leaned against his a fat roll.

“My friend, it’s a good thing you’ve started moving; I don’t think you’ll be leaving your office for a while.”

“Whaddare they sayin’? M’ fuckin’ tits r’ blockin’ m’ vision.” A fat blob of a man whined. 

“Hold on Scott I gotta turn up the volume.” A less fat, but still incredibly massive, man replied. The less fat man placed a milkshake in between the blobbish man’s moobs, with the latter eagerly sucking down the contents of the cup.

“Roge-URRRRRRRRRRRP. Whaddare they sayin’ damnit!” Scott whined again, finishing the milkshake in record time. 

Roger smirked and smacked Scott’s immense belly, “You’ve got no opposition m’ friend. You’re running unopposed next election.” 

The wide man forgot to mention how he had gotten a few of the skinnier interns to infiltrate Alternatives for Health’s own office and sneak McTasties into their diet. A combination of this and tactically cutting off their funding so fast food was all they could afford spiraled to a quick downfall of their opposing organization. Scott let out a fart from the pressure on his belly, smiling nonetheless. “Thas…URRRRRRPP…fuckin’ awesome.” He unabashedly stated. 

“Still it’ll be Stocksville’s first mayor who’s a human blob. And I don’t think it’ll be the last.” Roger stated, planting a kiss on Scott’s greasy lips.

Scott let out more gas, drool and more greasy getting into his beard, “Huh? Did ‘m new order come yet?” Scott had gotten a one-track mind. Which might have been a good thing had he not been corrupted with greasy takeout. The naked blob of a man now never left his office. Not that he could, given his recent immobility in the past month. His thighs were as thick as a hog plumped for a Christmas dinner, leading to an ass that was as large as his belly just months ago. Whenever the man moved, either to let out gas, to try to see the TV, or, recently, to pleasure himself, his entire body jiggled as if shockwaves were sent through him.

Arms hung uselessly at his sides, sitting on rolls upon rolls of fat. His face was basically just his unkept goatee, his several chins, greasy, and sweat. Oh christ the sweat. It was as if Scott had constantly come back from a workout at the gym, but his workout was simply processing thoughts and eating his McTasties meals. It got tangled in his hairy body and made the entire office smell like a sports locker room.

“Scott, ‘m back with your pre-pre-brunch snack!” Roger reassured the massive man. 

Roger hadn’t faired much better after being ‘convinced’ by Scott to try McTasties. He was also shirtless, but wore underwear that had definitely seen better days. Just their yellow coloring and greasy stains were enough to paint a detailed picture. His gut rested over these underwear, looking like a dad who had recently gotten divorced and hit the liquor store too much, though with a more jiggly belly. He looked like Scott did just months ago, which didn’t bode well for his future. “Anything I can get for ya while I’m up babe?” Roger asked, opening his phone to see the news about Alternatives for Health.” The two had started dating because of what Scott again contributed to his “charisma.” They were basically inseparable now, Roger serving at Scott’s beck and call.

“Actually, fuck, yeah.” Scott said through mouthfuls of food, “Call in ‘n intern an’ suck me off.” Giving a knowing smile, Roger leaned against his massive boyfriend’s belly. He slowly got on his belly and crawled under Scott’s massive belly. They had done this enough times that Roger knew where to go in the sweaty expanse.

As an intern walked in and started to feed Scott, the immense man started to let out some affirming swears. Roger knew he found his goal.

“URP, Mayor Bradley, what will you do to, uh, ya know, make sure our city stays great?” An interviewer asks over a video call.

“I’ll, uhm, URRRRRRRRP, uh, yeah.” Scott replied.

They were all too fat to do professional interviews in-person anymore. Not that it mattered. They only had one choice anyways. Thank god they weren’t doing this in-person anyways. Scott barely fit in frame on the Zoom call. He barely fit in his office anymore. An amalgamation of sweaty, hairy fat. 

“Great response, babe.” Roger egged his boyfriend on. He was nearing immobility too, struggling to get up and feed Scott nowadays. The interns took care of that for them.

The interviewer, clearly struggling to paint Mayor Bradley in a good light, asked another question. “To what do you contribute your, URRRRRP, successes.”

Scott nearly went cross-eyed. He let out a far that was audible on camera before responding. “More, URRRRRRRRRP, McTasties. Thas what’ll do!” He slurred.

The interviewer smiled and said, “Excellent idea!” 

“They should, PFFFFFFFFFTTTTT, vote fa’ me jus’ ‘cus ‘m hot.” Scott gobbled down multiple burgers after the interview. Grease splattered all over him, and the walls. And his rolls. And his tits.

“That’s a gr-URRRRRRRRRRP-great idea babe!” Roger continued to egg on the massive man. 

It was a wonder nobody realized how their demon, oh sorry, ‘advice’, had caused all of this. Roger didn’t do a very good job at hiding the evidence once he got a bite of McTasties.

If anyone had the brains to realize what was going on, they’d know their mayor hadn’t any.

That was okay, though. A quick bite of McTasties would fix their worries. Thank god they were expanding to other cities nearby.