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comatosebunny09 · 12 days ago

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and they were roommates | sylus

sum: sylus responds to an online ad for a roommate. you suddenly have this tall, well-spoken, handsome man living in the attic, playing classical music, tinkering with things he built, and humming off-key while he makes you pancakes in the morning before disappearing for weeks at a time. cw: modern au, roommate au, reader implied to be femme, reader’s shorter than sylus, slice of life, slow burn, mild language, mentions of blood & injury, mutual pining, cannibalism joke, romantic & sexual tension, jealousy, this part’s a series of flashbacks, period comfort & talk, ~5k wc tracklist: nothing - milena fig. 1 | fig. 2 | fig. 3 | fig. 4 | fig. 5

“Here?”

He eyed the twins in the rearview mirror through expensive, tinted lenses, lifting a dubious brow from the backseat.

Through years of employing them, he learned to read their silence, having held them closer than anyone else in the syndicate he constructed from blood, corruption, and deceit.

He picked up on every micro-shift of their muscles—the flex of Luke’s fingers on the steering wheel, Kieran’s breath catching like he was holding something in.

They exchanged a look, their intentions hidden behind beaked masks. It was as if they were communicating telepathically, quietly poking at their boss’ plight.

Sylus didn’t need X-ray vision to know they were stifling their laughter.

“Here,” Luke parroted, his amusement as evident as the sky stretched an obnoxious shade of blue overhead.

Kieran turned in the passenger seat, leaning back on the dash and flourishing his fingers like he’d just presented macaroni art to a parent.

That didn’t bode well.

When would he learn to stop letting the twins pick out places for him to lie low?

Sylus had experienced a lot of things in his existence—the worst of men, rot, hellfire. He’d seen more red than a morgue. Was well acquainted with the smell of burning bodies and carbon crowded beneath his nails.

What he wasn’t prepared for were the washed oak fences, the sprawl of vibrant grass, and quaint, polychrome houses huddled together in a neighborhood that was the very definition of suburbia.

Sylus released a slow, steadying breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. The beginning of a migraine crept into his temples.

“You have got to be kidding me,” he said more to himself.

This had to be a dream. A nightmare. A joke that he would surely make the twins pay for.

Luke turned, wrist lax on the steering wheel. “C’mon, bossman. You can’t deny it’s the perfect place for someone like you to disappear.”

Kieran nodded his assent over crossed arms.

“No one’d suspect a devil of moving into a Zillow special. I can smell the neighbors baking cookies now.” He whiffed the air, resulting in a nudge and chuckle from his brother.

“I’ll eat them,” Sylus flatly returned. A double entendre that made the twins swallow.

He grabbed the rear door handle, already exhausted as he scanned the window. Steeling himself, he made his grand exit, falling into the cool arms of fall, his coat sleeves fluttering theatrically in the breeze from his shoulders.

The SUV idled at his back.

He looked out of place. A stark cutout of black, expensive textiles and power. He moved over the sidewalk like a wraith, hands stuffed in his pockets.

A bird sang in a maple tree overhead. Somewhere far off, a sprinkler system sprang to life. The scent of cut grass was like a provocation. Nostalgic. Still, it was too bright, too still, deceptively calm where he knew chaos and dread.

Hydrageneas greeted him when he walked up the driveway and onto the floorboards. A weathered bench was next, followed by a welcome mat speckled with leaves and stone vases housing drying plants. A sign reading ‘Stay Awhile But Please Leave By 9 PM’ hung in the middle of the door.

A Facebook Marketplace ad led him here—standing on the porch of a stranger, too tall and intimidating to call this place a temporary home.

Seeking roommate. Preferably male. Smoke-free home. Must be clean and cool with occasional loud music and terrible singing. Rent is cheap. Message me for more details.

He’d lived in fortresses secured with biometrics and enough tech to have NASA knocking at his door. Penthouses with ceiling-high windows, peering out over neon-lit cities. He owned villas in off-grid locales that would put the most notorious drug peddlers to shame.

The most intimidating things here were a wind chime and dogs barking on the horizon.

Rolling out the kinks in his neck, he poised his knuckles over the door, prepared to knock. He wasn’t granted the chance as it crept open like he willed it to.

A Ring camera. Of course.

He glimpsed it with a rigid jaw. He’d have to invest in something more secure—a child could hack one of those things.

Lavender and linen spilled from within, enmeshed with the scent of cooked food. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting. But when his eyes flit down to take in the home’s owner, it surely wasn’t…you.

You stood halfway in the doorframe, barefoot, a faded sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder. Your hair was swept into something haphazard, and your lashes brushed against lenses that overwhelmed your face. The whole look suited you. The house suited you.

Your smile was cautious. As was your voice. “Hi. Can I help you?”

His chest pulled.

He could crush you. Yet something in the hulls of his psyche wanted to roll you into a ball and tuck you into his coat for safekeeping.

Remembering his purpose, Sylus cleared his throat, taking off his shades and tucking them into his shirt pocket.

He tried not to sound as disinterested as he initially felt. Tried to contain the rough gravel of his voice, figuring it would scare you off. This arrangement was growing more interesting by the second. He wanted to see it through, never one to shy away from a challenge.

“Good afternoon. My associate reached out to you a few days ago about the room you had for rent. Is it still available?”

You squinted up at him. Eyed him warily, sheepishly scratching your cheek. He couldn’t blame you for being suspicious—he didn’t very well scream slow suburban life.

Resigned, you huffed out a nervous laugh. “Sure is. Wanna take a look?”

You pushed the door fully open once he nodded, stepping aside.

Sylus squared his shoulders as if he were about to enter a meeting room teeming with jackals. He shouldered past you, flowing into the house like the steady crawl of smoke.

The aroma of lavender was thicker here. It smelled clean. Looked tidy.

He followed behind you, one of his steps equating to two of yours. He took stock of your home, committing its humble, lived-in layout to memory. Every plant, every frame on the wall. Knowing its setup would come in handy later.

“Sorry,” you said from your shoulder. You gave him your name, apologizing for foregoing formalities. Joked you didn’t usually let strange men into your home, so he wouldn’t have to worry about nightly visitors.

“Hope you don’t get nosebleeds easily.”

You slowed at the foot of wooden steps, patting the handrail. Turned that endearing half-smile on him, expectant. Warmth crept into his chest as he watched you. You were so unintentionally charming that he felt his lips tilting into a smirk.

“Not at all.”

“Good. Follow me. Room’s up top, Mister—”

He fed you his name without much thought. It was too easy to.

It could prove to be a problem in the future. It’s not like you knew you were inviting The Boogeyman into your home—Luke and Kieran assured him they’d done a thorough scrub of your history. The worst you’d gotten was a parking ticket.

He wouldn’t put it past you, but you seemed too oblivious to be well-versed in the inner workings of the underworld.

You’d make a good cover.

“Sylus,” you echoed as if weighing his name on your tongue, disrupting his thoughts. He found himself enjoying the way it sounded on your lips. “You look like a Sylus.”

He should’ve been insulted. Should’ve asked what the hell that meant. But as you led him up the stairs to the second landing, he could only focus on the bow of your shoulders. How your hair curled around your nape. The stale perfume dotted behind your ears. How you shook with that infectious laugh as he responded to your dry humor in kind.

Perhaps the twins hadn’t done such a shoddy job finding a safe house this time around.

He wouldn’t tell them that—their egos were inflated enough.

—

Wordlessly, he slid into the leather seat of the SUV, shutting the door and smoothing out the wrinkles in his shirt.

He didn’t need to see behind their masks to know their grins were shit-eating. He turned his eyes to the window, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of being right.

Luke was the first to break the charged silence, shifting the vehicle into drive. “How’s that for low-profile?”

Kieran tilted his beak up at his boss in the rearview, equally smug.

Sylus’ jaw shifted. He perched his elbow on the doorframe, chin in palm, face an impassive mask, your house blurring in and out of focus. “Don’t get ahead of yourselves. I haven’t made a decision yet.”

An embellishment as apparent as the greenery streaking behind the window as Luke eased out of the slumbering neighborhood. Sylus had already made his choice the moment you answered the door, all short and unassuming. He gave you his business email to send the contract to.

The house was in a convenient location—far enough from his manor to conduct business without drawing suspicion. Close enough to the airport for him to disappear if it came down to that.

You living a floor below was a bonus.

—

Sylus knew you were fine. He had Mephisto keeping watch over you in his absence.

So far, the most interesting thing on your plate during his three-day disappearing act was a drunken bout of karaoke in your living room—he had a good chuckle at that as he thumbed blood off his cheek.

Still, you were radio silent at the close of Day 3, where the other two, you bombarded him with memes and videos you swore he’d get a kick out of.

He had an inkling of what was up, having memorized your habits like the deckled pages of a grimoire.

Sylus had your patterns down to a science—the routes you took to and from work. The cafes you frequented during your criminally short lunch breaks. He knew your favorite spots for leisure, knew when you’d come home from a taxing day, and sit in the driveway for a bit to breathe.

In the three months he inhabited your attic, he read you as well as he could disassemble a pistol and reconstruct it blindfolded.

He was well-versed in how you liked your coffee—he always gave you shit for it, because could it truly be considered espresso with all that cream and sweetener? He knew how you liked your bacon—toeing the line of crispy and soft. Your preferred temperature of the house was practically encoded in his head. That laundry detergent you enjoyed so much? He made sure the cupboard above the dryer remained stocked with it.

The man studied you so much, he even had your cycle down. Filed that away in his mind three weeks into living under the same roof.

It wasn’t weird. Not at all. Call it self-preservation. He knew better than to get between a woman and her favorite confectioneries when Mother Nature came knocking, though he did make a point to eat your ice cream whenever he could.

What? You were lactose intolerant. He was doing you a service.

Was it concerning how well he could deconstruct your life in the short time he was your housemate? Perhaps.

Maybe the background checks on your coworkers and neighbors were a bit excessive. And, yeah, he had to admit having the twins drive through the cul-de-sac twice a day could be considered borderline stalking. But he reasoned those were all precautionary measures. He wasn’t exactly your run-of-the-mill, blue-collar man. You had been so gracious as to take him into your home, minimal questions, no qualms. The least he could do was protect an asset.

He had to be sure you kept good company. That you were good company.

Sylus grew to value your presence, honestly. He found himself searching for traces of you in every foreign locale he visited for his negotiations. He bought keychains and faux charms from street stalls that reminded him of you. Hoodies from various states he was sure you’d wear to threads. Made a point to snag some native snacks he knew you’d devour in one sitting. Buying you things was second nature.

To him, he was maintaining positive relations. Deep down, you were growing on him. And people rarely grew on Sylus.

Seated in his private jet, he scrutinized his phone with slightly pensive brows as the engines whirred to life and the pilots did their pre-flight checks.

The last message he sent to you, alerting you to his resurgence, remained delivered since last night. Odd, but not uncommon. You had your phone virtually glued to you, unless you were at work. But given the time of the month, the harsh glare of blue light was the last thing you probably wanted to see.

Again, he assured himself you were alright. Didn’t make his blood pump any slower or his jaw any less tight. There was no telling which of his adversaries kept tabs on him from the shadows. He was a master at covering his tracks. Erasing his existence like a fleeting blip on a radar. But an occasional misstep wasn’t impossible.

He inadvertently dragged you into his tumultuous life. You were none the wiser; he’d done an immaculate job shielding you from it thus far. But he would kick himself if anything happened to you under his watch, his protection.

Suffice to say, he’d miss that smile. That snort when you laughed too hard. The way your face scrunched up in concentration while you hunkered over your laptop, parsing through coding for work.

When the co-pilot eased through the aisle towards him, a courteous smile in place, letting him know they were prepared for takeoff, Sylus breathed a little easier.

“Please make it quick,” he pressured, exhaustion threading through his tone.

The co-pilot gave him a curt nod, promptly returning to the cockpit, leaving Sylus to his own devices.

Sylus loomed over his phone, clutched in his palm, watching you flop in a pained heap on your couch via Mephisto perched on a bookshelf.

He’d have to make a pit stop before he made it home.

—

The sun began its descent towards the horizon, bathing the neighborhood in splashes of orange and gold. The soft hush settling over the cul-de-sac was common—not much happened in your sleepy slice of serenity. A spike of urgency still propelled him over the lawn, up the steps, and to the front door.

After scoping out the perimeter of the house, he unlocked the door and cautioned himself inside.

The lights were off, the primary source of illumination bleeding through the slits of the blinds, signaling the day nearing its end.

He toed off his loafers and shrugged out of his coat, neatly positioning them by the door. A telltale black bag rustled at his side as he maneuvered through the house to find you.

For a moment, his stomach dropped, a glacial drip of dread pooling low. You were facedown on the couch cushions, motionless. Mephisto roosted on your head, preening your hair like feathers.

Sylus relinquished a steadying breath from the living room’s threshold. Didn’t know why he was so worked up in the first place. The possibility of someone discovering your affiliation with him always hung overhead like a bloodied veil. It sometimes resided in the back of his mind that he would one day come home to an empty house or your lifeless husk positioned like some cruel marionette on the sofa.

But for now, you were fine. No need to worry. He allowed his lips to tug into the customary cant. Covering what distance remained, he placed the bag on the coffee table as if it were rigged to explode with the slightest pressure.

