#and my job is more sedentary

[transcendentalmaggot]

Work has been going well but I am so utterly exhausted I'm pretty much taking care of my base needs and collapsing into bed at night. Goodwill seems to exist for two reasons: for us to throw away your trash you either don't have the heart to or honestly believe the poor would be grateful for your garbage and the make middle class folks with more useless items than sense feel better about owning more than they could ever possibly have use for while convincing themselves they're generous people. But after all these years cooped up at home, I'd rather be dealing with difficult people than nobody at all as strange as that sounds.

I'm sorry, I've been in work mode so I'm bursting with disdain towards our current system, bad customer stories and the usual problems that come with retail. I found a half eaten hard-boiled egg, shell pieces scattered all through the bin, in one of our carts to clean up to give you a good idea (and that's the nicest story I can think of).

[agayconcept]

.

[110orlower]

Don’t mind the sleep stat just check out my steps

[scribefindegil]

I'm still in complete shock about specifically the vocational expert at my hearing yesterday. I've heard SO many horror stories about people being told they should be able to work some job that doesn't exist anymore because the list hasn't been updated in decades, or assured that they're hirable even though they're too sick to get out of bed, and when the judge asked her if there were any jobs available that were sedentary with [extensive but woefully inadequate list of accommodations], I thought I was toast. But she *actually acknowledged reality* and said that no, in a competitive workplace environment there *aren't* any jobs available to someone with those restrictions. It's so basic but I remain completely gobsmacked. I hope there are more experts like her out there and that they help a lot of disabled people get the assistance they so desperately need.

[sirartwork]

hey Sir, I've been a fan of your art since the /Fit comics; your artstyle and comedy shaped who i was in high school and influenced my art to what it was today.

iirc, you had been into weed for some time and had cut back on it. I am a chronic weed smoker and have a hard time kicking the habit and I've near abandoned art all together. Any time I've brought it up to people they would just belittle the problem or ignore me so I figure you might have some advice on quitting?

"Into weed for some time" is sadly an understatement. I was using several times a day, every day, for the better part of the last 10-13 years or so. I have no "control" version of my life to compare it to, but I have a MASSIVE amount of regret tied up in the belief that my life trajectory could have been enormously better if I had redirected the time, money and energy I spent on weed into other things. I can never get my youth and those opportunities back.

(quick aside: I'm most certainly the sort of person who would have those kinds of thoughts even if I had remained a teetotaler, but that's another rant entirely)

That having been said, focusing on those negatives never helped me quit (at least not for very long). My current stretch of sobriety is only 2.5 months in, so I have no way of saying that it's going to stick, but given that my general desire/temptation to use is noticeably diminished compared to my last attempts, I suppose I can impart some advice that seems to be helping now:

KEEP MOVING.

Having too much free time (mainly being underemployed and sad) is a death sentence. Though I was still able to maintain the addiction and remain employed at my sedentary animation job, this last stretch has been complemented by a day-job that A.) Requires me to wake up at 3-4 AM at least twice a week and B.) Keeps me on my feet all day. I've also been getting back into doing SOME form of exercise every day, so that means that I have very little in the way of "fucking off" time between shifts, most of which is spent slowly chipping away at ancillary hobbies/pursuits.

Given that I have a chip on my shoulder about perceived lack of status and squandered time/potential, I elect to sublimate those feelings into a desire to keep moving, figuratively and in many ways literally. I also try not to lose sight of all of the things weed has taken from me, and all of the things that sobriety is giving me. It is a tremendous weight off your shoulders to realize that you've become the sort of person who doesn't have mental real estate being taken up by insecurities and anxieties about being a user (of whatever vice you know you're leaning on).

I am by no means perfect, and I still have many "undesirable" habits and thought patterns that I'd like to cull, so please take my advice with a grain of salt. If you find that you absolutely can't maintain sobriety yourself, don't be afraid to seek assistance. There are plenty of support groups and services that will take your problem as seriously as you do (and should, especially since you're trying to stop).

I really wish I had better/more salient advice, as my current stretch of sobriety is truly an outlier amongst my previous attempts (less temptation, less irritability), but I'm afraid it is ultimately something that you have to decide for yourself, over and over and over again.

Good luck and keep moving.

We're all gonna make it.

[uzumaki-rebellion]

Spinning the Block Part 1

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Officer Jessica "Jess" Sims

Warning(s): 18+, Angst, Mentions of Racial Tension.

Summary: Jess Sims attempts to pay her respects.

Word count: 3.2K

"Turned into an inconvenience

You only want me when convenient

I know that I could probably block you

But for some reason, I wanna see you

And you know I give a damn about you

You got me sittin' here thinkin' about you

And how your name triggers all my emotions

Into my eyes, into an ocean"

Normani – "Insomnia"

Jessica Sims knew in her heart she had no right to be at Michael Simmons' mother's house.

She'd driven an hour from Shelby Springs into Greenwood carrying a homemade lemon pound cake in the passenger side of her slate gray Dodge Durango. Her mother's recipe had her SUV smelling like fresh butter, sugar, and citrus.

The closer she got to the neighboring town, the tighter her fingers gripped the steering wheel, worrying if she'd see Terry Richmond again. He'd been on her mind for weeks…haunting her. She lost sleep and her nerves were so bad she had to get a prescription for sleeping pills just to function daily. Jess tried every home remedy from chamomile tea to a glass of warm milk before bed to fight insomnia.

Nothing worked.

Each night she crawled between cool sheets and stared at her bedroom ceiling, wishing things were different. Wishing she'd done things differently. Terry's smoldering sea-green eyes always came into focus, taunting her, preventing much needed rest.

When he walked into her police station to file a robbery complaint, she'd believed her department ran a tight ship. Her training had taught her to be fair but firm in following the law by the books. Chief Sandy Burnne had been her mentor, the one who recruited her straight from the police academy. She planned her law enforcement career while in college, joining the police academy a year after graduation. Her family wasn't too keen on the idea, preferring she use the hard-earned sociology degree to get a regular job and start a family like her older brothers. Jess had other plans. She wanted to be the first Black female police chief in Shelby Springs.

Wielding a badge and a gun allowed her to protect her own community. She had a certain charmed way of speaking to people that let them know not to test her, but that she'd hear them out with their problems whether they were in the wrong or right. Her excellent reputation around those parts gave her access to places that would unnerve the average person. She grew up a tomboy running around hunting with her father and brothers, physically fighting anyone who crossed her. She abhorred a bully, and that caused her problems with some of her colleagues that used their badge to sling their dicks around. Jess didn't go along to get along, but she picked her battles carefully to achieve her long-term goal: to run the department herself one day.

Men tested her all the time, and she did her job ignoring the micro and macro aggressions. Chief Burnne always had her back despite the cracker ways he tried to keep under wraps. He came from an era of uneducated Cajun rednecks filling up the department. Nowadays, there were more cops coming onto the force with education, melanin, and sometimes a vagina. A lot of old-school men didn't like that. Chief Burnne didn't either, but he accepted her and showed Jess respect when she did her job well. She impressed him, and he took her under his wing. She never revealed her goals to have his job in the future. Staying quiet, observant, and efficient worked to her advantage. Chief Burnne opened up more that way, spilling his tips on how to handle the job and people his way.

That is…until Terry Richmond showed up.

Jess misread his intentions from the start.

The second he strode into the office, she sensed a cockiness in him that smoldered beneath the surface. Most Black men in Shelby Springs were older and paunchy from a sedentary lifestyle and good Country Cookin', or lean youngsters with hustler's dreams of getting away from small town life. Terry was built strong and muscular, like a brick shithouse. He carried himself different. Spoke with controlled diction. He was a country boy for sure, but one that didn't work around Shelby Springs. She would've noticed his striking looks at the bars or cookouts broadcasting that he was living mighty fine. Employment was good with the new petrochemical plant ten miles away, and the Black community she lived in thrived with folks making good money, something that hadn't happened in over thirty years. Black folks, especially the men, being flush with cash and a pride about themselves irritated the white community. Negroes were acting a little too uppity lately. Buying new cars and scooping up property. Getting their homes built from scratch. Purchasing big fishing boats to use on Lake Tremblay. Sending their kids to college.

Tensions erupted in bars, public gatherings, and even football games at the local high school whenever white and Black people mingled in the same spaces. That's where Jess worked her magic. If she caught word of trouble brewing, she'd make a phone call to family and friends, giving a warning about police sweeps and rednecks making a commotion. The community grapevine activated and her people acted accordingly to stay far from trouble.

When it was her time to do patrols, Jess stayed visible in the white areas a lot. Her paternal great-granddaddy Adelore Seraphin was a fiery white Cajun who never married her great-grandmother, so she never gave their only child, Jess's granddaddy, his surname. The Sims family were proud Black Cajuns who turned their nose up at white trash. Adelore was considered trash because he wouldn't divorce his wife to marry Zema Sims. There was something about her Paw Paw's wife not giving him a divorce on account of them being Catholic. Granny Zema was an African Methodist and didn't give a damn about what Catholics thought about divorce. Paw Paw left that white lady and built Granny Zema a house to show that he was for real about building a life and family with her. So that's what they did. The white wife kept the marriage title, but Granny Zema kept the man.

It was a scandal, and as far as her Paw Paw was concerned, his only issue was that he didn't want that other woman to get part of his pension. She never did because she died before him, a bitter alcoholic, still screaming about the Black bitch that stole her husband. Technically, Granny Zema didn't steal him. She had him first, but back in their time, they couldn't get married because of miscegenation laws. So they broke up and Paw Paw married the white woman…and lived miserably. He started tipping out and one thing led to another. Jess's granddaddy, Hebert Sims, was born.

Jess's connection to Adelore Seraphin meant she had white Cajun relatives all up and down Shelby Springs. The kin on that side, who knew the family tree had an extra dark branch, tolerated Jess when she made patrols or answered calls of domestic disturbances in that section of town. Nothing on her screamed Seraphin except for her eyes. She had Paw Paw's discerning eyes. So did her daddy. She moved in the world like a Sims, but them pale kinfolk recognized her as the great-granddaughter of that trouble-making Seraphin behind her back. That gave Jess intimate knowledge of how outsiders perceived the proud, flourishing Black community. Trouble.

So when Terry Richmond rode his fine ass into Shelby Springs, he was already a problem before Lann clipped him with the police cruiser.

When he sat down in front of her while she typed in his descriptions of who robbed him, his tone was confident. His demeanor crafty. She was shocked that he recorded their conversation, equally shocked by Chief Burnne's sudden aggression toward him. Lann was an asshole to everyone, overcompensating for some deep-rooted male insecurity. Her first thought was that the Chief might've known something about Terry that she didn't, and she expected to be filled in on the matter. Drug couriers were a thing within small towns, and it wasn't above suspicion that drug runners would use a decoy disguise to pretend they were regular citizens going about their day. She went back and forth in her mind about Terry's reason for carrying so much cash in a backpack on a bike. It looked and sounded suspicious, especially with the drug busts they'd done a few months previously on the bridge during a police chase. She had picked up her own distant white kin at his house, the run-down place full of meth and illegal fentanyl. Opioid use was up. Drug dealers were racking up millions transporting that cash economy and product moving across state lines in Louisiana grew. Chief Burnne's own nephew had died of a drug overdose ten years ago, so anything that had a whiff of drug activity got his hackles up.

That was the hard line story they fed Jess for five years as she accepted civil forfeitures as a necessary part of police work. Portions of white and Black men from Shelby Springs and other bordering towns thrived in the drug trade. Sex trafficking, too. Her department prided itself on breaking the supply chain.

It had all been a lie.

Chief Burnne's lie. His department…his rules.

Jess had been inadvertently complicit.

A rule follower, and a staunch believer in the church of right and wrong, she turned a blind eye to activity that should've raised suspicions. Instead, she quietly looked out for her people on the domestic front, dousing potential flames of racist attacks, especially with all the MAGA crowd flaunting their bigotry and jealousy. Jess was more worried about racist attacks happening. Red necks were openly riding around in trucks carrying lynching ropes with right-wing slogans for bumper stickers. The south was always going to be the south, and America was always going to be America…the United Racists of America.

Jess literally couldn't be bothered if suspicious men passing through town carrying ridiculous amounts of cash got hemmed up. She damn well wouldn't coddle grown ass Black men if they got busted for doing crimes. Her daddy instilled in her a strong bullshit detector for her dealings with that.

"Sweetheart, Black men have to decide for themselves if they want to do right in the world. Black women can't keep the cape on forever, or come running with mops and brooms to clean up their messes. If Black women can get up every day and build up their community in the same terrible conditions as us, then they gotta stop babying these men who tear it down. There's no excuse for a Black man not wanting better for himself or his people. We done come too damn far to be the new terrorists against our own women and children."

Jess listened well. Applied it to Terry.

Something in her gut knew something wasn't right, but she didn't want to put herself out for some stranger who might've been tearing people's lives apart transporting thirty-six thousand dollars in cash. Black people always suffered the most with drug addiction and drug crime because of generational poverty and the predators who took advantage of that. Terry could've been lying to cover his ass for a drug cartel. She didn't know him, didn't know who his people were. He came into her life that day and turned it upside down. The only silver lining she clung to in the end was that she saved his life twice. Once when Officer McGill almost blasted him with a rifle when Terry dragged Marston behind a cruiser to safety. Jess slammed her hand on the weapon. McGill looked shell-shocked by the turn of events. She felt the same. Her boss had shot a fellow officer and made a speech to them all about how he would cover it up. If Chief Burnne harmed a white man that easily, he wouldn't blink twice before taking her out. The second time was when she carried out a PIT maneuver and knocked Burnne away from Terry, providing his last escape. The death of his cousin and the treatment he received in Shelby Springs were irredeemable. All she hoped for was peace in her own mind that she acted on the right side of judgement.

Jess followed her SUV's navigation system and pulled onto a street full of cars parked everywhere. She passed by Rosa Simmons' single family brick house with a large manicured lawn. Mourners milled about the front and the entrance door was wide open. After all the legal and medical inquiries, along with the criminal investigation, it took the Simmons' family three weeks to get Mike's body returned for burial.

She parked two blocks away and smoothed out her most subdued black sheath dress. It was plain and appropriate for the occasion. She carried the pound cake in a round Tupperware container and listened to her kitten heels click-clack on the narrow sidewalk. Her stomach churned, nearing the home.

"Hi..hello…hiya doin'?" she said, passing people she didn't know on the walkway to the house.

Heads nodded at her with sorrowful eyes and stooped body postures. The atmosphere inside the modest home was thick with heartache. Jess contemplated doing a pivot right back outside, but an older woman in her fifties with short-clipped hair sitting on a recliner noticed her.

Mike's mother, Rosa.

"My condolences, Mrs. Simmons," Jess whispered.

She didn't want to bring attention to herself and stepped forward, past a throng of people carrying plates of sliced ham, potato salad, and baked beans.

"Thank you for coming…oh you brought something, how thoughtful."

Rosa stood up.

"I can take that," Rosa said.

"Ma'am, I can put it with the other food."

"Mm-hmm, yes, the dining room table is right back there. Did you go to school with my Michael?"

"No, ma'am. I knew him from somewhere else. I'll put this away."

"Okay, baby. Fix yourself a plate while you're in there."

"Thank you."

Jess's eyes darted away and took in the other mourners. Her heart thumped a triple rhythm. It was best to put the cake on a table and leave. The stress of feeling like a traitor to her own wore on her nerves.

Delicious odors of soul food guided her nose to the dining room. The dining table could've buckled under the weight of so much food. Folks old and young helped themselves to fried chicken, crawfish, turnip greens, gooey macaroni and cheese, and a pot filled with smoked chiltlins.

She pushed a crock pot of brown gravy aside to make room for her cake next to a half-eaten sweet potato pie.

"Who let this woman in here?!"