He knelt beside the couch, shooing Mephisto away with a waggle of his fingers. For a moment, he held his breath, taking in the steady rise and fall of your back.

Still breathing. Good.

You were so dramatic. A mess of hair and limbs, still clad in your work attire. He raised his hand, fingers twitching with an urge to draw your hair back. You groaned, voice muffled by a throw pillow.

“If you’re here to claim my soul, take it.”

Trepidation shot white hot through him. Did…did you know?

“But only if you take my uterus, too. This shit’s busted.”

Ah.

The panic gave way to a warm wash of relief. He flicked the back of your head, evoking a sound of protest.

“Soul-collectors don’t normally bring gifts,” he answered, directing his attention to the table. At least, this one didn’t.

Meticulously, he began unpacking the black bag’s contents, laying them out on the glass top like a breakfast spread—dark chocolate, sushi, magnesium water, Midol, muscle relaxing cream, and ginger tea. The last to emerge was a heating pad, warmed in the car ride from the airport, lavender wafting from within.

He positioned it over the small of your back like a peace offering. You exhaled a relieved sound, body deflating, and you turned your head from the pillow to take him in with a cracked-open eye.

“You’re home early. I take it everything at work went well.”

This time, he did sweep some hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear. His fingers hovered, but he retracted them. Lips tilted into something playful.

“Sure.” He reached out to poke your forehead center mass. “Had someone been paying attention to her messages, she would’ve noticed I wrapped things up early. But I guess she was too busy being at odds with her uterus.”

You snorted half-heartedly. “You’d understand if you had one. Like, why am I being punished for not being pregnant?”

A silver, humored brow quirked.

You stiffened. Rolled your eyes when you recovered. “Don’t start.”

Shrugging, the spread of his lips still wolfish, he leaned against the couch on the floor. He began opening the bottle of Midol, poking through the foil, and dumped a couple of tabs onto his palm. He uncapped the water bottle next, holding both out for you to take over his shoulder.

After a few beats of silence—you swallowing down gulps of water and sighing like you’d broken through the surface tension of a pool—you sat up slowly. Fully.

Your roommate was occupied with opening the bag of chocolates when you next spoke.

“Do you, like, keep track of my period or something? Because that’s hella psychotic if you do. You always somehow know when I’m bleeding to death.”

Sylus scoffed. If only you knew. Or perhaps you did know more about him than you let on. He had to do a better job of running a tighter ship.

He peered at you from over his shoulder. “You’re usually quiet on the first day. You barely eat. You curl into a pathetic ball, and you bare your claws more than usual. It’s pretty easy to tell when it’s your time of the month.”

You nudged his back with your toe. He didn’t need to look to know you were pouting.

“Am I really that predictable?”

“Like rain.”

“Shut it,” you admonished, crossing your arms.

He joined you on the couch thereafter, handing you the remote and dropping a few cubes of chocolate onto your palm. As you queued up a crime documentary with a suspiciously high male body count, he took his time appraising you.

You were definitely growing on him, taking root in his mind like a stubborn redwood. You were cute, all huffy like that, trying to pretend that his arm slung across the couch’s backrest suspiciously close to your shoulders didn’t make your skin tingle. Trying to act like you didn’t notice him watching you, your eyes fastened to the television screen, the line of your jaw rigid.

The hard lines of his face slackened the slightest bit. His chest felt lighter.

You were the break in the disorder of his life he didn’t know he needed. A reason to tie up loose ends quickly and come back.

And he was completely fine with that.

—

Of the many threatening things Sylus had ever encountered in his life, he found you to be the most dangerous.

This, coming from someone who modified weapons and constructed bombs like Lego sculptures.

It was early evening when you roped him into accompanying you to a Korean market. You only needed a few things, you urged with that chest-tightening little smile. Of course, a few things always turned into a cart full of junk food. And a seemingly harmless endeavor to one place always resulted in you ending up somewhere other than what was initially planned.

He knew how things would conclude. Yet, he always tagged along, anyway. He was starting to enjoy this domestic pocket of monotony. A break from a world that bled red.

Besides, tonight, it was imperative that he join you.

Why?

Because you were dressed to kill in a sundress that boasted the devastation of your body. And he knew, if he were looking, throat constricting as your sandals clicked over gleaming tiles, hips swaying, back bare, he knew someone else was just as shameless.

It was borderline criminal how amazing you looked. Oblivious, you perused the aisles, rattling off things you needed under your breath.

He followed from a comfortable distance, eyes flitting back to the shelves when he caught himself ogling you for too long.

You had to know. Had to know how you wielded seduction like the serrated edge of a blade, and had he known any better, he’d swear you were an assassin sent to bring him to his knees.

Your dress clung to you like snakeskin. Black, sleeveless, a slit up the back—his favorite.

Earlier, you’d been out with a few of your friends, shopping and catching up over lunch. You didn’t think to change when you came home and guilt-tripped him with those puppy eyes, coaxing him out of the house.

He should’ve said something. Should’ve brought a coat to cover you. It was five months into your acquaintanceship, and he was already fretting over your state of dress like an overbearing father. Mainly because he was a man, and he knew exactly how other men thought.

Gratefully, the store was barren, save for the occasional older woman shuffling by with her cart.

Nothing could’ve prepared him for when you bent down in the canned vegetable aisle, your dress riding up and boasting the backs of your knees before him. He straightened, a strained sound rending from his throat.

To you, it was innocent as you reached towards the back of the shelf for a jar of kimchi. To him, you were temptation on legs, and had he not been a man of principle, of maddening patience, he would’ve done much more than appreciated the view.

Sylus cleared his throat, preparing to admonish you for being so clueless. But then, he felt them—heard them. Three men at the opposite side of the aisle, punks in their twenties, whispering, smirking, elbowing each other with less than savory thoughts on their breath.

He didn’t need to utter a word. He never was one to yell. Never one to beat on his chest, to gnash his teeth. Instead, he positioned himself between you and your greasy admirers, blotting out your frame with his larger one.

He faced them with a hand stuffed in his pocket, stance lax, yet exuding a wordless threat. He wore an emotionless mask, yet his eyes gleamed like heated steel as he stared them all down.

Their leers melted away, replaced by apprehension. Sylus didn’t flinch. He knew how to silence a room with a look alone. Three punks with their heads up their asses didn’t startle him in the slightest bit.

Sensing their impending demise, the men scattered, comically shoving against each other to be free of that iron-clad stare.

You turned as the last of them fled from the aisle, a question between your brows. Just in time for Sylus to face you, peering down into those round eyes, studying those puckered lips, the alluring slope of your neck.

“Are we finished here?” he pressed, plucking the jar from betwixt your fingers, and depositing it into the handbasket dangling from your wrist.

“Almost. Why? In a hurry?”

Your smile was ruinous. You were ruinous with your hands on your hips like that.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sighed, shutting his eyes as if a headache was building on the horizon.

He pressed past you, taking the basket with him, the curl of your perfume like knockout gas to his already crowded sense.

“Because I’d rather not fight everyone here for you,” he muttered.

You toddled curiously behind, still in that dress, still on those wedges. Still igniting every possessive synapse in his brain. Still slowly dismantling the steel wall built around the reservoir of his self-control.

He’d burn that dress when you made it home.

—

Laundry day.

You offered to wash a few of your roommate’s things after he returned from another real estate conference—one day, you’d fully catch on. You were already asking why he hadn’t consulted HR about how inconvenient these things were becoming.

As much as he insisted on handling his clothes himself, you pushed right back.

He looked like shit, eyes rimmed purple, shoulders coiled. You reasoned it was the least you could do to help lighten his load. He discovered it difficult to refuse—you were more tenacious than a man at the edge of his life, begging Sylus to spare it.

Rounding the kitchen, he padded into the laundry room, the last article of clothing for wash slung over his shoulder. He stilled in the threshold, stifling a chuckle amid the scent of sun-dried linen and the soft rock of the dryer.

You were on tippy-toe, fingers barely grazing the edge of the overhead cabinet. A glance inside revealed a box of dryer sheets just out of reach. You caught his amusement from your shoulder, eyes pleading, annoyed, calves straining.

“You just gonna stand there staring, or are you gonna help?”

He was behind you without much prompting. Close enough for static to prickle, for the sweep of your hair to barb his collarbones. You exuded warmth, the fragrance of your body wash wafting off your skin.

A hand perched on the dryer’s edge precariously close to your hip, Sylus plucked the box down, setting it on the dryer’s surface. He tensed when he realized he was caging you between the hot press of his body and warmed metal.

Sylus stood there longer than necessary, his mind short-circuiting. Of course you wore one of those oversized sweaters, a sleeve spilling off your shoulder, bearing pretty skin beneath. His mouth watered, lids shuttering. It would’ve taken nothing to press a little closer, to angle himself down, and to blister the nook of your neck with a kiss. It’s not like he hadn’t entertained the idea before.

You cautiously turned in the breath of space between your bodies. Static spiked, electrifying the hairs littering your bodies.

Your mouth spilled slightly open. You propped your hands on the dryer behind you, so achingly close to his. Your eyes dropped to his mouth, shrouded by bowed lashes, and he mirrored you. The world shaved itself down to this tense, pheromone-fueled point of time, the sounds attributed to your home fading into obscurity.

He discovered himself panning in, tempted to feel the suppleness of your mouth beneath his. You drew him to you like the gravity of an accretion disk surrounding a black hole. He was sinking past your event horizon, threatening to be swallowed in your vantablack abyss and rended to atoms at your singularity.

It didn’t help that you weren’t fighting him. Weren’t shoving against his chest, not working your mouth into an excuse, not pleading for space with your eyes.

With but an exhale of space between your quivering mouths, the universe reminded you of its existence.

It swelled back in like a tidal wave in the form of your Roomba chiming that obnoxious sound and startling to life.

You both eyed it with varying degrees of surprise as it mechanically swept over the tiled floor, unaware of the moment it dispelled. Sylus would have to modify it again. The thing had infuriating timing.

As if remembering yourselves, the pair of you sprang apart, excuses sloping off your tongue. You swept shaky hands over your hair, lips pulling into something anxious, and Sylus stepped back to ground himself.

“Sorry,” he rasped, swiping his tongue over his lips.

He threw the last of his clothes into the washer while you fought to bring your pulse down. Retreating from the laundry room, his skin still hummed from the pressure of your body so close. From the prospect of him almost kissing you.

He didn’t want to stop. And from the looks of it, neither did you. Tension was piling between you lately like a powdery blanket of snow.

For now, he couldn’t afford to let go. Not yet. Not until he was sure he could keep you safe and blind to the world he erected himself, brick by bloodied brick.

tags: @secretkiseki @beesin03 @animecrazy76 @blessdunrest @peascribbles @thirstblogforaparchedgirl @raginginferno267 @dyeinsomniadontwake @satansdaughter123 @nerezzaworlds-blog

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sturionic · 4 months ago

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HALT! Americans seeking to confidently and wrongly explain other countries' politics, and Canadians who failed 6th grade social studies:

Since I've just seen this for like the 20th time today, let's go over real quick some hot topics about the Canadian political system.

Did Prime Minister Trudeau "use the tariffs" as a power-grab to hold onto his seat? No, he did not. PM Trudeau resigned his seat and then agreed to stay on until the Liberal Party of Canada chose a new leader. He abided by the timeline he set, and did not stay a second longer than would have been expected of him under due Canadian process. He is now fini.

Did the New Democratic Party and the Conservative Party initiate a government shutdown? No. The Governor General initiated Parliament being prorogued (which they usually do under the advice of the sitting PM) - which is not remotely the same thing as a USA government shutdown. "Proroguing" parliament is basically hitting a big ol' pause/reset button on any legislative and funding decisions in progress. Everything else in the government continues on as normal. Whether a given Canadian agrees with the current rationale or not, the fact is that Canadian governments do this all the time. The NDP and Conservatives pledged to a future no-confidence vote, which does unseat the current PM - but this is still not the same thing as a government shutdown, and now the situation may change as the PM went ahead and beat them to it by resigning on his own.

Mark Carney is, as of Sunday, Canada's new PM-Designate. Was he (GASP) unelected?! Is this undemocratic?! This one's for the gajillion Americans I've seen spouting this garbage all over social media. Jesus christ no this is not how Canadian democracy works. If you see other Americans saying this, smack them upside the head for me, please and thank-you. Canadians do not elect the individual Prime Minister. In a federal election, you rock up to the booth and are given a ballot listing the MPs (Members of Parliament) for your riding (electoral district) - the idea being that you're voting for a local person who will then go forth and represent your riding's interests in Parliament. Your vote for an MP is also a vote for the political party they are attached to, unless they are an independent. The Prime Minister is elected by the party. Justin Trudeau stepped down as PM, so it is the responsibility of the LPC to elect his successor, and they chose Mark Carney, who won against several other LPC candidates running. No doubt Carney will trigger a general election soon, and the Canadian populace will have the chance to decide whether they like the LPC with Carney at the head any better than they liked the LPC with Trudeau at the head. 4. Are you saying all of this because you're a Liberal Party apologist/Trudeau defender/Carney fan?! No. The Liberal Party of Canada are a bunch of fucking ghouls and it shrivels my very soul that the federal NDP have fucked up every hand they've been dealt since 2015; so our viable choices are "party of fucking ghouls who have been sitting around in a dark room jerking each other's withered tallywhackers for the past century" or "Party who are very open about the fact that they are going to turn around, drop their pants, and sell the whole country to the USA for 50¢ the literal second they're elected." You can hate Canadian politicians or Canada as a country all you like. That said, holy shit, can we not confidently mislabel other countries' politics as 'undemocratic.' It is really, really, CRUCIALLY, FUCKING VITALLY important right now not to accidentally fall ass-first into the American government's strategy of "trying to make Canada look like an undemocratic backwater in need of 'saving'" because that is how the American government sets the stage for invasions of other countries. Please. Do better.

#canada #cdnpoli #politics #trade war #If you have any questions about cdnpoli I'm happy to answer em. drop me an ask!#Just don't...Americansplain Canadian politics to other Americans #OR TO ACTUAL CANADIANS. WHICH HAS HAPPENED TO ME MANY TIMES RECENTLY. GOOD GOD.#I have seen wrong wrong wrong bullshit that shows a fundamental misunderstanding of Canadian politics #coming from people who present themselves as political 'experts' and are very well spoken. So please do not blindly trust American sources #point to Canadian sources when possible #Thank you et merci!!#elly talks politics

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supremehavok · 6 days ago

Text

Indecent Proposal (two shot) | m.r |part two

plot: Two terrible things and then one amazing thing happens.

category: fluff

muse: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch

c/w: medical inaccuracies (I’m not a doctor I just play one on tv), bruising, Matteo in danger (he’s safe!), defibrillator accident, injured and mentions of injuries, suicidal ideation (brief mentions out of frustration about lying outside in the ambulance bay), no use of y/n

w/c: 2.4k

a/n: Part two yay! I’m so sorry I couldn’t help but use some ER inspo to help inspire some laughs. Don’t blame me, blame the writers for constantly causing John Carter harm and sometimes making it hilarious.

part one

One day. Robby nearly resigned to just giving himself the deadline of ‘one day’ for this goddamn proposal. Until only a literal single day passes and something just gives him the right kick in the ass to do it. Well, actually, it was three things. Two terrible things and one amazing thing. Normally, a shift would consist of at least forty terrible things followed up by two and a half okay-ish things, but the universe sometimes had a sense of humor.

One. 1:00 pm

It’s always such a beautiful miracle when someone in the ED finds time to actually sit down in the break room and have lunch. It doesn’t happen for everyone; it certainly doesn’t happen for Robby. That day it happened for the ever-so lucky Mateo. Gifted with good hair genes and a strike of good luck to find over fifteen minutes to eat lunch in the quiet of the breakroom.

No one really knows what happened, nor who was truly at fault: the toaster or Mateo.

All of the appliances in the breakroom were old, caked over with crust and decades-old ghosts of bagels past. One minute the pit was quiet, aside from a loudly groaning patient in exam 4, and the door to the breakroom was flung open, and out came the rusty toaster flying from the doorway. A large, murky cloud wafted out of the breakroom to cast a fuzzy sheen over the nurse’s station. In a matter of minutes the sprinkler system kicked in, showering the affected rooms with water.

Nurses were scrambling to cover any exposed paper files, an incoming gurney slid like a hydroplaning car and nearly took out Princess before she turned around. It was a mess, but it was contained until an unsuspecting loved one of a patient walked in from the center of the pit and let what remained of the smoke out into the hub.

You barely had time to look up from your computer before you were dripping wet and surrounded by chaos.

“Cover the computers and cords!” Dana called out as she tossed thin, plastic coverings to every nurse and doctor in sight.

You knelt down with a balled-up plastic covering in one fist towards the power strip. The second your fingers and plastic touched the soaked cords, a small flurry of sparks surged up. All there was was a sudden pull on your shoulders, and Robby was moving you away from the ruined strip of plugs, your back hitting his chest, his hands gripping your forearms.

“Okay. How about we don’t burn off those beautiful, life-saving fingers of yours, hm?” He presented a tight-lipped smile, a raise of his eyebrows.

The sprinklers continued to wreak havoc on the pit until the smoke was cleared. When they all suddenly stopped, a sigh of relief was heard across the entire floor. Then the aftermath came, and it came down hard. All the doctors and nurses were squishing in dripping shoes and all wearing scrubs that were stuck to their skin. Two computers in the hub were completely out of commission, and the floors were now more puddle than ground.

Robby and Dana ran around the entire ED trying to clean up the mess, with Esme mopping up the water, but no other sanitation workers from the other floors coming down. The pit was a giant hazard. You were doing your best to talk down some of the more irate patients who had had the unfortunate luck to be outside their exam rooms when the sprinklers went off. Many unkind words were exchanged—nothing new—but instead this time you were soaking wet and being verbally berated for things out of your control.

It was barely past noon, and the day already felt too long for everyone. For you, for Robby. The nail in the coffin was when everything began to subside into sweet harmony and Robby went to the scrub dispenser only to see the words ERROR: INSUFFICIENT QUANTITY. Empty, all out for the day. Robby sighed and tapped his forehead to the machine, taking in his situation and resigning himself to his fate for the rest of the day.

“You should get out of those wet clothes; you’ll catch a cold,” Dana said as she watched Robby walk past the nurse’s station towards the door to the ambulance bay.

“Actually, I think I’m just going to go lie outside in the sun for a while. Maybe an ambulance will come back over me,” he grumbled back just as his hands pushed out to open the door and take a minute out in the sun. God knows he needed it.

Two. 8:30 pm

Everything was going so smoothly, and it would’ve continued on that way until Perlah peeked her head out from Room 17. “I need a crash cart in here; his stats are dropping,” she called out, and all the scuttles of shoes across the smooth hospital floors followed after. Javadi and Whitaker pushed the crash cart down the way and sharply turned into Room 17, with Robby following after. Everything was working like clockwork. The cold metal of his stethoscope pressed to the patient’s chest to check breathing patterns, Perlah checked pupils, and Javadi and Whitaker tried to keep track of every movement as the tedious beeps of the machines echoed in their ears. Every question had an answer, and Robby was quickly teaching the two young medical students behind him how to safely bring the slowly dwindling patient back to stable stats.

“Alright, let’s do lidocaine 150, IV push,” Robby said clearly. “Javadi, paddles.” Robby turned around, hands out with the expectation to be handed the defibrillator paddles, but was instead met with the force of what felt like a hundred-pound animal kicking its back legs into his chest. In reality, Javadi had tried to hand him the paddles, but in her haste to be as alert as possible, she stepped right into Robby’s space once he was turned around and pressed those charged paddles right into his chest. Every muscle in his body seized at once, and his legs felt the sting of pins and needles right before he lost his bearings and fell—but not before hitting his head on the railing of a gurney on the way down.

It was safe to say that Javadi was horrified, terrified that she may have killed her attendant, and the patient was still in AFib with the numbers getting worse and worse by the second. Javadi didn’t even let go of the paddles; she just let her big eyes search the room until she saw you walking by the doorway, and she called out to you for help. You stopped in your tracks, and just with the slight glance into the room, you could see how needed your services were. Robby was still on the floor, machines practically screaming, and very little movement occurring besides Perlah maintaining the steady beats of CPR.

“What happened?” you asked as you stepped around and grabbed the defibrillator from Javadi, allowing Whitaker to squirt a glob of gel on the paddles.

“I shocked Dr. Robby with the defibrillator,” Javadi admired with a squinted crease in her eyes.

“Accidentally,” Whitaker added swiftly.

“And then he hit his head,” Javadi finished the tale.

“What was it set on?”

“200.”

You relented once you were ready with the paddles in your hand, “He should be fine.”

Clear!

All hands on deck until the patient stabilized. A few jolts, a few bated breaths, and tense muscles. You set the defibrillator back on the crash cart and knelt down beside Robby, your arm looping around his forearm to help him up. You waved Whitaker and Javadi out and then turned to Perlah, “I’m going to take him to exam room 4.”

He could stand on his own, groan to himself about the fall he took, and reluctantly walk off into the empty exam room to let you check him over. You snapped the latex gloves onto your hands, your fingers flexing inside them for a moment as you glanced over him with just your eyes. You brought over the rolling stool and plopped down on it to bring yourself into his orbit, your hands immediately going up to touch his jawline, readjusting his head to check the mark forming just above his hairline.

“I think we both deserve a day off, given everything that’s happened,” you remarked, a small laugh escaping your lips. The adhesive of the butterfly closure on the bridge of your tender nose still creases even when you tried so hard not to move it as you let the fluttering chuckle leave.

Robby exhaled through his nose; he rubbed the back of his neck out of habit. He was clearly a bit thrown from the incident, tired, and just all around checked out for the day.

“I think it’s just a skin bruise. Now we have matching superficials,” the corner of your mouth began to curl up in a smile.

“I think yours is a bit more becoming.” Robby extended his finger out, a featherlight touch of his fingertip danced along the curve of the butterfly closure. His eyes were tired but focused all on you.

“Yeah, well, either way no one really loves to look at injured doctors.”

When you touched his chest tentatively, he hissed. “Tender, yeah?” he nodded. You made a note to get him something for the soreness in his chest. The thought remained smashed between a few other feuding convictions. It was written across your face. The way your lips moved to be pressed into a firm line, how your eyes drifted downward to avoid any fatal eye contact, the soft scraping of latex friction as your hands fidgeted.

“Your scrubs are still a little bit damp. That probably saved you a bit when you got shocked,” you added, your voice getting smaller.

“At least one good thing came from that.”

You just nodded. Your hands just kept rubbing together, and when the latex made a horrific sound as they created friction, you finally had enough and just let your lips move without focusing too much on the words that followed.

“Michael, I know that things haven’t always been easy for either of us. Every time things seem to be going so well, suddenly everything is crumbling all around us. It’s hard here. So when I step outside after a shift and I feel like I’m never going to stop crying, or that I won’t be able to get a decent night’s sleep, all I have to do is remember that you’re right there beside me.” The words ran like a river, a lump forming in your throat making your voice become shy. “You’re always right there next to me. And I never want that to change. I want to go home every night and be with you, share a bed with you always, and wake up every morning to you holding my hand.”

And then something amazing happened. 8:59 pm.

Robby’s eyes slowly began to perk up with realization. There was no way. There was no way you were about to beat him to this proposal after he agonized over this for months. You felt like he was both in shock and in awe, and he didn’t bother to try and stop this moment; his heart felt like it was practically beating in his throat.

“I don’t have a wedding band or anything like that, I’m sorry. I sort of didn’t plan this. I mean, I’d been thinking about it for a long time, but I didn’t think today would be the day I would actually stop being too scared to do it. Must be something in the water,” you laughed weakly, your hand reached out to take one of his, and immediately felt him squeeze tightly. “Will you marry me?”

It was so quiet for a second, a second that felt like it was stretched out over an infinite period. Robby smiled; his eyes were watery like yours. He let out a small, breathy laugh before nodding, “Of course I’ll marry you. There isn’t anyone else in the world that I could picture this moment with.” Robby glanced down at one of the many pockets of his pants, the slight weight evident in one of them. He reached down and opened the pocket and retrieved the purple velvet ring box and held it tightly in his hand.

“Lucky for you, I thought ahead for both of us,” he chuckled breathlessly, presenting the ring as he opened the box. “I love you so much. Sometimes it feels like I’m actually losing my mind; I overthink every little thing when it comes to you. I just want you to have everything that you deserve, which is nothing short of the entire world. I was going to do this months ago, but no time felt right. I wanted things to be perfect, ideal. I guess being damp with a sore chest and head is as ideal as I’ll get. It doesn’t hurt so much anymore. I could get struck by lightning right now, but as long as you keep looking at me with those eyes, I don’t think I’d mind in the slightest.”

Robby plucked the ring from the pocket and held it near your hand that he still had grasped. “I’d be honored to marry you. Would you be so kind as to grant me the same? Would you spend the rest of your life with me?”

Your chest felt tight, your hand was shaking in his, and it seemed like you’d never get your eyes to focus fully on the delicate ring Robby presented to you. The glint of the gem felt like the blinding rays of the sun just from the sheer surprise you felt from looking at it. You shut your eyes briefly, and warm tears spilled and ran down the curve of your cheeks.

“Yes,” was all you could manage before your bottom lip began to tremble like a leaf in a windstorm. You stepped off the stool and let Robby pull you in closer. He slipped the ring onto your finger with ease before wrapping his arms around your waist and looking up, which closed the small gap between your lips. There was no pain, no noise. There was only the promise of a future with the one person who understood and cared for you better than anyone else in your life.

“You did good,” you muttered as your lips separated with a soft pop, “this was perfect.”

tagged:@slutforataco

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mostlysignssomeportents · 6 months ago

Text

Keir Starmer appoints Jeff Bezos as his “first buddy”

Picks and Shovels is a new, standalone technothriller starring Marty Hench, my two-fisted, hard-fighting, tech-scam-busting forensic accountant. You can pre-order it on my latest Kickstarter, which features a brilliant audiobook read by Wil Wheaton.