A light brown woman with soft, shoulder-length curls glared at Jess, her lips curled into an angry snarl. Everyone looked at Jess curiously, wondering what was going on.

"Mama! Who let this dirty cop into our house?"

Rosa rushed into the dining room. Jess held out her hands.

"I just wanted to give my condolences—"

"You're the reason my brother is dead! Who let her in? Who?!" Mike's sister screamed.

The anguish in her voice brought tears to Jess's eyes.

"I'm sorry…everyone, I'm sorry…Mrs. Simmons…"

In her peripheral, Jess noticed Terry coming from a back room wearing a dark suit. She ran away as fast as her kitten heels could carry her. She knocked into people and brushed past other family members on her way out the door.

"Jess!"

Terry's deep baritone called to her, and she pumped her legs faster. Reaching the car, she fumbled for her key fob and unlocked the SUV. She jumped in and Terry banged on her window.

"I'm sorry I came. I didn't mean to upset your family," she said, starting her vehicle.

"Roll down your window."

His commanding eyes stared right through her. She rolled her window down partially. Wiping tears away from her cheeks, she faced her front window, unable to look at him.

"I know it wasn't easy for you to come here."

She shook her head, and a violent sob choked her throat.

"Listen…give me your number. I'd like to speak with you about all of this… at a better time—"

"No…this was a mistake…I'm sorry…I have to go—"

"Fucking bitch!"

Mike's sister threw Jess's cake on the car. The Tupperware container burst open and the pound cake crumbled all over the hood.

"Livia! Stop!"

Terry walked toward his cousin, and she ran from him toward the sidewalk. Other family members had followed them to watch the scene. Jess's stomach sank to the floor of her car.

"You did this to Mike! You goddamn greedy cops sent my brother to die and I fucking hate you! Get outta here, you murdering bitch!"

Livia picked up a heavy rock and threw it at the passenger side window, fracturing the tempered glass. Terry lifted his cousin up by the waist and carried her away. Jess drove off quickly. Cake crumbs fell away from her hood and she screeched her tires with a hasty exit.

She didn't hold back on crying, allowing her tears to wash away the shame and embarrassment.

Back in Shelby Springs, she paced the floors inside her house, drinking whiskey, and pondering her fate. Mike's burial was only the start of her troubles. Next came a lawsuit Terry filed against her department. It would probably finally bankrupt them like the last legal settlement they paid almost did. With the dashcam evidence, plus her, Summer, and Marston's testimony, Terry was sure to win a large payout. Her career was in jeopardy, and their department possibly disbanded.

She downed a half glass of Uncle Nearest whiskey and looked at her black dress. The audacity of her showing up in Greenwood thinking she could dip in and out without consequences.

Jess had to face her part in Terry's life being traumatized forever. Losing her job was a small price to pay for his lifetime of pain.

She leaned her head against her living room window in the dark and watched a swarm of fireflies do a light dance outside. Her grandfather used to say seeing fireflies brought good luck. Jess desperately needed that to be true.

Crawling into bed with her dress still on, Jess stared at her ceiling again, semi-drunk and all cried out. She thought about Terry calling out her name and running after her. He didn't sound mean or angry when he spoke to her briefly. Asking for her number surprised Jess, because…why? What could they talk about that would fix the wide valley between them? Maybe he wanted to yell at her too, get his justified anger off his chest. She deserved it.

Jess curled into the fetal position and thought of Terry. Even in mourning, he looked handsome in his suit. For the first time in weeks, she fell into a deep sleep without having to use medication.

Part 2 HERE.

Masterlist.

Taglist:

@nahimjustfeeling-writes

@planetblaque

@kindofaintrovert

@thedondada05

@blackburnbook

@avoidthings

@slutsareteacherstoo

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[skelotom]

So 2024 was kinda wild.

Below is the long-winded and sappy ramblings of a lich (me), so feel free to continue scrolling. I hope 2025 treats you well.

I didn't really start making art until March, but made nearly 200 renderings over the course of the year. I think I made maybe 10 total in 2023...so it is safe to say this year was more productive. I barely knew how to use blender at this time last year, I still barely know how to use it, but at least I know slightly more now.

Not every project was a wild success, I still have *a lot* to learn about making music. I also doubt my book will ever get published...but even just getting those projects done is a win.

I also met tons of people I never imagined I would talk to, let alone become friends with.

2024 hasn't been all sunshine and rainbows (I'll spare you specifics), but it is still miles better than my average year. I can't complain.

This year I will probably slow down with the renderings. But the posts I do make will be a bit longer. I like my longer form multi-frame comics and stories. I hope you do too.

I also have a day job that will start taking much more of my time. I really need to start studying/taking exams to get licensed as an architect. The six exams will suck. And studying will eat quite a lot of time. That will also suck.

Also shockingly, living a near completely sedentary lifestyle is not very healthy. I need to fit going to the gym into my life somewhere so I don't waste away completely. Being a skeleton irl is actually not very fun at all.

This year looks hectic, and kinda scary. Fascists are scary...But we'll get through it. Thanks for reading this far, and thank you for coming along for the ride.

Potential Projects for 2025:

-Online store with prints, buttons, and stickers

-Erin finally learns grease pencil in blender

-More short stories and comics

-Another attempted book? one that might actually get published? (more on this later)

-????

[icycoldninja]

FLUFFCEMBER DAY#30: (Nero x Reader)

I made soup

Nero knew you worked hard all day, all week, 365 (and sometimes 6) days a year. You helped him kill demons, vanquish beasts, and occasionally seal portals, all while maintaining a day job--you were truly a force to be reckoned with, and so the noble young man decided he would do something nice for you. He would make a comfort food staple: chicken noodle soup.

While Nero's culinary skills left much to be desired, he was confident he could complete this mission like he completed all the others, the only difference was that instead of killing, he was cooking, and instead of slicing up demon flesh, he was cutting chicken. Rather than roasting demons alive with his sword, he would be boiling broth. Yes, this would be easy.

After pulling up a simple recipe on a website he saw you looking at once, Nero began to collect his ingredients. Carrots, celery, onions, chicken, of course, egg noodles, and chicken stock, all of which could be found lying around in the pantry. After locating some seasoning, Nero pulled out his sword, which he sanitized earlier, and began awkwardly slicing the chicken into small cubes. Sure, the counter and cabinets got scratched a little, but who would notice?

Once he was finished chopping up the counter top, cutting board, and the vegetables, he added the latter items to the pot and began to cook them, growing more and more impatient by the second. You would be home in around 20 minutes, and the vegetables weren't even close to being done yet. He would have to speed this up artificially if he wanted to be done by the time you got home. Naturally, the most efficient way to do this is through his sword, Red Queen, and it's ability to extrude fire from the handle. Nero placed the metal monstrosity right in front of the burner, revved the "engine", and superheated the pot, allowing for the vegetables to cook quicker. He also ended up setting part of the oven on fire, but managed to put it out before too much harm could be done.

Next came the broth and water, which was promptly poured into the pot. The excessive heat from Red Queen caused the broth to sizzle and steam; the steam filled the kitchen, setting off the smoke alarm and obscuring Nero's vision. Thankfully, he managed to blindly grope his way over to the nearest window, fling it open, and watch as the steam slowly exited the house, billowing into the air and dispersing harmlessly in the evening sky. Quite pleased with his culinary prowess and quick thinking, Nero shut the window and resumed his cooking.

You returned from an exhausting day of sedentary labor about 15 minutes later, only to find your kitchen absolutely demolished, broth and water all over the floor, deep gashes in most of the furniture, and bits of crushed egg noodle all over the countertops.

"Oh my God!" You shrieked, placing your hands on your head and surveying the damage in pure astonishment. "Nero, what did you do?! Was there a demon attack or something?!"

"Course not," Nero told you indignantly, spinning around with a big steaming bowl in his hands. "I made soup."

[heftyabyssofsweets]

Out of all the men in Stardew Valley, which ones are most likely to end up as huge immobile blobs? Wouldn’t mind a town filled with only obese men

The thing is, a lot of these men get more habits that will cause them to gain weight as their character development progresses.