Turns out Donald Trump isn't the only world leader with a tech billionaire "first buddy" who gets to serve as an unaccountable, self-interested de facto business regulator. UK PM Keir Starmer has just handed the keys to the British economy over to Jeff Bezos.

Oh, not literally. But here's what's happened: the UK's Competitions and Markets Authority, an organisation charged with investigating and punishing tech monopolists (like Amazon) has just been turned over to Doug Gurr, the guy who used to run Amazon UK.

This is – incredibly – even worse than it sounds. Marcus Bokkerink, the outgoing head of the CMA, was amazing, and he had charge over the CMA's Digital Markets Unit, the largest, best-staffed technical body of any competition regulator, anywhere in the world. The DMU uses its investigatory powers to dig deep into complex monopolistic businesses like Amazon, and just last year, the DMU was given new enforcement powers that would let it custom-craft regulations to address tech monopolization (again, like Amazon's).

But it's even worse. The CMA and DMU are the headwaters of a global system of super-effective Big Tech regulation. The CMA's deeply investigated reports on tech monopolists are used as the basis for EU regulations and enforcement actions, and these actions are then re-run by other world governments, like South Korea and Japan:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/10/an-injury-to-one/#is-an-injury-to-all

The CMA is the global convener and ringleader in tech antitrust, in other words. Smaller and/or poorer countries that lack the resources to investigate and build a case against US Big Tech companies have been able to copy-paste the work of the CMA and hold these companies to account. The CMA invites (or used to invite) all of these competition regulators to its HQ in Canary Wharf for conferences where they plan global strategy against these monopolists:

https://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/cma-data-technology-and-analytics-conference-2022-registration-308678625077

Firing the guy who is making all this happening and replacing him with Amazon's UK boss is a breathtaking display of regulatory capture by Starmer, his business secretary Jonathan Reynolds, and his exchequer, Rachel Reeves.

But it gets even worse, because Amazon isn't just any tech monopolist. Amazon is a many-tentacled kraken built around an e-commerce empire. Antitrust regulators elsewhere have laid bare how Amazon uses that retail monopoly to take control over whole economies, while raising prices and crushing small businesses.

To understand Amazon's market power, first you have to understand "monopsonies" – markets dominated by buyers (monopolies are markets dominated by sellers – Amazon is both a monopolist and a monopsonist). Monopsonies are far more dangerous than monopolies, because they are easier to establish and easier to defend against competitors. Say a single retailer accounts for 30% of your sales: there isn't a business in the world that can survive an overnight 30% drop in sales, so that 30% market share might as well be 100%. Once your order is big enough that canceling it would bankrupt your supplier, you have near-total control over that supplier.

Amazon boasts about this. They call it "the flywheel": Amazon locks in shoppers (by getting them to prepay for a year's worth of shipping in advance, via Prime). The fact that a business can't sell to a large proportion of households if it's not on Amazon gives Amazon near-total power over that business. Amazon uses that power to demand discounts and charge junk fees to the businesses that rely on it. This allows it to lower prices, which brings in more customers, which means that even more businesses have to do business with Amazon to stay afloat:

https://vimeo.com/739486256/00a0a7379a

That's Amazon's version, anyway. In reality, it's a lot scuzzier. Amazon doesn't just demand deep discounts from its suppliers – it demand unsustainable discounts from them. For example, Amazon targeted small publishers with a program called the "Gazelle Project." Jeff Bezos told his negotiators to bring down these publishers "the way a cheetah would pursue a sickly gazelle":

https://archive.nytimes.com/bits.blogs.nytimes.com/2013/10/22/a-new-book-portrays-amazon-as-bully/

The idea was to get a bunch of cheap books for the Kindle to help it achieve critical mass, at the expense of driving these publishers out of business. They were a kind of disposable rocket stage for Amazon.

Deep discounts aren't the only way that Amazon feeds off its suppliers: it also lards junk-fee atop junk-fee. For every pound Amazon makes from its customers, it rakes in 45-51p in fees:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/29/aethelred-the-unready/#not-one-penny-for-tribute

Now, just like there's no business that can survive losing 30% of its sales overnight, there's also no business that can afford to hand 45-51% of its gross margin to a retailer. For businesses to survive at all on Amazon, they have to jack their prices up – way up. However, Amazon has an anticompetitive deal called "most favoured nation status" that forces suppliers to sell their goods on Amazon at the same price as they sell them elsewhere (even from their own stores). So when companies raise their prices in order to pay ransom to Amazon, they have to raise their prices everywhere. Far from being a force for low prices, Amazon makes prices go up everywhere, from the big Tesco's to the corner shop:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/25/greedflation/#commissar-bezos

Amazon makes so much money off of this scam that it doesn't have to pay anything to ship its own goods – the profits from overcharging merchants for "fulfillment by Amazon" pay for all the shipping, on everything Amazon sells:

https://cdn.ilsr.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/03/AmazonMonopolyTollbooth-2023.pdf

Amazon competes with its own sellers, but unlike those sellers, it doesn't have to pay a 45-51% rake – and it can make its competitor-customers cover the full cost of its own shipping! On top of that, Amazon maintains the pretense that its headquarters are in Luxembourg, the tax- and crime-haven, and pays a fraction of the taxes that British businesses pay to HMRC (and that's not counting the 45-51% tax they pay to Jeff Bezos's monoposony).

That's not the only way that Amazon unfairly competes with British businesses, though: Amazon uses its position as a middleman between buyers and sellers to identify the most successful products sold by its own customers. Then it copies those products and sells them below the original inventor's costs (because it gets free shipping, pays no tax, and doesn't have to pay its own junk fees), and drives those businesses into the ground. Even Jeff "Project Gazelle" Bezos seems to understand that this is a bad look, which is why he perjured himself to the American Congress when he was questioned under oath about it:

https://www.bbc.com/news/business-58961836

Amazon then places its knockoff products above the original goods on its search results page. Amazon makes $38b selling off placement on these search pages, and the top results for an Amazon search aren't the best matches for your query – they're the ones that pay the most. On average, Amazon's top result for a search is 29% more expensive than the best match on the site. On average, the top row of results is 25% more expensive than the best match on the site. On average, Amazon buries the best result for your search 17 places down the results page:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/03/subprime-attention-rent-crisis/#euthanize-rentiers

Amazon, in other words, acts like the business regulator for the economies it dominates. It decides what can be sold, and at what prices. It decides whose products come up when you search, and thus which businesses deserve to live and which ones deserve to die. An economy dominated by Amazon isn't a market economy – it's a planned economy, run by Party Secretary Bezos for the benefit of Amazon's shareholders.

Now, there is a role for a business regulator, because some businesses really don't deserve to live (because they sell harmful products, engage in deceptive practices, etc). The UK has a regulator that's in charge of this stuff: the Competition and Markets Authority, which is now going to be run by Jeff Bezos's hand-picked UK Amazon boss. That means that Amazon is now both the official and the unofficial central planner of the UK economy, with a free hand to raise prices, lower quality, and destroy British businesses, while hiding its profits in Luxemourg and starving the exchequer of taxes.

The "first buddy" role that Keir Starmer just handed over to Jeff Bezos is, in every way, more generous than the first buddy deal Trump gave Elon Musk.

Starmer's government claims they're doing this for "growth" but Amazon isn't a force for growth, it's force for extraction. It is a notorious underpayer of its labour force, a notorious tax-cheat, and a world-beating destroyer of local economies, local jobs, and local tax bases. Contrary to Amazon's own self-mythologizing, it doesn't deliver lower prices – it raises prices throughout the economy. It doesn't improve quality – this is a company whose algorithmic recommendation system failed to recognize that an "energy drink" was actually its own drivers' bottled piss, which it then promoted until it was the best-selling energy drink on the platform:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/20/release-energy/#the-bitterest-lemon

There's a reason that the UK, the EU, Japan and South Korea found it so easy to collaborate on antitrust cases against American companies: these are all countries whose competition law was rewritten by American technocrats during the Marshall Plan, modeled on the US's own laws. The bedrock of US competition law is 1890's Sherman Act, whose author, Senator John Sherman, declared that:

If we will not endure a King as a political power we should not endure a King over the production, transportation, and sale of the necessaries of life. If we would not submit to an emperor we should not submit to an autocrat of trade with power to prevent competition and to fix the price of any commodity.

https://pluralistic.net/2022/02/20/we-should-not-endure-a-king/

Jeff Bezos is the autocrat of trade that John Sherman warned us about, 135 years ago. And Keir Starmer just abdicated in his favour.

Check out my Kickstarter to pre-order copies of my next novel, Picks and Shovels!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/22/autocrats-of-trade/#dingo-babysitter

Image: UK Parliament/Maria Unger (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Keir_Starmer_2024.jpg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

Steve Jurvetson (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Jeff_Bezos%27_iconic_laugh.jpg

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en

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evilwickedme · 1 year ago

Text

It's so clear to me that so many so called "anti Zionists" - especially the non Palestinian goyim - have no idea how the Israeli election system works, and how bibi remains in power, and why we had five elections in like, three years, despite elections supposedly being every four years - because he couldn't keep a government stable enough to stay in power. Bibi netanyahu is MASSIVELY unpopular, and his approval rate has tanked even more since the war started, even among likud voters, the people who vote for HIS party (although their approval rates ranked less than the rest of the population). He has an extreme right wing government because if he didn't cooperate with right wing extremists and haredim he straight up wouldn't have the majority he needs to be our prime minister in the first place. He's been on trial for corruption for years at this point, and tried to completely restructure the judicial system just to avoid prison - leading to nearly a full year of protests until Oct 7. Luckily it didn't end up passing.

If elections were held at any point in the last five months since this war started, not only would he not be PM, we'd straight up have a center-left government. My recent transformation into a Yair Golan stan account is a joke but also 100% real - according to polls from the last three months or so, if he does what he's campaigning to do, leading a combined avoda and meretz party, he'd get enough votes to have an actual influential left wing party in the government for the first time in decades. An unbelievable amount of Israelis are calling for bibi to resign, many of them not calling for it to happen after the war ends, but right now.

I am sourcing this information from polls conducted by channels 11 (kan), 12, and 13, as well as by the Israeli democracy foundation, all but one of our important news channels - channel 14, the last channel, is our equivalent of fox news, and despite their numbers often being extremely different due to what is in my opinion biased reporting and flawed methodology, even they at times have had to admit that gantz is currently leading in the polls.

(Disclaimer that I work for a company that provides subtitles for channel 13, but i do not directly work for channel 13. Channel 13 leans mostly center left, and employs several (self identified) Arab Israelis in front of the camera, including Lucy Aharish, who makes considerable effort to bring Palestinian and Bedouin perspectives to her show. It also employs at least one massive racist though.)

I write this post because I keep seeing an unsourced claim by goyim that there's a poll showing a high rate of approval - 88%! - of the destruction and/or deaths Israel and the IDF are causing in Gaza. I went down a rabbit hole and simply couldn't find a poll asking about approval of deaths or destruction, although maybe I was looking up the wrong keywords? As a result I have just... So many questions. Because with the information I have from trustworthy local news sources, from the news channels I mentioned above and papers such as yediot aharonot/ynet and Haaretz, it doesn't fit with current public opinion, including many recent protests for more efforts towards a ceasefire. So my questions are thus -

Who conducted this poll? Was it a think tank, a government agency, a paper, a news channel? If so, which one? Are they left leaning, right leaning? Was it conducted by an Israeli or foreign institution?

Who did they ask? Was it a sample of likud voters; all Israeli adults; did they include only Jewish Israelis or also Arab citizens (approx. 1.5 million out of our 8 million population), Bedouins, and other minorities?

When was the poll conducted? Was it in October, immediately after the Oct 7 massacre, before the death toll in Gaza grew? Was it conducted more recently?

What, exactly, did they ask? Did they ask about destruction in general, or about the death toll in particular? Did they ask about the attempts to rescue hostages with military means, or all military actions? Did they ask about the number of Hamas operatives dead, about their estimated ratio of Hamas to civilians, about the total deaths?

What was the size of the pool surveyed? Was it conducted on a few dozen, a few hundred, or a few thousand people?

Because without this information, that one, sole statistic is essentially useless. As Mark Twain said, there are lies, damned lies, and statistics. Always look at the source and ask: who asked the questions, who got asked, and what the questions were.

More specific statistics and sources under the cut.

I did find one survey by the Israel democracy foundation that asked if the IDF should take the Gazan suffering into account - an entirely different question, although it did still have a horrific 89% Jewish Israelis and 14% Arab Israelis and Palestinian citizens who said they shouldn't. That said, the pool they were drawing from was not very large - 500 of the interviews were conducted in Hebrew, 100 were conducted in Arabic. Also, of the people who supposedly said that they shouldn't, a little more than half of both populations said they should "somewhat" take it into account - that is, they didn't say they shouldn't take it into account at all, just not make it their first priority. This survey was conducted mid December.

In another survey by the same source with a slight larger sample size (a little over 600 Jewish Israelis and a little over 150 Arab Israelis), an insanely low 15% still wanted Bibi to be the PM, with the only candidate who received more than 6.5% being the center candidate Benny Gantz, who historically has tried to cooperate with center and left parties, with a whopping 23% of the votes. The survey included 10 candidates, as well as five other non candidate options. 4% voted "just not Bibi", and an actually insane 30.5% voted they were undecided. Only a quarter of those surveyed believed Bibi would manage to maintain a coalition after the war, a number that includes more extreme right wing voters, and only the ultra Orthodox haredi population had a majority of people (60%) who believed he can. This survey was conducted in January.

The channel 13 news survey from early March - barely over a week ago! - covered more specifically which parties would manage to get into the government and how many seats they would get, as under a certain amount of votes you simply do not get seats. Not all seats get into a coalition. According to their poll, the amount of seats the likud would get is halved, from 32 to 17, while gantz's the state camp would grow from 12 to 39. While currently meretz gets 4 seats and haavodah do not get enough votes to get a seat at the table so to speak, a combined haavodah and meretz under Yair Golan gets 9 mandates. In total, the right wing only get 47 mandates, well short of the amount of mandates necessary to create a government.

Channel 12's corresponding poll from January shows 35 mandates for gantz, and bibi had 18 mandates. Channel 11, in the same month, gave gantz 33 mandates and bibi 20.

I also sources an English Jerusalem post article which reports on channel 14's polls; jpost is a right wing biased paper, and yet even they report 36 mandates for gantz and 18 for bibi as of February.

Sources

The Israel democracy institute: 1 (English), 2 (Hebrew), 3 (Hebrew)

Haaretz: 1 (English) (paywalled)

Channel 13: 1 (Hebrew)

Ma'ariv: 1 (Hebrew) (reporting on channel 12)

Podcast which summarizes the above article: 1 (English) (includes transcript)

Kan 11: 1 (Hebrew)

Jpost: 1 (Hebrew)

#gail speaks #i/p #israel hamas war #jew tag #bibi netanyahu #benny gantz #yair golan posting #yair golan #jumblr

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saywhat-politics · 3 months ago

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'A shocking abuse of power' | Judge blocks Trump order targeting firm representing Dominion Voting Systems in election defamation suits

U.S. District Judge Loren AliKhan said President Donald Trump's order against Susman Godfrey amounted to a "personal vendetta."

Author: Jordan Fischer

Published: 4:24 PM EDT April 15, 2025

Updated: 4:24 PM EDT April 15, 2025

WASHINGTON — A federal judge blocked the Trump administration Tuesday from enforcing an executive order targeting the law firm Susman Godfrey, saying it amounted to little more than an unconstitutional “personal vendetta.”

“Frankly, I think the Framers of our Constitution would see this as a shocking abuse of power,” U.S. District Judge Loren AliKhan said.

Susman Godfrey became the latest law firm targeted by President Donald Trump last week in an order directing his administration to revoke security clearances and contracts from the firm and bar its employees from federal government buildings. The order claimed the firm represented a national security risk over its efforts to “weaponize the American legal system and degrade the quality of American elections.”

AliKhan said Tuesday it was “highly likely” Susman Godfrey would be able to prove those allegations were veiled references to its work representing Dominion Voting Systems and state officials in litigation following the 2020 election. Most notably, the firm represented Dominion in its defamation lawsuit against Fox News, which the right-wing network settled in 2023 for $787 million to avoid a trial. Susman Godfrey is also representing Dominion in its ongoing lawsuits against MyPillow CEO Mike Lindell and a second right-wing outlet, Newsmax. The lawsuit against Newsmax was scheduled to begin trial over damages later this month after a judge in Delaware found last week the broadcaster had defamed Dominion by falsely claiming it had rigged votes.

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freyrenergyservice · 1 year ago

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Maximize Your Savings with a 3kW Solar Power System: Price, Subsidy, and Benefits in India

Are you ready to transform your energy consumption and maximize your savings? A 3kW solar power system could be the ideal solution for your home. In this guide, we'll dive into the price, subsidies, and benefits of installing a 3kW solar power system in India.

Price of a 3kW Solar Power System:

The cost of a 3kW solar power system in India ranges between ₹2.30 lakh to ₹2.50 lakh. This price includes the solar panels, inverter, mounting structures, wiring, and installation. The investment might seem substantial, but the long-term savings on your electricity bills will make it worthwhile.

Government Subsidy of 3kw Solar Panel System:

One of the major perks of installing a 3kW solar power system is the government subsidy under the PM Surya Ghar Muft Bijli Yojana Scheme. You can receive a subsidy of up to ₹78,000, which significantly reduces the initial cost. This financial support makes solar power more accessible and affordable for households across India.

Specifications of a 3kW Solar Power System:

A typical 3kW solar power system includes:

Solar Panels: 9-12 high-efficiency panels.

Inverter: A reliable inverter to convert DC to AC.

Mounting Structures: Sturdy, corrosion-resistant supports.

Wiring and Accessories: High-quality cables and connectors.

This system is capable of generating approximately 12-15 units of electricity per day, depending on the location and sunlight availability.

Benefits of a 3kW Solar Power System:

Cost Savings: Substantial reduction in electricity bills, with the system paying for itself over time through savings.

Environmental Impact: Solar energy is a renewable and clean power source, helping you reduce your carbon footprint and fight climate change.

Energy Independence: Minimize your dependency on grid electricity and protect yourself from rising energy costs.

Increased Property Value: Homes with solar energy systems often have a higher property value.

Low Maintenance: Solar power systems require minimal maintenance, providing long-term benefits with little hassle.

Conclusion:

Investing in a 3kW solar power system is a strategic move towards a sustainable and cost-effective energy solution. The combination of reduced electricity bills, government subsidies, and environmental benefits makes it a compelling choice. Take the first step towards energy independence and significant savings by contacting a trusted solar provider today. Maximize your savings with a 3kW solar panel system and embrace the future of energy.

#3kw solar power system #3kw solar panel price #3kw solar panel system #solar energy system #solar power installation #benefits of solar energy #solar panel price in India #PM Surya Ghar Muft Bijli #solar panel system #PM Surya Ghar Muft Bijli Yojana #PM Surya Ghar #solar panel price

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i-am-aprl · 1 year ago

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“Former Malaysian PM calls for end to UN veto rights” and we couldn’t agree more. For UN Security Council ‘veto power’ has been abused to push forward one agenda and one agenda only. If you want a fair and proper functional system reform UNSC.

#palestine #gaza #malasiya #free gaza #فلسطين #free palestine #israeli war crimes #israel #jerusalem #i stand with palestine #israel is a terrorist state #un #us veto #Veto

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transboyswitchytales · 30 days ago

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Blood In The Water (NSFW) - Part 2

Claire DeBella x Reader x Maya Mason -🔪 DARK FIC - DEAD DOVE🔪

WARNINGS: Sexual Assault / Manipulation / Stockholm Syndrome / Mommy Kink / Imprisionment / Kidnapping / Absuse / Knives and sharp object warning / Blood / Starvation Techniques / Sexual Humiliatino / Reward System is fucked / Grey Maya / Dead Dove Don't Eat / Claire is rich and crazy / Past Trauma Helps Claire Manipulate R / Fisting / Squirting / Mastubration Humiliation / Kink Shaming Kink / Mean Claire Kink / UNRELIABLE NARRATOR / Fetish Sexual Slavery / Claire is Smart Don't Forget it / Reader is in the midst of Stockholm Syndrome next chapter she fights more /Time is an Illustion Reader / VICTIM BLAMING NOT SANE

Part 1 (catch up on how we got captured)

Request by Anon:Reader is also smart so how about using the only tool she has, herself. Maybe Reader is trying to dismantle the alliance between Claire and Maya. Reader takes advantage of her moments alone with Maya to 'show' her affection and SLOWLY insinuate that it would be better if it was just the two of them (Maya and Reader). Knowing Maya's personality and the temptation of having Reader for herself; Reader convinces Maya to escape. Maya can arrange everything so that they flee without raising suspicions and go far away.

First, we must sink my friends.

I been trying not to go off the deep end I don't think you wanna give me a reason

To understand the ease in which you fell into Stockholm Syndrome, you must first understand the cage.

Your cage was that of a five-million-dollar mansion somewhere in Connecticut.

Doesn’t sound like a bad life, some might say.

You had a library fit for any Pintrest bitches vision board, the mansion was set with fourteen rooms, a four car garage, the master had a rain shower and a jet tub, fixed with a walk in closet bigger than any apartment you’d ever lived in. The oak floors were heated, and every appliance was smarter than a fifth grader.

The second floor theater room housed a thirty thousand dollar projector and surround sound, the game room homed a pool table, two offices had mahogany bar’s in the corners. These walls, if the could talk, could indict a politician and make the catholic church release a statement of apology.

It was a velvet cage really.

You had a fourty foot, heated pool with gorgeous lights, and a hot tub that should be used to shoot porn in.

The backyard was a designers wet dream, outdoor fireplace, an outside TV, fully stocked bar, and kitchen.

This big of a house of course had staff, as rich people tend to acquire.

Money and power seemed to get you things, things everyday people didn’t think possible.

It also bought silence, but more on that later.

They came in every Tuesday between two pm and left before seven.

They were like good little workers, the mice in Cinderella is an accurate way to describe this team.

The house was cleaned pristine in that time, and food was restocked in the fridge. Pool didn’t have a single leaf, snacks stocked in Theater room.

Not a spec of dust on any surface, books re-organized.

Creepy really…

Anyone would love the sound of this house.

But this was not a house, this was not your home.

This was your cage.

Now, you are a smart person, both street smart and book smart.

You had a high IQ.

You had a fancy job in L.A, you made movies…at least you used to.

You used to….well, do a lot of things. Like have big parties, a mansion, a fucking retirement plan and a life.

That was before, all of that was before.

Your grandmother had a bird when you went to boarding school, you stayed with her for a month before you left. And that damn bird never shut up, it clanged against it’s cage like it was insane. Life inside the cage was worse than anything out of it.

The author of Fahrenheit 451, Ray Bradbury, once said;

“Insanity is relative. It depends on who has who locked in what cage.”

You understood now why that bird broke his neck on the bars of the cage.

And you understood that you were smarter than that fucking bird.

You had reached a new level of insanity, and it was maddening.

But you were locked in.

The house was a cage, and you were fucking insane.

Claire put cameras in every inch of the house.

She put you in the basement for the first month.

You screamed day and night for the first two days. You think it was two days, time was getting strange quickly.

You heard them cleaning upstairs, and they never even checked to what the sound of that poor bitch downstairs was.

Money and power made the common people scared.

Maya was instructed by Claire to not speak to you, and she listened for the first three weeks.

Which was crazy, you’d never seen Maya be quiet.

But she brought you food, and she locked the door.

You threw things, you smashed mirrors and tried to make weapons. You tried to break the small window only to find it had bars on the outside.

A large man with shades came in with Maya.

He had a very rude electric friend.

You learned from pain and violence what Maya and Claire wanted.

Because Mr. Men in Black used a cattle prod to electrocute you into submission.

You had a mean streak it turned out, and you tried to ignore the voltages running through your body.

But as the first month came to a close.

You fucking missed conversation.

You hated to fucking admitt it.

But you wanted to go upstairs so badly.

And you started to look forward to seeing Maya bringing you food.

They must have done their research on Stockhome Syndrome.

Because you were having a hard time fighting now, a month and no one came for you. No police or FBI? How was that possible?

Your basement had a bed, a bathroom (with a broken mirror), one window that was now fixed and clouded over, and that was it.

And you were so fucking bored.

You’d thoguht they would come in and sexually assault you every day.

You thought you’d get to bite and punch and fight.

But Claire DeBella was smart, and she did exactly what she’d promised in the car that day.

She was breaking you.

You missed the conversation more than you thought possible.

They’d given you no TV, nothing to write with, no books, nothing for stimulation.

So it was on a regular boring ass day of you laying on the bed and staring at the ceiling that a click of the door made you jump.

This wasn’t Maya’s normal time at all.

And the giant guy with shades didn’t walk in.

Governor Claire DeBella did, in her heels and nice dress pants and dress shirt.

She smiled at you, and you thought about trying to hurt her.

But you stopped, and that pissed you off so much. However, you’d learned through pain, through a caddle prod to the stomach and limbs over and over, that fighting would not work.

So you needed to be a smarter bird.

“Hi.” Your voice cracked, you’d only yelled at Maya and begged, pleaded, and cried.

Conversation was new for you.

Claire stopped at the bottom of the stairs and eyed you curiously before she gestured to the spot at the end of your bed.

You nodded and scooted to crisscross your legs on the mattress. Claire kicked off her heels under your bed and then sat on the mattress next to you.

You didn’t let your eyes travel down to the heels, you knew they could be used as a weapon, but you also knew you didn’t want to be alone another minute.

Perhaps you were insane, now.

This was Stockholm syndrome, and it only took a month, strange.

“You seem to be in good spirits today.” Claire mused at you not attacking her and not yelling.

“You haven’t come to see me yet.” You decide on that instead. You wondered if they’d defanged you now.

Claire smiles sadly for a second and then looks around your basement.

“Would you have wanted me to?”

“I..I don’t know.” You can’t believe those words came out of your mouth. Claire thinks about your phrase, and she seems to be debating something.

“Do you know where you are?” She says, and it doesn’t sound condescending like you thought it might.