Something about Shane makes me feel like he's extremely susceptible to becoming an immobile blob on a scooter or wheelchair or some sort, sucking down on a feeding tube. Honestly, can't see him mobile in any meaningful way past character development.

Kent also seems like it... I mean, honestly, him having a really slow metabolism but being forced into a body he's not supposed to have makes perfect sense for war. After he comes back, Jodi has a feeder awakening and a few years later he's completely unable to stand and happier than ever.

Sam, by that logic, also probably has a super slow metabolism. In my mind, Sam was always a chubby kid and teen. But, well, that weight gain speeds up when he becomes an adult and he gains disposable income. I'd also like to think that Shane also teaches him how to sneak food at Jojamart without anyone noticing (probably while Shane is stress testing a struggling mobility scooter).

Sebastian has a very sedentary job, as a programmer who finds himself having to rest his extra large keyboard and mouse on his rapidly expanding belly. Perhaps a few attempts to quit smoking with cause him to gain a bit more weight, and once the stairs to his bedroom are replaced with a more fat-friendly option (like an elevator or something), his only forced exercise disappears along with it and he balloons.

Harvey would take a longer time than Shane, but we've already discussed that they both have very similar diets. It's okay, though, he's still a good doctor and is able to keep himself healthy and supply anything the other blobs might need to keep their health in check, such as the variety of required mobility equipment. He just has to take more frequent snack breaks and a few more breaks to catch his breath between sentences.

Alex is honestly the only one who I can't really see becoming a blob on his own, even if he is a gainer... but, perhaps in his attempts to become more involved in the community of Pelican Town, he might find himself more... influenced by the other blobs. Whether or not he becomes a blob himself is honestly up to you, but it's difficult to keep his own waistline in check around so many piles of blubber who won't shut up about how much better they feel....

[weirdw00d]

i remember you used to say you'd try to remain fit even through gaining, would you say that's shifted over the years?

it's come and gone here and there lol, the journey has not been linear. My first gain up to 280 I felt decently fit, and most of that is because I was doing lots of active work collabing with lots of models in florida for a huge part of my gain. Lots of lugging around lighting equipment and tripods and long days of shooting. Then dietary restrictions and weight loss happened, and for a while even though I was losing I was pretty out of shape. Then, around the low 200's and around when I started testosterone the first time I went to the gym a lot and was really buff and really strong. It also helped that I had a part time vanilla job doing backline work for a sound company, so lots of lugging around heavy amps and sound equipment for shows lol.

Then my second gain from 220 - low 300s I did not stay active at all lmao. I was very out of shape for the last couple years I was gaining and super sedentary. The past year or so I would go to the gym here and there, but only in the past couple months have I been consistently going to the gym. I have a trip to Italy this summer and a cross country move and I knew that if I didn't get into better shape it was gonna really suck lol. Plus in general I just feel like it's time to be more active and to try to work on fitness now and during future gains. I've been making really good progress at the gym and I'm feeling really strong right now which I love!

[regina-bithyniae]

I don’t think it can reasonably be assumed that “the price sector will get more value out of [high performing employees]”.

The private sector will encourage them to work more hours. However, depending on the field, a profit motive can create a very perverse incentive with respect to actually solving problems or delivering a service.

I was, for a time, on Medicaid. (Pandemic related, I have a degree and job skills and so on). I had better service and better interactions with the Medicaid system than I’ve ever had with any for-profit insurance company. Things just got done. The only thing that was worse was dental, the Medicaid dentist didn’t pay their hygienists enough, or something, and so they were always quitting and my cleanings would get rescheduled.

I’ve worked in private companies, for universities, and for small business.

The private sector sometimes gets more done per [number of days of the year] but mainly because people work more overtime hours, often haphazardly scheduled overtime, and have significantly fewer labor protections.

Small businesses are great, but only if your boss personally likes you, otherwise they’ll frequently make your life hell. It’s also very easy to end up with a situation where one person is a critical hingepoint for the entire store and the whole operation just collapses because Martha got sick for a week.

Personally, I think it’d be much better for society at large if big private sector companies were more like public sector jobs, rather than the reverse. I think we have to seriously consider that some of the problems in current America are downstream of people working too many hours and feeling too much financial or class precarity to form sustainable relationships and communities. If you’re grinding away 70 hours a week, when are you going to date?

Same thing in Japan, although they’ve got it worse than we do, and with different aspects.

I really doubt many people are clocking 70 hour work weeks, just right off the bat.

---

My main point was that I think public sector work is seriously misaligned from actually providing value to society, even before you argue about productivity or laziness. I don't think people seriously addressed this part, particularly once it leaked out to general population and tumblr commie-ism became the main analysis method.

In a private sector company, at least most of the time they are producing a product people want to buy. If they do that they're adding value. But government economists updating the quarterly report on a small and declining economic sector, which nobody reads anyways? Hard to make that argument. If there was serious demand for it then you could end the government department and interested firms might just commission their own researchers.

I do see a role for government to collect and publish data of general interest but not put a ton of work into doing much with it.

Choosing healthcare is a bit of a cherry-pick. The US system is a perfect worst case of extremely generous plans for some (medicare, medicaid) and nothing for others, subject to profit-seeking and competition-protected hospitals, with highly protective pharmaceutical IP laws that act as an implicit subsidy to the ungrateful rest of the world, applies to an extremely fat, sedentary, unhealthy and wealthy population. Hard to think of how it could be more wasteful! Oh and they had a moratorium on new medical schools being created for a good while, too.

[wanderingcritter]

I felt the first twinge of migratory instincts yesterday.

There wasn't anything particularly significant about the day. It was a bit warmer than it had been the previous week, the temperature jumping from low 30s up into mid 50s. It was drizzling and most of the snow has melted by now, but one could hardly say it was spring weather just yet. But regardless, some voice inside me started its quiet whisper "it's time to get going".

Ive had these instincts for years now, long before I ever realized I was a therian, much less a wildebeest specifically. They've grown more intense as I've gotten older, as is the case with most of my alterhuman tendencies, though they've become less overwhelming since Ive graduated high school and haven't been cooped up inside 7 hours a day.

Biological wildebeest are kind of constantly on the move, always following the rains, though the real spectacle of their travel actually does begin around this time of year, although season-wise it's nearly autumn for them rather than the start of spring like it is for us up here. They begin to migrate northwest, but interestingly my instinct always, without fail, guides me southeast, down towards Florida. I guess in some way that makes sense, we're both heading towards the same general region just with different starting points.

As spring blooms further here in the U.S, I know my instincts will get stronger and stronger, they always do. I'll crave the travel to warmer, wetter climates, encouraged by downpours and claps of thunder in the distance. My soul will scream at me to pack a small bag and just start walking, I never want to travel exclusively by car or plane, walking is what feels most natural. Trekking alongside what should be thousands and thousands of others who look, feel, and sound exactly like me, lost in a faceless herd.

It's beyond frustrating to long for a nomadic lifestyle in a society that all but demands a sedentary one. School, jobs, relationships, none of those things are built to properly survive a season of walking/hitchhiking across the country, at least not without serious fore-planning. Maybe one day I'll make it happen, hopefully I will, but it likely wont be for many years. I have too much going on right now. Until then I'll continue wishing I could just drop everything and head southeast the second I hear that whisper.

[maximsdeadwife]

The Adventure of the Newly Insatiable Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock Holmes x John Watson - 5.7k words

After the events of The Adventure of The Empty House, there is a shorter adventure that took place within the rooms of 221B Baker Street, involving only Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H Watson MD. It's not the sort of adventure Watson would normally allow himself to write about, but there's a first time for everything - much as we will discover in this very tale.

Or, Holmes has a very persistent boner and Three Continents Watson comes to the rescue, unwittingly unleashing the insatiable side of Sherlock Holmes.

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Notes: Thank you endlessly to @nexomy who was so enthusiastic and supportive of this fic, they're the reason I'm posting it and not hanging onto it for months while I read it so many times it stops making sense.