“Connecticut, your home?”

“That’s right,” Claire says, and she looks towards the stairs. “You know how long you’ve been in here?”

“A month.” You say, and you wonder if she’s doing some kind of cognitive test on you, to see if you are still with it. Claire shakes her head.

“No, Honey, you’ve been in here for two months now.”

You try not to panic at that fact, and you wonder if she’s lying to freak you out. But you can’t figure out if a month or two months in here really matter in the grand scheme of things. You weren’t getting out, and no one was looking for you. So, what did time really matter now?

“Claire?” You ask and she waits for you. “Why am I down here?”

“I wanted you to get out all of your anger in here. But when you decided to accept your new life, I was going to start giving you things again.”

“Things?” You say, and it sounds more excited than you want it to, and Claire notices.

“Yeah, sweetheart, if you can behave, no more mirror knives, escape attempts, and throwing food. We won’t need the cattle prod and quarantine. I’ll give you full use of the house, and you can swim and read. You can watch movies again.” Claire says, and her tone is gentle, and you perk up at the idea of movies.

You think Claire and Maya must have spoken, she just hit your currency. You’d get to watch movies again. You looked down at your lap.

“What would I need to do…to get those things?” You feel like a traitor to yourself, but you were ready to do anything to get some kind of mental stimulation.

Claire turns her hand over and waits, but the message is clear: she wanted you to reach out to her. She wanted you to decide to touch her, and if you didn’t, you didn’t know what would happen. But you had bruises that made your guess of pain pretty clear.

However, it was interesting that Claire was making you decide, like she wanted your surrender.

And you hated her.

And you hated yourself.

Because you reached out slowly and put your hand in hers. Claire softly moved your palm up in her own and used her left hand to trace the new scars from the first week. From the broken glass and mirror in your hand.

Her eyes were fixated on the scars, and you wondered what your monster was thinking.

“If you can prove that you can be a good girl,” Claire says and you shiver, and her mouth twitches in enjoyment at your response. You don’t know why you shiver, but your body does it anyway.

“How?” You press and you don’t know why Claire’s touch is so good.

But you haven’t been touched in…two months was it? Was this you being touch starved?

What was happening?

“As of Today, I’ll start allowing you more things, and if you can follow the rules. If you can behave, I’ll give you more. Mommy wants you to succeed.” Claire says, and she guages you reaction.

The memory of that night at the penthouse comes back in flashes now.

“Mommy no!!” You bit your lip to stop the feeling of your pussy being a super soaker. But Claire found your cervix and used it like Rocky. It hurt, god it hurt, and you can’t stop cumming.

Until she slows her movement and you are wheezing, you need your inhaler, almost that fucking type of wheezing.

Your eyes glaze and you are in shock. But your mouth opens as Claire grabs your face hard.

“What did you just call me? Oh this is perfect. You slut, did you say Mommy? You are fucked up. Is that what you said? You want me to be your Mama? Is that it? Wanna suck on my tits too? You needed this, you don’t want to make decisions anymore. You need Mommy to do it for you then? Oh sweetheart, you are precious.”

You want to pull your hand away now.

But you don’t, you need to know what it will take to go upstairs.

“I’ll be good.” You say even as your mouth feels dry and acidic.

________________

It started that week, you didn’t see Maya.

Claire brought her work to the mansion you figured. Because she spent so much time with you. It started in the basement, Claire started small she brought you a book.

You thanked her, until you saw what it was.

She’d brought you a smutty romance book with stockholm syndrome, and a domme who spanks and sexually humilates the younger woman.

You didn’t care, you just wanted to read. It felt good to read. So Claire sat with you in the basement.

She ate meals with you.

It was another two days later and she brought you a newspaper and you read that thing five times that day. It was just nice to know what was happening.

But Claire DeBella fucking knew what she was doing. She was making you trust her, need her. She was the hand that fed you, and she could take all of it away.

But you were careful with your words, you spoke to Claire and answered all her questions, but you made sure not to let your temper ever show.

At the start of the second week Claire walked downstairs in her big plush robe and a cup of coffe and you all but drooled at the smell of the coffee.

“Maya didn’t give you coffee huh baby?” Claire smirks at your face, it borderlines aroused at the drink.

“Never, I used to get these Cinnamon Dolce Lattes.”

You didn’t mean to tell her that, but you noticed that was happening more recently. You were hungry for conversation, and your captor was the only one here.

“Hmm, you do have a sweet tooth. I’m more of an almond milk latte girl. Though I do love a shaken espresso. Before I was a politician, I’d have an espresso martini at a bar.” Claire mused, and you realized….she wanted to talk to you. What the fuck was this.

“Do you have an espresso machine?” You bit your tongue, angry at yourself for asking.

“I do, it’s upstairs. Would you like to try it?” Claire lays down the offer and waits, taking a sip of her drink.

Like a person puts a mouse trap, she laid the cheese, and you, you stupid fucking rat. You walked right into it.

You nodded, and Claire turned around and walked up the stairs, and you slowly stalked behind her until you got to the steps and you stopped.

You’d been shocked once for crowding Maya by the door, and now you were nervous for the possability of pain. Claire looks behind her like she was listening for your footsteps to stop.

“Darling, I’m inviting you upstairs. You don’t need to be afraid.” Governor tells you, and you wonder if she hears how hilarious that is. But you step up the stairs slowly and she keeps the basement door open for you.

You were in shock for the first few hours of being upstairs.

But you saw the cameras and you saw the giant fence outside, it had to be at least twelve feet along the property. And you even saw a man in the far distance, he had a machine gun strapped to his chest and a big vest.

You weren’t free, just in a more plush cage.

Claire came up behind you, and you froze, but she didn’t touch you.

“How’s the coffee?” Claire says, and you wonder if what she’s really saying is: ‘do you see them? Do you see the guards? You wanna run? You want to go back down to the basement?’

Be smart prey damn it.

“Really good, thank you, Claire.” You say and Claire humms like you’ve chosen right. You try not to let your hands shake as you bring the hot liquid up to your mouth.

The next two weeks Claire would make you sleep downstairs, but bring you up to spend the day and the evening upstairs.

Until the third week when you were in the theater room, your favorite room of Claire’s.

She’d let you choose the movie, which was interesting. You didn’t know psychologically if she just wanted to ease you in, make you forget that you were being held prisoner.

But sometimes you noticed you weren’t afraid of Claire.

That was wrong, that was stupid of you.

Stupid prey.

But it happened, and you had to admit it to yourself at least.

It wasn’t until you had picked Beauty and the Beast that you realized.

You’d picked a story that had Stockholm syndrome in it. You picked it, not Claire, and she didn’t even say anything as you watched it.

But Claire watched you, and you yawned and closed your eyes.

When you woke up, things changed.

You don’t know how you ended up lying against Claire’s chest as she played with your hair. But you thought for a second you were sleeping on Maya, and you were back at your house in L.A. That was wrong, this was wrong, the perfume was different, and the feeling was different.

And your eyes shot open and Claire was rolling her ankles on the sofa. She’d put on CNN now and you were snoozing against her body.

You couldn’t breathe.

This was wrong.

Run away, hide, fucking fight asshole.

You were being fucking domestic.

You were getting fucking domesticated by your abuser!

You jumped off of Claire in horror.

And Claire didn’t even seem offended.

“Oh sweetheart, you were doing so well too. You melted into me.”

“You are a fucking monster.”

Claire laughed and then mutted the TV, like this was way better than politics on the evening news.

“Baby girl, you get to decide how this goes. Not me and not Daddy. So if you want to ruin tonight, that’s fine. But eventually, that little voice that tells you to hate me, you won’t hear it anymore.” The Governor’s voice was so condescending.

You eyed the door and jumped over the sofa and threw it open and ran up the stairs. You ran up two floors until you got to where you’d remembered the front door. Your mind told you to stop, but the fight in you demanded this.

Just as you got to the foyer.

Mr. Cattle Prod came into view. Her was sitting on a chair with a long sub sandwich about to take a bite.

“No! NO! NO! NO!” You shout louder and louder when you see him, he sighs like he doesn’t like this either.

You spent the next two days downstairs, alone, no Claire, no Maya, no movies, no upstairs, no dirty book.

You cried and cried and cried. You didn’t get food, and you didn’t really care about that. You missed Claire, and that was what made you so fucking angry.

On the third day of being alone, around the afternoon Claire came back downstairs.

She was in home clothes, jeans and a button down white loose shirt, and she walked down slowly until she found you laying on the food.

“Shall we try again? Do you think you can behave today for Mommy?” Claire asked and you nodded and wiped at your tears. Claire nodded towards the bed and you scrambled to sit on it.

“What would you like to do today?” Claire asks and you bite your lip wondering if she’s being mean.

But Claire hadn’t been unkind yet, in fact, she’d been downright gentle with you. The beatings only ever came from the man with his shades. Claire always granted you things.

“Can….Can I have coffee?” You ask, having suffered a caffeine headache from the lack of coffee for the past two days. “And breakfast?”

“Those are two very easy things I can do. And I will, but think bigger baby.” Claire said and she cocked her head to the side.

“Can I go…outside? To um..to swim?” You scrambled, you hadn’t been outside in so long.

“You may, but you have to do something for me first.” Claire said and you didn’t even care what it was, you thought.

So you waited for her to say it.

“Take off your shirt honey.” Claire said and you hesitate and she smiles, and it’s dangerous.

But you don’t want to be alone today.

So you take off your baggy white t shirt. You didn’t get bra’s. You figured a long time ago it was because of the wire, aka a weapon.

Claire eyed your breasts but didn’t touch, didn’t say anything.

“Now the pants.” Claire said in an even tone, leaving no emotions for you to latch onto.

You stand off the bed and drop your jeans and she eyes the underwear and arches an eyebrow.

You take them off without her asking and she seems to like that.

“Now let’s go upstairs baby.”

You spend the day naked, and you find you don’t fucking care like you thought you would. Like you once would have. Claire let’s you eat seconds and thirds of breakfast, and she opens the slider, and you get your first breath of fresh air in forever.

Claire lays by the poolside and sits on her phone, with her designer sunglasses pulled on.

And you swim, and you forget for a minute who she is and where you are. It feels so good to swim, you don’t care that you are naked. No one is around but Claire.

The ring of her phone cuts through your gentle mind fog, and she answers it.

And you think to yourself ‘scream and yell, tell them you are being held captive.’ But you remember your quarantine, your solitude, and you bite your lip.

You keep quiet.

Silent for Mommy.

You hate yourself for this.

But you know Claire is watching you, fascinated, entertained even by your submission. You can’t see her eyes, but you feel them on you.

You try to remember who you are.

Who you were.

And that you were not on a holiday at the pool.

You were a prisoner.

You sink to the bottom of the pool and scream, knowing no one will hear you.

_______________________________________________

You aren’t sure how long Claire keeps this up…Time is strange.. but you get to swim in the afternoon sun. She makes you big salads for lunch.

You watch movies after dinner.

You go back to the basement for bed.

You wake up in the morning to coffee agan.

But now, you do all of this, very, very naked.

It is like you must give up something to earn a place at Claire’s table.

And you don’t care about the clothes, so it doesn’t feel bad.

But one day you are watching a movie and Claire is reading a book, and she reaches out and touches your head.

You freeze, wondering if you are about to be hurt or abused further.

But she plays your hair, scratches your scalp, and reads, like you are her house pet.

You wonder if you are her pet now.

That’s how it starts, months into captivity, Claire gently plays with your hair.

And you get used to it quickly.

You come to expect it even.

One day you sit on the sofa and grab the remote to flick through her extensive movie collection and she doesn’t touch you.

You drop your arm with the remote and turn to Claire. Who is reading, or pretending to, you aren’t sure.

“Claire?” You ask and she puts her finger on the page to mark where she was reading but looks up with her glasses and makes an acknowledging noise in her throat.

“Did I break a rule?”

Claire looks confused, or she acts well, and she shuts the book now, you have her attention. You just can’t figure her out.

“I don’t know, Honey, did you?” Claire challenges like she’s speaking to a wayward little thing. And you look around, no cattle prod, no clothes, still upstairs, what was wrong? Something is missing.

“Did I do something wrong, or behave badly?” You ask and you feel strange, like your mind isn’t working like it used to.

“Baby, what is wrong?” Claire tries again, and you wonder if she’s planned this, but you can’t stop mid-play, the show must go on. And you weren’t sure what part you were playing anymore.

“You aren’t…” You realize now why you feel strange.

Claire wasn’t touching you.

How long had you been leaning into her touch? How long had she been doing this?

Now that you thought of it, it wasn’t just the TV times she’d touch you. No she combed your hair in the morning while you drank coffee. And she..she rubbed your back as she helped you climb into the basement at night. She tucked you into the covers…oh fuck she kissed your forehead as you fell asleep.

When had this started? You thought it was just the sofa thing…But Claire went as far as hugging you as she wrapped the towel around you after the pool.

You hadn’t even said anything.

Where was your fight?

You blinked at her now, feeling dumb.

“Can you ask for what you need baby?” Claire said and you realized, you were in the ring with someone far more sophisticated than you’d given credit for.