Content: persistent erection, hand job, post Reichenbach, fluff and smut!

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Read on AO3 here or below the cut

I knew Holmes harboured very little interest in matters of this nature. It was flattering that he wished to partake in them with me at all. There was a small part of me that worried he may become rather ravenous after so long without; to suddenly feel so intensely could be a slippery slope. After all, I know very well what I am capable of. Or, what my hands, my tongue, and my lower parts are capable of. Giving Holmes a taste of my skill in this area could be a dangerous thing. Then again, I had recently read a rather taboo medical paper claiming that regular orgasms can be extremely beneficial to health, and that, as far as I was concerned, that was a far better option than the cocaine bottle, so if Holme’s sought out my affections over dosing himself up with that poison each time he craved the slowing of his racing thoughts and calming of his energy, I was not going to complain.

And so here I lay out the beginnings of a new sort of adventure for Sherlock Holmes, and for myself.

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So often when recounting my usual adventures with Holmes I find myself replaying the other adventurous endeavours we have embarked upon together, most often taking place within our lodgings at 221B Baker Street, and which were of a far more explicit variety.

Holmes would regularly rib me for adding romantic flourishes to my stories, which I maintained were simply the markers of a story told well, to hold interest and intrigue, and to appear relatable to the reader. 

I assure you, dear reader, you will find no such flourishes here. This is the first adventure of its kind written by my hand and intended to be read by only one man. Even so, I am taking on my usual style of storytelling for his amusement and the brazen hope that it may lead to further encounters of this sort. What I am about to lay out to you here is the unabashed and raw truth of the first time Sherlock Holmes and I engaged in activities of an amorous nature.

It was 1894, which marked not only the beginning of this particular set of adventures, but also the return of Holmes into my otherwise empty and sedentary life. It may not surprise you that the two coincide, for if you’re familiar with the story of the Empty House, you will know how Holmes’s return affected me both physically and mentally. 

That being said, there were some residual effects which never made it into the main story, and which I now feel compelled to tell.

Upon returning to the old rooms at 221B after the excitement of the case involving Colonel Moran, and aiding Mrs Hudson in clearing shards of broken glass from around the place before securing the shattered window with a crude piece of board, I was overcome with intense emotion. After losing so much that was dear to me in the course of the previous three years, I had without warning gained back my dearest friend and colleague in an instant. I was immediately thrust into a thrilling case, and then returned to those beloved rooms we inhabited together prior to all of this upheaval.

I will admit that I was in the throes of a rather acute bout of nostalgia when Holmes’ thin hand, all the thinner for the tumultuous years between then and now , clasped my shoulder. 

‘Well, old man, here we are. What do you make of it?’

There was a weakness in his voice, imploring the doctor in me to sit watchfully by his bedside all night after ensuring he take a hearty meal, a good sip of water and a hot bath. There would be time for that, I knew, however, so instead I answered earnestly, with a slight crack in my usually sturdy tone — ‘It’s everything I’ve longed for since you were gone.’

I didn’t need to turn to Holmes to know his shoulders sunk and his head dropped. His hand slid away from my shoulder and he retreated to his bedroom without a word, leaving me standing alone once again. 

I wondered if my words had been a blunder – too eager perhaps, but the statement was an entirely honest one. I had longed for the thrill of the chase, the excitement of a successful end to a case (however long in the making), watching Holmes in his element again. Although, privately, the thing I’d longed for most was the man himself. He’d mentioned to me in his own words that he found himself wishing to see me seated in my old chair in these very rooms earlier that day, and I simply wanted to ensure the sentiment was returned. Holmes was so rarely sentimental, it seemed significant to me that he shared such a thought.

I sighed heavily, conflicted. What was once so familiar, having been torn out of my grasp, simply didn’t seem enough any longer. I was accustomed to Holmes depressive episodes and had no doubt his return and the end of a long and arduous case would take such a toll on him, but I had pined for so long to experience even those most difficult times alongside him again, that I simply craved more.

It felt unfair of me to wish for such attention from him after the excitement of the night, let alone the things he hadn’t yet had the energy to share with me of the last three years.

Dutifully, I removed my jacket, set up camp on the settee, and after chiding myself not to behave so selfishly, I attempted to sleep. At least here, I would be nearby if Holmes needed anything, but the thought of returning to my desperately empty home in Kensington filled me with a sense of the same dread I’d been feeling simmering low in my gut since Holmes’ apparent death. I’d been hopelessly homesick for three solid years, and had just arrived on terra firma; I did not plan to leave again in a hurry.

The ticking of the clock on the mantle soothed me somewhat, and I dropped off at some point, waking bleary eyed in the early hours with an aching leg and a sore shoulder. My heart leapt when my surroundings came into focus and revealed themselves to be none other than the rooms I’d dreamed about, however broken my slumber may have been. I felt my lips curl into a warm smile. Rising rather stiffly from the settee, the sounds of Holmes shuffling around his bedroom became apparent, with the odd huff and ‘ Damn ’ accompanying his faint clattering.

I gazed around the place fondly from my now upright position, noticing along the way that it was no more than a quarter to six in the morning. I frowned, resigned that I was too sore and too disturbed now to attempt any further rest. Truth be told, I was simply too exhilarated to be back here, and to be able to hear my friend in the next room was like waking as a child on Christmas morning. I was still concerned for him though, and planned to stay until I was satisfied he was quite well.

I disappeared off to my old bedroom (which to my delight had been equally as lovingly preserved), to freshen up at the washbasin before returning to lift the blinds and prepare to consume a delightful breakfast cooked by the wonderful Mrs Hudson. With a newly returned appetite, I’d hoped for a helping of her delicious smoked kippers, and was preparing to coax Holmes into joining me. With renewed vigour, I descended the stairs and had only stepped one foot back into the sitting room when I heard the door to Holmes’ bedroom slam shut. Peering around the corner, I realised he had shut himself back in.

Frowning, I strode toward his door and steadied myself before speaking clearly, ‘Holmes, I will not leave until I’ve seen to it you’re taken care of.’

Only a strained whine came in response, muffled through the timber.

I smiled, softening somewhat. ‘Whatever it is, my good man, you can tell me. We’ve been through enough already, and I am still your Watson.’

It was then that a wholly discomfiting thought occurred to me, ripping my heart back open at the seams where the previous night had begun to mend it back together.

‘Unless,’ I started, my gut positively churning, ‘it’s that you changed your mind about me sitting in that chair. You have, after all, operated alone for the last three years and have perhaps found other companions, far worthier of your intellect, or simply grown tired of me. I cannot say that I would blame you.’

My eyes stung as I awaited any response, and when none came I turned to leave, resolving to hold my composure firmly in place until I was at least out of the front door and out onto the street.

Just then, the door to Holmes’ bedroom clicked open a mere inch.

‘Holmes?’ I breathed, far more blubbering than I would care to acknowledge.

The man emerged in the small opening, shrouded in the darkness of his room. I could make out his piercing eyes, his dark hair in disarray, and the solemn expression fixed on his sharply handsome features. He appeared to have barely slept, but it was hard to tell exactly what ailed him without seeing him in proper light.

‘Holmes, my dear man, whatever is it?’

‘Watson,’ he said, broken, ‘I could never-’

Without finishing the sentence I knew precisely what he meant. He trailed off, unable to put his feelings into words (after all, that would be my job) but it didn’t matter, his intentions were crystal clear and I immediately felt an overwhelming sense of the most serious regret.

‘It would seem,’ I offered with a gentle smile, ‘my deductive skills are no better off for a break from service and are, in fact, rustier than ever. I am so very sorry, Holmes.’

He closed his eyes meditatively. ‘No apologies are necessary, it is entirely my own doing that you should experience such feelings. I may be akin to an automaton in most cases of human connection, but I can see as much as that.’

‘Oh, Holmes, really-’ I started, but he held up a finger to silence me. I took a breath, sensing a change of subject was needed. ‘Will you join me for breakfast when it comes up?’

Holmes shifted uncomfortably in the doorway. ‘I’m afraid I will be unable.’

‘Holmes, you really should eat something. I shan’t herrangue you about the benefits of a good breakfast, but as a doctor if not as your friend, I must insist-’

‘Watson, rest easy my good man. It is not the eating that is deterring me from attending the breakfast table. I would be much obliged if you could leave a plate outside this very room for me, in fact. You have my word I will consume it by the end of to-day.’

‘The end of– Holmes, is this some experiment I am as yet not party to?’

He shifted awkwardly on the spot again and I stepped forward, with the intention of examining him medically. For all I knew he could have sustained far worse injuries than he had been letting on over the last twenty-four hours in my company, and I felt it was my duty to tend to him.

‘Holmes, if there is something-’

‘I really must stop you there, Watson,’ he began, now with an audible tremble distorting his voice, ‘there is something, a mere trifle. I assure you that I am perfectly well. I am… simply rendered unable to leave the room for the time being.’

Holmes sounded nothing short of pained. He did not disguise his amusement, however, at the look of panic on my face, for I immediately assumed there was some unseen force keeping him captive, or keeping him from view of the windows. With last night’s ordeal still swirling in my mind, it hardly seemed unreasonable to arrive at this conclusion, and I was ready to leap into action in whatever way was required of me. But, of course, as Holmes so delicately pointed out, he would no more allow me to stand in the sitting room and wander about the place than he would allow of himself if this were true – not to mention, all the blinds were still drawn.

‘Thank you Watson, but I really must–’ Holmes began to retreat.

‘Holmes, I beg of you to tell me what is causing this most unusual behaviour. I have been without you for three years, and now you have returned, I am afraid I cannot stand to think there is some greater problem still lurking. Would you do me the courtesy of allaying my worries? If there is any way in which I can help, I would-’

‘I am not sure you would care to help with this little problem, old friend,’ Holmes said hopelessly. ‘It is a little… sensitive.’

Softening, I assured, ‘Anything for you, Holmes.’

He thought for a moment, a finger coming up to his lips, then he nodded. ‘Well, then. Perhaps, as a doctor, you could advise?’

Holmes pulled the door back, stepping out of the shadows. For all intents and purposes, the man appeared as fit as any undernourished, fatigued gentleman of his age might. A brandy or two and a good few days back in the city would do him the world of good, as well as a good few hot meals. As I considered this, I noticed Holmes was wincing, and scanned further down his body to ascertain the cause. Ah.

The following exchange was rather pacey, and extraordinarily tense.

‘Holmes, are you-’

‘It would seem so. It is unfortunate and most inconvenient; I cannot get it to-’

‘Have you tried… well-’

‘I do not wish to waste my time on such-’

‘How long have you been-’

Holmes sighed, frustrated. ‘I woke up with it. Not unheard of, as you will no doubt know yourself. The body as a vessel has its own functions and needs, even if I do not always require the same. Usually, however, a few moments of meditation will rid me of the bother. This time…’ He waved a hand in the general direction of this particular problem and his cheeks flushed. ‘Watson, it hurts.’

‘I will spare you the unease of asking how long it has been since you last-’ I cleared my throat. I may be a doctor, but I was also Holmes’ closest friend and as such was well aware that he may not wish to share such private details with me.

His cheeks prickled with such heat that his usually pale flesh coloured almost puce.

Instead, I tried, ‘Perhaps – is there something different this time to the other times, the times when you are able to take control? If it has been a while, it can really be as simple as a persistent thought.’

‘My dear boy,’ he said, ‘my only persistent thought has been you .’

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

‘Well, I- I could very much say the same,’ I replied, blushing. I was finding it increasingly difficult to meet Holmes’ eyes, and it seemed this was mirrored in the way he was staring down at his feet. ‘If you’ll allow me, there is one way I can guarantee to resolve this trouble.’

‘I couldn’t possibly-’

‘Holmes, to put it simply, I have wanted you for longer than you might ever imagine. Longer than I would ever have admitted to myself, until you arrived back in my life only yesterday and stirred something so deep within me that I feared I would never have the chance to pursue it. I’m only sorry it’s taken this long to-’

Holmes pressed a single, slender finger to my lips. My instinct was to take it into my mouth and suck, but I had no idea of his experience and didn’t wish to overdo anything in these delicately precious, early moments.

‘Watson, if you are telling me the truth, I wish for nothing more than you to take me to bed and do as you please with me – but not as a doctor. As my Watson.’

My eyebrows raised in answer, and Holmes, realising he was still silencing me, whipped his finger away with a smirk, those intense eyes burning into me all the more.

‘You- you want me to-’ I stuttered.

‘I am no expert when it comes to matters of these sorts. This is one area in which I lack drastically, and in which you exceed. I put my complete faith in you and your capable hands. More than that, it may surprise you to know that I have wondered, on many occasions, what it would be like with you, which is more than I can say for any other person I have ever encountered.’

From Holmes, this was tantamount to a proposal of marriage, and I admit I fought off a swoon at his words.

‘On the bed,’ I instructed. ‘Now.’

Holmes disappeared back into his room and sat upon the edge of his bed. I followed, slipping off the jacket I had smartened myself up with and hung it neatly on the chair in the corner. It became very quickly apparent that Holmes had no idea of what to do with himself; where to position himself, where I might want him or where he might want me, or even of what would happen next.

‘Do you wish me to talk you through it?’ I asked, rolling up my sleeves. I noticed Holmes had been rather captivated by the action and filed that away for a later date.

He nodded. I’d never seen him look so unsure, but the eagerness I was accustomed to still shone from the grey of his eyes.

‘May I ask you some questions as we go along?’ Just then as I stepped directly  before him, a thought occurred to me. ‘Think of this as your initial meeting with a hypothetical client, only I am you, and you are the client. I need to learn everything there is to learn about your body, and if you want to experience the best and most pleasing outcome, you will be as forthright and honest as you can manage.’

Holmes moaned.

I sat beside him, reached up to stroke his hair back away from his face and get a real look at him. It was still dull in the room but there was a lamp on in the corner and the sun had by now begun to rise, sending shards of light shining through the edges of the blinds. He was trembling slightly, and just as beautiful as I had remembered him.

‘I’ve missed you so,’ I whispered, ‘I am delighted to see these eyes again.’

‘I-’ he started, unable to finish.

Knowing how difficult it might be for him to be this close after so long apart, and goodness only knows how long since he was intimate with another, if ever, I didn’t press him and instead got back to the matter at hand. ‘I’m going to start kissing you,’ I said, ‘if you’re comfortable?’

He nodded, fingers working nervously into the fabric of the nightshirt covering his knees. ‘Yes. I have been kissed before. I am aware that it can be agreeable – to a certain degree.’

I slowly leant forward to get into position, my gaze flitting between Holmes’ mouth and eyes, and then tilted my head to softly brush my lips against his. He hummed thoughtfully, and whilst I was sure he was weighing up the science of it all, he pressed forward into me, and our lips locked firmly. As I raised a hand to stroke through his unkempt hair, I felt his slender fingers seek out my thigh and grip me hard.

I deepened the kiss, moving my lips lightly and cradling his head in my hand. I wondered whether Holmes had experienced kissing inside the mouth, and parted my lips to test the waters. Holmes mimicked this slight change, so I ran my tongue along his bottom lip and as I had hoped, his tongue did indeed meet with mine and he groaned into my mouth as they swirled together, warm and wet.

To a certain degree indeed.

Holmes pulled back and dropped his forehead to mine after a few short blissful moments. Thinking that the break was for breath, I allowed him to rest against me, giving him the time he needed. As it transpired, the poor man was aching.

‘Please… John …’ Holmes whined.

‘What is it, my dear boy?’ I offered, calm and slow. ‘Anything. Anything you need.’

‘Please… I’m ready-’

I chuckled softly and began to slide my hand down over his chest. I could feel his heart beating rapidly in his bony rib cage, and the heaving breaths he was trying so hard to keep even.

‘Holmes,’ I breathed, ‘are you absolutely certain? Once we do this…’

‘I know,’ he nodded, ‘I know, everything will change. Perhaps not as much as you may think. Not for me, anyway.’