“No, I um..I think I don’t feel good.” You grip your stomach and lie, Claire takes a moment, a moment to silently communicate with you. She doesn’t buy it, but she waits a second, lets you sweat. Before she pretends with you.

“Oh baby, you swam for a long time. All that time in the sun.”

You remember her putting the sunblock on your skin now, she rubbed you everywhere to get it in. You didn’t even fight her.

“Can I..I mean can I go lay down?”

You need to hide.

“Sure.” Claire nods and stands and you follow her, but she doesn’t turn towards the hall that leads to the basement. She turns instead to go up the stairs, and you are super confused but you follow.

Claire leads you up multiple floors and then down another hall to the master bedroom.

You stop as she opens the door.

It was beige and whites and looked like it was an expensive spa, weekend getaway, plush bedroom.

This was Claire’s master bedroom.

Probably the one she’d shared with Devon, ya know, her dead husband. The one she killed. This god damn monster, a preditor.

You stop before entering and Claire walks in like she has a zillion other times.

The governor goes to the bed and pulls back the plush comforter; she’s got a bunch of giant soft pillows, and the sheets probably cost more than you made in every job through college.

You hold your breath as she makes a show of pulling back the side of the bed for you.

You realize, she’s put you on the other side. Devon's side, actually if we wanted to bring up that guilt. The dead husband's guilt you carried, because this maniac killed people for you.

Claire lets you stand there and decide how your night will go.

She clicks the remote by her bedside and the shades drop.

Now the room is completely dark.

You wonder if this is how it feels to be prey in the woods at night, everything is cold, everything is still, and in the dark your nightmare waits.

“Did you still want to lay down?” Claire asks and you do now. Because your knees feel like they may give.

You pad over to the side of the bed she’s holding the blankets to.

You crawl in and she doesn’t kiss your head, and you don’t know why that worries you.

You figure this must happen in abusive situations. You fear the lack of kiss just like you’d fear the hit. But you also want the kiss, you want to know you are safe. That you won’t be electrocuted and thrown in solitude again.

Claire walks around the bed and you are not sure this is real, she’s going to leave you alone in her room?

“Have a good sleep Sweetheart,” Claire says and closes the door, you wait to hear a lock click, and it doesn’t.

What a beautiful trap she’s laid out.

But you won’t fall into it.

Now, when the bed feels cool, the sheets are so soft, and the pillow so inviting.

You close your eyes and drift into dreams.

You visit your old life in dreams, a dream with Maya and the beach.

_____________________________

When you wake you hear typing, and you open your eyes to see Claire with her hair up in a clip as she types on her laptop.

You blink a few times and Claire must have some strange link to you, because she notices immediately.

“Morning sleepy head.”

“What time is it?” You yawn and stretch and feel more rested than you have in forever.

“A little after two, you slept the morning away,” Claire says like you two are on vacation and she let her lover have a lie in.

“You working?” You ask and you don’t know why but Claire doesn’t flinch at your comment at all. When had you been allowed to ask her things?

“Yeah, I’m trying to get people to listen to this new legislation, but your generation won’t even read it. Wanna help Mommy?” Claire offers and your eyes grow wide at the idea of a problem to solve. You get excited, and Claire easily gives you notes on her speech.

After a while you feel like you are working again, it’s so nice.

“Seems a little stiff.” You say as she hands you her coffee and you drink it. You don’t notice how it has cinnamon, your favorite in it now.

“Should Mommy be offended?” Claire teases with a grin and you laugh.

Claire can’t stop her surprise now, you actually laughed. You hadn’t done that in front of her since before she took you.

But you laugh and it feels so fucking good.

“Sorry, no, you shouldn’t. You should however, be using Twitter, or whatever they call it now. Because, as you blamed my generation for not listening, you should be making the effort to get my generation to listen to you. When I saw you on CNN, you were cut throat, that’s why I wanted you to be elected in the first place. Young women want to hear your opinion, but they don’t always want to find it. You have to make it more readily available.” You ramble and then sip the coffee, satisfied with the taste.

Claire stares at you for a moment.

You wonder if you are being too comfortable in her presence now, perhaps you should stop. Oh shit you were going to be in trouble again.

Stupid little prey.

“I pay my staff a great deal of money, and no one has even mentioned this to me. You may have just upped my ratings.” Claire gives you the compliment and it makes your insides shine; you feel it all over. “And don’t do that,” Claire sternly adds and your smile drops and you are confused again.

“I’m sorry what did-”

“No, don’t apologize for your ideas. Don’t apologize for laughing or having fun. You don’t need to apologize here.” Claire isn’t looking at you and she slips her glasses back on and opens up her email to talk to her so called ‘media team.’

You sit amazed that Claire is feeling so…much like a….partner, or even a friend?

Stockholm Syndrome, you remind yourself.

Not your fault, it’s not your fault, it’s not our fault.

But after that day, you sleep next to Claire.

In fact you hadn’t been down in the basement in a while now.

You walk around the house freely, you are still terrified of the man with the shades but he nods his version of ‘good morning’ to you. And you do the same.

Claire works with her laptop, and you stop thinking about how to steal it to get a message out.

You don’t notice the cameras that follow your every movement as you walk the mansion to get to the library alone. You just grab a book and head back to Claire’s office to sit on her chair.

You don’t remember the last time you wore clothes and you don’t remember caring.

It feels….normal now?

So one night you get into bed and fall asleep as Claire reads, and you easily fall asleep. Just like so many nights now beside her.

And you dream;

You dream of the night. With Miles Bron on a rooftop.

Except this time it’s different.

You are in the bedroom this time, and Claire touches your face.

“You want to cum for Mommy baby?” Claire asks and you nodd and she pulls you down onto her strap on. And you moan and beg her.

“Please Mommy, I need it so bad. Mommy please, Claire fuck I need you inside of me.” You pant and beg.

You wake up with a jolt.

Claire turns on the side lamp, and she grabs your arms to help calm you.

“Honey?” She asks, confused at how you are losing your mind.

“I had a dream..I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.” You panic even more now.

Unsure what is worse, the dream, or your reality.

“It’s ok, I heard you calling my name. You sure you are ok?” Claire asks, and she pushes your hair out of your face and you lean into her now. You put your head on her shoulder and you rest it there and she rubs the back of your arms up and down lightly. Not moving for more, and not moving for less.

“Why don’t you touch me?” You ask, and you don’t know if you are still dreaming. Why are you doing this? Why are you shaking?

“I’m touching you right now pudd’n what do you mean?” Claire says and her voice is deep with sleep and it sounds like when she was aroused and fisting you.

You pull back, and you feel frustration clear through your whole body.

“You said that day in the car…You said..” You felt tears falling and Claire’s face changed.

She looked dangerous now. Different than before by so much.

“Say it, what did Mommy say that day in the car, can you remember?” Claire brushed your tears away from your face.

“You said…You said you’d fuck that independent streak out of me…”

Claire nodded and it was such a weird contrast to the sweet woman she’d been to you.

“What else did Mommy say? Can you remember for me?”

Claire acts like you are stupid.

You sob now and hiccup and you remember. But you can’t say it and you shake your head. Claire cups your face and brushes stray tears away like it’s her job.

“I told you i’d give you a good dose of Stockholm Syndrome for your system. You worked so hard, you fought so hard in the beginning. But it weighs on you, that kind of loneliness. I know, because you did that to me. You did all of this. You made me do this baby. So you needed to be punished, you were alone, but Mommy was watching from those cameras. I waited, and I was so patient. But you needed me to be patient, and I will be. But that’s all before, what happened tonight. You broke your streak, baby girl, tell Mama why?”

Claire looks excited, like she used to look on the news before she told some stupid Republican they were wrong.

You look down at your lap and you feel no fear at her words. It was just the truth, so why weren’t you mad.

“Focus baby, answer my question. You were thrashing back and forth in your sleep. You said my name, can you remember what your dream was honey?” Claire asked and your face turned beat red.

You were moaning Claire..You were moaning ‘Mommy.’ Claire seemed to be satisfied that you figured it out, because she’d been watching the whole thing, she knew.

God she was really something else, the manipulation on top of manipulation. You couldn’t figure her out, not even for a second.

“You made a little mess on my sheets huh, sweetie, you’ve been here six months now. Just like I guessed it, huh? And you haven’t touched yourself once. That’s a long time to ignore the need, isn’t it?” Claire’s voice was doing things to you, and you nodded and licked your lips.

This was so fucked up.

Fight, run, fucking hide!

“You were moaning Claire and Mommy. You say it so pretty baby. You were surprised when I didn’t fuck you. But I played the long game, see I don’t want you as some sex toy in my basement. I want you as a wife. I want you to stand on the podium next to me. And the only way that’s gonna happen, is if Mommy is patient.”

Claire lays out the first part of her plan like she’s talking to some lower life form, like you are stupid and she is the teacher.

You gasp and hiccup and cry like a dumb child. A child who stuck their hand in the aquarium and got bit, and then all the adults thought the kid was stupid. You were being so stupid. Your instincts told you to stop, but your mind was no longer your own. Claire had tattooed your skull with her initials, and now you were no longer in control.

“Claire, this is wrong.” You whimper and her thumb brushes against your cheekbone and you lean further into it. Her hold is everything to you.

“I know you say that, but your body likes this. You practically purr when I touch you now. And even in your dreams, you want this. So why don’t you ask? Have I not been fair, have I not given you choices?” The Governor starts to get a little heated. Like you were the problem.

You were prey, you were shark food. You were the dumb bird, fuck FUCK!

Be smarter than this. You begged yourself to be smarter than this.

“Claire this is wrong, I can’t do this.” You say, but your voice sounds sad and Claire sighs and releases you.

Like you ruined it, like you ruined her fun.

“Ok.” She looks disappointed but releases you.

“Ok?” You say completely confused and she moves to the light and flicks it off.

“Then let’s get some sleep.” Claire says and you lay back down and she does the same. Not touching you at all.

You sit there in the silence, and your thighs press together and you wonder how the fuck you got here.

How did you get here?

If there was a god, did she hate you?

Your body wouldn’t let you sleep now, you had to cum. You needed to masturbate. But Claire would for sure feel the bed move, and you knew you were never quiet when you came.

You shifted until you lay on your stomach.

You bit your lip to not moan at the feeling of your clit throbbing as you pressed yourself tighter.

Claire’s voice slices through the night, like the fear you have in your bones.

“I’ve found that lying on my stomach never helped settle the ache, is it the same for you dear?” Claire asked, and you whimper at her words.

Her mothering, comanding, powerful voice shatters your resolve to not lightly hump the bed.

Something about her stupid voice just turned you on. Call it your shitty upbringing or your need for older women to be cruel to you. You’d begged Maya to slap you in bed. You taught your women how you liked to be demeaned humiliated.

Claire didn’t need you to teach her, and that was horrible.

And you just remembered the rooftop with her fist and you were so empty now.

“Claire, I need to…can I…” You knew she wouldn’t let you run to the bathroom and fix this, and you weren’t sure what to ask for.

“You need to masturbate, is that it?” Claire’s voice was mocking.

“Yes please.” You whisper like you are trying to get one over on yourself, maybe you won’t hear it.

“Then do it.” Claire says, and you can’t believe it, but you don’t ask questions.

In the dark of her white room, your hands go under your body and you put your face in the pillow and moan as your fingers meet wetness. You grind down on your fingers for a few minutes in the silence.

Except the sound of the wet noises, they fill the air.

“Claire…” You whimper after a few moments, realizing you can’t cum like this.

“Say it.” Claire's voice is venomou,s and you should be afraid but you aren’t.

“Mommy….can I have your help?” You say, and Claire turns and flicks on the light and throws the blanket back. She sits on her heels now.

“Lay back, open your legs nice and wide,” Claire tells you and you flip onto your butt now and put your legs open for her to watch.

Like she’s the director and you are the porn star.

“Small circles, we aren’t in a rush. It’s just you and me gorgeous.” Claire tells you and you start slower, as if you’ve never touched yourself before. Like this body Claire knew, and you didn’t. Because she was playing you like an instrument and you were tone deaf it seemed.

Claire watched your face and body move like she was starving for every moment of it.

“You got this wet from a dream, baby? That’s so embarrassing. Your pussy is so wet, so swollen from the dream. You needy little thing.” It’s not even as mean as she’s been. But you get wetter anyway.

You whimper and nod, but you need more. And Claire knows that.

“You liked me being sweet these last few months don’t you?

You nodd and rub your clit harder and Claire tut’s you and you slow.

“But you don’t like nice in bed do you?”

The silent voice is louder now, Claire’s not safe, Claire’s not consensual, Claire’s not sane. This is not a place for your fetishes and desires to be knowkn. Claire is poision and you could not do this.

You shake your head, no you don’t.

Claire tilts her head to the side and some of her hair falls.

She’s a goddess.

“You like it mean, just like Mommy.” The white of your captor’s eyes shine in the dark room. She’s crazy. You were insane for playing with her.

“I do, just like Mommy.” You moan at the end as you give her back the nickname. The secret kink you didn’t want to share.

“So, how mean do you need me tonight? You want that fake sweet governor? You want the domestic cunt who sits and plays with your hair?”

Her face doesn’t emote.

You think Claire must be a psychopath; she must be, to have such different reactions. Looks and moods you could never track, no matter how you tried.