‘Whatever do you mean?’ I asked.

We were face to face again now, and I could see the way his pupils had dilated, darkening those piercing grey eyes to midnight in the dead of winter. My heart fluttered.

‘My feelings will only be validated, Watson. I doubt you’ve ever noticed, but-’ He sighed frustrated.

‘Holmes, I know. You don’t need to say it; I can feel it now. I’m sorry it took your disappearance and supposed death of three years to make me see that this wonderful feeling was mutual. This is rather a sudden development, however. It may be overwhelming.’

‘Watson, that is of no consequence, I assure you I can handle it. However, if we don’t get to the matter soon, I fear it may bring about my real death.’

Holmes sounded strained, and knowing this feeling well myself, I wasted no time in guiding him gently backwards so that he was supine on the bed and I was above him, gazing down on all his beauty. Oh, how I’d fantasised about this moment again and again, and had woken abruptly from my slumber countless times dreaming of it, finding myself in a most flustered state. He was every bit as perfect as I’d always imagined.

‘You’re ready?’ I asked again, and Holmes rolled those sparkling eyes. ‘Alright, alright,’ I relented, ‘I only want to ensure your comfort, and that you feel safe with me.’

‘The only time I feel safe is when I’m with you.’ It slipped out before he had a chance to overthink it, but it had been said now and I’d never unhear it.

Heat rushed through my body, igniting a fire deep in my belly and a stirring in my lower regions, so that I kissed him again fervently and slid my touch all the way down to where he truly needed it.

My fingers explored the shape and size of his erection as my own trousers began to feel uncomfortably tight. Having Holmes laid writhing and hard beneath me like this was frankly dizzying. I knew what to do, of course; this was far from my first time in this position, but something about it being him , or about him truly wanting to be with me like this, was causing me to experience sensations I’d never before felt. Surely this was just another dream and I’d wake soon with a tightness between my thighs, tingling for release.

Biting my lip to keep myself grounded in reality, I flattened my palm and dragged it slowly over Holmes’ erection. His outburst at the sensation tore through the silence just as the friction against his prick seemed to tear through the very fabric of his being.

As for me, I was positively feverish now that I’d caused Sherlock Holmes to lose composure in such a simple way. I pulled at his nightshirt to slip my hand inside and really feel the heat of his arousal.

‘How do you like it?’ I asked impatiently, moaning in tandem with Holmes as my fingers wrapped around him.

‘I- ah - I don’t kn-’ he tried.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll find out,’ I soothed, starting off slow and soft the way I would usually prefer it myself.

Holmes’ eyes fluttered shut, his face a dreamy picture of bliss and serenity, so unlike the expression I was used to seeing. I found myself wildly distracted by his beauty in this moment, and on top of this, the way he squirmed, gripped my arms with all the strength he could muster in this state and groaned hungrily.

‘W-Watson,’ he gasped, ‘I can’t- oh - I cannot last-’

I could feel his length, heavy in my hand, pulsate as I stroked him gently, and knew now was the time to adapt my approach. I pumped faster, little by little until I was sure he couldn’t take another moment of this, and then whisked my wrist furiously until, mere seconds later, with a roar, his blow was spilling warm and thick over my fingers and he was thrashing beneath me, fingertips driving hard into any part of me he could hold onto. It was wondrous, the way he came undone so rapidly, the way he held me, the noises he made that I committed to memory and would no doubt replay whenever the mood took me, the colour that rushed back into his cheeks as he recovered, breathless.

Kissing his bedewed forehead lightly, I climbed off the bed and took a flannel from his dressing table, dampening it in his washbasin and cleaned off my hand before gently wiping the base of his now softening erection. I delighted in the way it twitched as I grazed it with the soft cloth. 

By now my own arousal was unbearable, but trying to keep my thoughts clear, I considered that it would not be fair or gentlemanly to expect him to reciprocate after a crisis quite so earth shattering. I knew all too well what effect I was capable of producing, but I’d never seen it affect a person quite as much as it seemed to affect Holmes. I wondered, not for the first time, if it was his first time with another. 

I glanced up at his face, and he seemed, in effect, to have dropped off to sleep. I suspected he got little rest after the excitement of last night, and made a mental note that all those times he struggled to get the rest his body so clearly craved, this may be just the ticket for him and resolved to prescribe it.

Ignoring the desperate heat pooling between my thighs, I covered him up with his nightshirt, climbed back up and laid beside him. We still had an hour or so before breakfast would be ready, and I intended to let him sleep. I simply felt a strong compulsion to be near him, partly as his Watson , and partly as his doctor who wished to ensure his health.

He stirred, elegant hands seeking out my arm and dragging it around his middle. I complied unwaveringly, pulling him to my chest and feeling him sigh.

‘I never knew it could be like that ,’ he uttered, voice muffled by sleepiness. ‘Is it always like that, or are you particularly skilled?’

I laughed heartily. ‘My dear Holmes! The simplest way for me to answer that question is to say that with me, it is always like that.’

‘Ah,’ he smirked. I couldn’t see his face, for he had turned his back to press himself as far into my embrace as he possibly could, but I could hear it in his voice. It was a tone I had missed dearly. ‘Well then, I will ensure it only ever do this with you.’

My heart leapt.

‘I dreamed of this, you know,’ Holmes continued, yawning, ‘Every night I was alone I found myself wishing that my Watson was by my side. It was one of the few things that got me through.’

‘Holmes, I-’

‘It is important to me that you know this,’ he continued, leaving no room for my objection, ‘for I never want you to believe that the last three years were in any way preferable to me than the times we spent together. The times I hope we will spend together, which are yet to come.’

Just then I felt him tremble within my arms.

‘I dread to think what you’ve been through, dear boy,’ I said softly. ‘I never meant any ill will when I questioned whether you still wanted me around. I allowed my emotions to get the better of me, for it was a trying night. It was also the most thrilling night of my life.’ I felt him settle against me somewhat. ‘But please, Holmes. If you ever find yourself in need of falsifying your death for such a lengthy period again, know that I will be coming with you.’

‘Ha!’ Holmes ejaculated. ‘Friend Watson, do try to remember some of the deductive skills I imparted to you.’

‘Whatever do you mean?’ I asked, rather taken aback at his abrupt reaction to my sincere words.

‘You truly believe that I would last for three years without the act you have just demonstrated on me? I will go nowhere without you from this day forward.’

Holmes’ laugh rumbled in his chest as he remained highly amused. I admit, I was tickled by this thought, but also extremely flattered. I wondered how he would react when I showed him what I could do with my mouth, or when I buried myself to the hilt inside him.

Holmes sighed again, nestling back into my chest. I had the fleeting thought that he would not consider a need to reciprocate, perhaps ever. There had been times not so long before he vanished that I would remind him how to behave in social situations, point out conversational cues or remind him of general etiquette, but I felt it crass to explain to him that, after watching him unravel so beautifully, I wouldn’t mind some of the same.

‘Mrs Hudson will have started preparations for breakfast,’ Holmes continued and then I knew I was in for a case of epididymal hypertension. Perhaps next time I would need to be a little more vocal in my needs. ‘Don’t worry, she will indeed be serving the kippers you have developed a predilection for this morning.’

‘Holmes, however did you- oh! ’

Holmes’ had snaked a hand behind his back, located my erection and begun to caress it quite deliciously.

‘ Oh, Holmes, I didn’t expect- and the Kippers- agh! ’

‘Shhh,’ Holmes soothed, palming my length in a perfect mimic of the treatment I had given him. ‘We have half an hour before we are disturbed, and unless I am quite mistaken, it has been a while since you last climaxed? I am led to believe the longer that is left between climaxes, the sooner one will reach crisis, am I correct?’

‘Y-yes,’ I managed, rolling my hips forward to match his ministrations.

‘On which count?’ he persisted, perilously measured in his tone. It was not at all helping me to retain composure, hearing him use his methods while touching me like this.