But you’d give this woman all she wanted, if you could just cum.

You shake your head, you don’t want nice or sweet.

“No, thats right you need the woman who assaulted you on the rooftop don’t you? It’s been so freaky for you, seeing me so nice. And you were waiting for me to make good on my promise. You were waiting for me to fuck you this whole tme.”

Claire’s voice is dark, deep, but steady. Like she could say the worst most deprived thing to you and not blink, blush, or feel any sort of shame.

Claire was sick.

She could play whatever part and role she wanted. And you were powerless to figure her out, to say the right thing, to do the right things.

You were just along for your Governor’s ride.

You nod and whimper as you touch yourself. Your pussy is desperate and you are too wet to get the right traction.

Your abuser's voice got darker, a little richer in her anger.

“And you are wet and needy, your slick is ruining my fucking sheets. And I’m not even touching you. I haven’t fucking touched you, do you realize that? And ths is how you act. Like a fucked bitch in heat in front of me. You know I used to masturbate to you lying there in that basement, and now here you are masturbating in my bed. The big, bad, scary kidnapper, the one who stole you from your perfect little life. The one who killed for you. And you are a whimpering mess for me.”

You humped your hand trying to chase your orgasm.

You can barely see her face in the night lamp glow illuminating her from behind, but she’s having fun. You blink a few times to focus on her face, try to see Claire.

She’s sick, she’s getting pleasure from you breaking.

“Stick your tongue out. Do you remember when I spit on you? You fucking liked it. You liked my fist. Do you remember my fist? Of course you do, because your hole is gaping open for me, trying to get anything. But I still haven’t touched you. Do you realize how mine you are, if you do this you have to give up this facade that you don’t want me. That you don’t need Mama’s touch.”

Each word hits your skin like a million little needles.

You hate how you moan and chase each word like it’s a drug, and you need a high.

You sob and stick your tongue out, and try to finger yourself but Claire stops you.

“No, that’s not for you to touch. Now I want you to tell me the truth. That sex tape, why did you like it?”

You were worried about this, this was something you had hoped she wouldn’t bring up.

“Please, Claire…..no.”

You didn’t have a safe word, and it seemed she liked you saying ‘no.’ If only for a moment.

“It’s just you and me, and perhaps my own video footage of this moment for Maya. But Daddy already knows, I want you to say it to Mommy. Because you are gonna be Mommy's girl, not Daddy’s, after all.”

You hope Maya isn’t watching, but the idea that she is makes you gasp and your hips pick up.

You secretly missed Maya. You were so angry at her for doing this. But you missed how she fucked you, how she humiliated you. You missed date nights and talking about work. Fuck that woman. But Maya knew this secret, and you wondered if she’d told Claire. Or if Claire could just sniff out secrets. Perhaps that’s why she was such a good politician.

“I can’t. Please don’t make me say it.” You whimper lamely.

Claire sighs loudly, like you are getting on her nerves. Perhaps she didn’t like a brat after all.

“You don’t say it, you don’t get to cum. And it’s been so long hasn’t it?”

Fuck it, you were already dead. No one was coming to save you. You were here to bargain with the devil herself. What was the harm anymore?

So you let it go:

“I liked it because I didn’t have a say. I liked the horrible things they called me. It made me wet. I don’t want control.” You shout it into the night, into the millionaire's, well billionaires' (after getting Miles' money) bedroom.

Claire laughs at you and you hate how much you like being made fun of. You ache for more.

“That's my sweet girl. That's why you belong to Mommy. Why I picked you. You don’t want control. You don’t even know how long you’ve stayed here anymore. You crawled into my bed like a little kitten. Now you are fucking yourself in front of me like a good girl.”

You moan louder and Claire smiles.

Something about her owning you made you feel safe. How wrong was that? That you felt like nothing bad could happen as long as Claire held you. You tried to remember that you weren’t her lover. You were her prisoner.

DeBella’s canines shine in the light.

She keeps speaking, like she’s enchanting you, like she’s a snake tamer. And you don’t know why, but you can’t fight it.

“You love that, you love being a good girl. Well if you were a good girl. You would admit it to me now.”

You feel a game coming on, a new one for Claire. You understand now, and you say it. Your nails dig into your soft, intimate flesh. It hurts, it all hurts.

“I want you to be mean to me.” You admit it, your voice is raw and cracks.

Claire doesn’t seem satisfied anymore. So she continues.

“You like this life. The one I made for you.” She challenges.

“I like this life.” You don’t know who is speaking inside of you, but it comes out your mouth.

“You like being mine.” Claire doesn’t blink.

“I do.” You gasp, and you aren’t sure if it’s from masturbating.

You wonder if this is what hypnosis was like.

“You don’t even notice you are naked in a dirty politicians bed, begging to be fucked like a fucking whore. You missed me, baby.” Claire tells you these things like facts. And your clit pulses at her voice. You have no self respect.

“I did MAMA PLEASE LET ME CUM!” You shout and angrily hump your hand for no release.

“Slap your cunt, hard,” Claire says like she’s telling someone how she wants her coffee, no interest in her voice. It makes you scream out.

You move your hand away from your cunt, and you slap it hard. The sound echoes in her bedroom.

“What do you need, your fingers not doing it for baby?” Claire taunts and you almost wonder if she’s done something to your body. Or your mind? Why can’t you make yourself cum.

You knew.

You needed Mommy.

“I NEED YOUR FINGERS!”” You scream, and Claire thinks about it for a minute. And you think she’s bluffing, but she isn’t.

“Not yet,” Claire says, keeping her hands to her sides. Not touching you, not helping you. And you go mad with need. You start to babble like you have no sense of self anymore.

“Please, please, please. I’M A WHORE! I’m your whore and I want you to hurt me. I want you to make it hurt, I want you to ruin me. I want to be bruised and fucked every second. Please, I’m yours I’ll make your babies and I’ll wear what you want. I’ll go where you want and do whatever you want! Just fuck me!”

Clarie likes that and she licks her bottom lip watching your body writhe in the bed.

“You are a fucking slut. Turn to your right, and smile. You are on video baby. I’m live streaming this.” Claire said, and you came just like Claire knew you would.

That’s how you lost your mind.

___

You begged for the next four days for Clarie to touch you. And she refused to touch your pussy.

She made you do all kinds of things.

You only walked around on your hands and knees for an entire day.

She spoon fed you her leftovers and put her feet on your naked back as she typed on her computer.

Claire was breaking you beyond belief.

She made you sit on the bathroom floor as she used her own vibrator in the shower and came. But you couldn’t see her, and you couldn’t do anything.

Claire even made you hump your own hand while she took business calls.

You were a sex fiend you were gone.

No mind left, no sense of pride.

And finally you were on your hands and knees with your fingers on your clit and she was sitting in her bedroom on her armchair drinking a scotch and watching the show. You weren’t allowed to ever fuck your hole, Claire made sure you never touched there.

You screamed into the bed and sobbed.

You cried for a really long time, and you felt like you were being tortured worse than in the basement.

You wanted Claire, you don’t remember what healthy love was.

But you knew you wanted nothing more than Claire.

You thought to the penthouse with desire now.

Your mind was sick.

And your vagina was raw from trying to mastrubate and nothing working.

“PLEASE MAMA I NEED YOU! I LOVE YOU DON’T IGNORE ME ANYMORE!” You scream and the sound of Claire’s drink hitting the side table was so loud and you didn’t even notice as you cried into the bed with your ass in the air.

But Claire gently flipped you onto your back. Like the broken little thing you were.

“What did you say baby?” She asked and her face looked completely stunned and you didn’t know why. You wiped your nose with the back of your hand.

Your body so sore.

“I..I need you?”

“No sweetie, not that, after that. What did you tell me?”

“Don’t ignore me?” You tried again, and Claire chuckled at that demand but she continued.

She seemed so soft now.

“Before that, right inbetween those two.”

“I love you?” You say, and the words feel strange in your mouth but you blink at Claire through wet lashes. “I love you.” You say more confidently now and Claire’s smile is so big you think it must hurt.

She grabs your knees and pulls you flat and her mouth goes right to your pussy.

You cum in two seconds from her mouth, and then she doesn’t stop for two hours. And you are sobbing and writing under her telling her how much you love Claire DeBella.

That’s how you fell in love with your monster.

How you begged for her fist, her mouth, her kisses, her cruel words.

Unsure how long it has been. How long life has looked this way…But after you had taken a fist and two fingers.. you were laughing and naked at the kitchen island and Claire was laughing with you. It was romantic and sweet and you were so happy. She was spoon feeding you yogurt and you were telling her about a L.A nightmare press thing. And you were breaking an NDA like it was nothing. Telling secrets like you were telling teenage girl rumors. And Claire was paying attention, and somewhere inside you knew she’d use this.

But you were Claire’s weapon now. You were her partner, her lover, her’s to control. And you found your mind didn’t hurt anymore.

But it ended, like all things must.

The front door opened and then slammed close and you jumped and Claire groaned, irritated. She knew what was happening, it seemed.

Maya walked in with her heels clicking on the floor. Her three suitcases being carted in behind her with Mr. Shades. Who looked at his boss like he was not sure who to be more afraid of, Maya or Claire.

“This looks cozy.” Maya snarls with a wicked look in her eyes at Claire.

You don’t know why they are glaring at each other. But you feel like you want to crawl back into the bedroom and hide.

“Maya?” You ask confused, and she looks at you now. She gazes at you like one does a lover they accidentally bump into after the breakup.

“Mason, we agreed you would wait until I told you you could come.” Claire’s tone wasn’t kind.

“Right, but see you aren’t my boss, so that’s not how this works. You keep me from her again and I’ll out you to the press so fast your head will spin bitch. You aren’t the only one with connections and blackmail.” Maya snarls and you look at Claire, fear evident on your face.

Claire drops the yogurt dramatically into the sink. Some of it gets on her button-down sleep shirt; she’s wearing that and a thong.

“Let me get dressed, and then we can talk about this in my study,” Claire said, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel.

The Governor walks away from you and you feel completely lost. No longer having a tether to your insanity.

You turn to Maya, who stares at you like you are the freaky one here.

“Maya, how long have you been gone?” Your voice is shaky. Maya steps forward to come to you and you flinch. So she stops and looks back to Shades as if to say ‘get lost.’ He drops the bags and walks back out of the house.

Maya has so much fear on her face.

“Two months, two fucking long months. She hasn’t let me in this house yet, last time I saw you was in the fucking town car! I tried to get here but we’ve been arguing this whole time. Plus Matt is a shitty replacement and then Vegas and the shrooms. It’s been a mess without you. I’m trying to convince Governor Gaudy over there to let you work again. What the fuck are you doing?” She whispers, yells the last sentence like she’s on your side.

“What do you mean?” You ask and you feel yourself cracking.

“What do you mean, what do I mean? You are naked in the kitchen? You are practically her sex slave in here. I saw the footage, what the fuck?” Maya tries to walk forward and you back off to the corner of the kitchen like you don’t want to be around her for a second.

Maya seems to fear that too.

You panic and looked around, not sure what’s happening.

“Two months? No that’s not possible, she said six months at least.” You repeated and Maya shook her head.

“She’s fucking lying. Kinda like she lied and told me I could bring you back to work. Kinda like how she told me I could spend time with you. Fuck baby what is going on? Did she….I mean..are you?” Maya put her hands up and down to direct to your person.

And you felt like you were going to have a panic attack.

“Maya what the fuck!” YOu scream and go to the kitchen and grab a knife.

You put your back to the fridge.

“Woah! Put the weapon down!” Maya says but she’s not as freaked out as you thought she’d be. Obviously used to L.A. girls with sharp objects pointed at others.

“Stay away from me!”

“Hey, listen to me! I’m trying to get you out of here. But if you pull this again, she’ll put you down in that basement! I can’t help you there! Ok I’m trying to get you out. You gotta keep your shit together.” Maya yells at you but she turns to see if Claire is watching.

“You are lying, you…fuck you helped her steal me. Oh my god I loved you. Oh my god I told Clare I love her. What is wrong with me?” You yell and look at the blade. Maya watches your gaze, and she starts to walk forward.

“Yeah, that hurt by the way. You told me I was the first person you ever told you loved. And then you fucking tell her, that was fucked. Ok, let’s not hold the blade so close to your body, huh sweetness?” Maya knows you better than you do, you bring the blade closer to yourself, and she lunges forward and you both fight on the floor but Maya is stronger and she hits your hands against the marble top and the knife flies out of your hands.

Claire comes back in and she’s pissed.

“MAYA THIS IS WHY I TOLD YOU TO FUCKING STAY AWAY! What the fuck did you do?” Claire shouts, and you are fighting Maya as hard as you can, and then a shot goes in the back of your neck, and you see Mr. Shades before you pass out.

Part 3 coming soon...

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'Great, look, now the lion woke up You eying my shit, inquiring shit'

#Spotify #maya mason x reader #maya mason #kathryn hahn x reader #kathryn hahn #claire debella #claire debella x reader #maya x reader x claire #Not healthy or sane or good #dark fic #dark fanfiction #my writing #tumblr writers #ao3 fanfic #fan fic #dead dove do not eat #dead dove fic

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