‘Both! On both counts, Holmes!’ I blurted, followed by a string of unintelligible moans.

‘In that case we shall have plenty of time to bring you off – hopefully as spectacularly as you brought me – recover, clean up sufficiently, and still be in time for breakfast.’

Holmes turned to face me, eyes alight with all the signs of a rip-roaring case. But this time, I was the case, and seeing him like this, I didn’t expect it to be a short one.

‘After breakfast, we shall return to bed, and you can show me what else I have been missing out on all this time. Do you have patients today?’

Rendered speechless as Holmes unfastened and reached inside my trousers and took me fully in hand, I nodded my head, then shook it.

‘I see. Well, they’ll understand when they eventually learn that I am the reason for the cancellations you’ll arrange.’

I felt my crisis approaching rapidly. He must have done this before, he simply must have. It was as though he knew my body more intimately than I, and while that sounds rather romantic, it was also slightly disconcerting. Nevertheless, I reached my end swiftly, the bed groaning with the effort of carrying both of us as I rutted into Holmes’ hand. I convulsed bodily as my spend filled the immediate area of my undergarments, Holmes fisted as rapidly as he could to see me through my release, and I’m afraid that beyond that, I cannot offer a more descriptive account of my ecstasy as I all but passed out at the heady sensation I felt I was drowning in. 

I suspected it would bring Holmes’ some sick pleasure to know that as we sat at breakfast I was still coated in my own seed at his doing, and I was correct. Mrs Hudson commented upon her arrival with said breakfast, and her appearance to clear the table, upon Holmes’ demeanour.

‘Surely you have not taken on a case so soon, Mr Holmes?’ she exclaimed.

‘You could say that, Mrs Hudson,’ he beamed, ‘you could say that indeed! This is, however, a case much closer to home, you’ll be glad to hear. Watson and I will require a great deal of peace, quiet and strictest privacy over the coming days.’

Mrs Hudson raised her eyebrows and tilted her head. I glanced between her and Holmes, fighting rising panic at how brazen he had been about our clandestine union, but Mrs Hudson seemed positively unperturbed. She turned to me, patting me firmly on the shoulder. 

‘Glad to see some colour back in your cheeks, Doctor.’

The colour increased significantly as I blushed profusely.

Aside from this, I was also correct that I might ignite some demon from within the newly insatiable Sherlock Holmes, but by God, I had no complaints at all.

[actualbird]

ever since this year started ive been going on a 30 minute walk every day, so that im not completely sedentary (my job is 95% remote WFH so all i do all day is Sit Around, the walks were much needed) and ive actually been enjoying myself walking aimlessly around my neighborhood, it was a nice peaceful little thing i got to do at 6:30pm every day

but recently my walks got Infinitely More Enriching because i downloaded Pikmin Bloom, an app wherein walking allows me to sprout Silly Little Guys that Follow You Around When You Walk and im Obsessed

LOOK AT ALL THE PIKMINS I HAVE SO FAR. AND IM SO GOOD AT NAMING THEM!!!

[roller6262]

Hey! Skinny white guy here wishing I was something more exciting!

I can sense you've been touched by the power of many transformations before, perhaps you are a master of transformation as well? Usually I'd be wary of using my power on those like you, in case it rebounded on me, but this request is too tempting to pass. Fine, I'll make you more interesting. You're sitting at home when to hear loud rock coming from outside. You open your front door to find yourself in a suburban neighborhood with a young South Asian man sitting on your doorstep with a speaker.

You want to ask him what he's doing here, but after noticing some angry glares from your neighbors, you think it's best to tell him to turn the music down first. "Turn it down?" He scoffs, "Man, you're the one always saying to turn it up. Listen to this!" He grabs you by the ear and pulls you closer to the speaker, as if standing across the street wouldn't still be a fine distance to hear the track. You curse when you feel a sharp pain where he grabbed your earlobe, but as the sound reverberates through your skull you find that pain turning to pleasure.

You nod your head to the booming drums as your ear lobes grow, craving more of that sound, then filling with large gauges. You tell him he's right, shit this good deserves to be played at max volume. "Hell yeah, especially when it speaks to taking down a broken system. That's what it's like for brown men in a white man's world." You're confused, is brown men referring to you too? You feel your body electrified like a guitar, your body warming up and your skin darkening in turn. Your hair stands on end until the blackened strands curl into a mess much like the man's, though you like your streaked red and sides shaved. You grin, looking at your fellow south asian with your deep brown eyes in newfound familiarity. You can't help but agree that there's nothing more punk than an immigrant.

After a few minutes of listening, your neighbor's annoyed stares become more obvious to both of you. "Man let's ditch these posers. Is it cool if I take this to Zayne's house?" You get excited, recognizing the name of another punk who lives a few blocks down. You agree, noting you're excited to listen there too. "What?" he chuckles, "no offense Man, but I don't think Zayne invites anyone your age to rock out." You wonder what he means by age before looking down at your arms, ever hairier than before. You think you're seeing things, adjusting your glasses out of habit without realizing you weren't wearing any before. Your facial scruff becoming a thick beard. Your clothes turning into a brown polo tucked into white khakis, baggy at first but stretched tighter as your time as a slim youth grows distant from years in a sedentary desk job. Your adjust your polo, trying to give your moobs more room while they jiggle along with your gut to the speaker. Despite your new clothes, you're still a punk in spirit, but a man needs to dress a certain way to work when he's got bills to pay.

you look at the man, now recognizing him as your son. You're a bit sad he keeps calling you "Man" instead of Dad, but a part of you swells with pride as a sign he's inherited some of the anti-authority spirit you grew up with. You sigh, allowing him to go rock out with his friend, but reminding him to come home before dinner and hoping you can jam with him after too.

"Ah kids" I say, stepping out of the house next to yours, looking like a typical suburban man "no matter how cool you are, they always choose their friends." You laugh deeply, clutching on to the bouncing polo that threatens to untuck from your khakis and reveal the furry carpet below. You say your son is probably just going through a rebellious phase. I laugh in kind, "With a rebel dad like you, I'm sure 'rebellious phase' is an understatement!" I'm unsure if you recognize me, or the request you made to me, but I am sure that this life is at the very least more exciting!

[fall0utmind]

Hello!

I'm the confinement anon! Tbh while i would love to see him have Harsh™ consequences i have to admit if i want any kind of Rosquez ending i Will have to go for a more lenient punishment. But first!

I am thinking that with the MotoGP pack being 1) composed of multiple nationalities and b) a nomad pack(in My head in this world packs are classified as Nomadic or Sedentary), the job of dishing punishments falls upon the country where it was revealed, maybe it's Italy or Spain for pure drama.

Also i don't believe Marc would be on Board with pushing for the Law to get involved but by this point in the Eyes of human rights activists/His lawyers it became less of a single issue and more of a cultural one so they push for there to be some kind of consequence on record.

Now coming back to the punishment/s, i thought maybe Vale would be forced, at least during the whole legal process, to step down from the pack alpha role of the MotoGP pack, i believe in this case and fue to how mainstream the legal battle became he is forced to step down permanently and another Alpha steps up, and for the VR46 pack it's temporary and in his place Pecco takes up the Mantle.

Moving on, Marc asks for the punishment to be lighter than what the ppl around him want, they end up coming to an agreement of Valentino having to Pay Marc back for every month/year he was banned from the pack, has to go to an Omega rights rehabilitation group and has to do community service at an Omega shelter(Maybe the service thing is 1 month per year Marc was banned idk).

All in all he got off pretty lightly just because His lawyers were able to push the narrative of him being unaware of what he did(using the alpha voice).

My original idea for the harsher punishment proposed was some ppl pushing for Vale to have His alpha Vocal cords removed and Even some Jail Time.

I hope You like this! And i hopefully i didnt get too carroed away with this ^-^

Helloooo,

In relation to this ask!

Holy shittttt.

Hey, look, all I'm gonna say is that some other people want dovquez or marcnaia.

You're right. If it was rosquez, I'm not sure he could go to jail or anything...

Firstly, I love the level of thought and detail you've put into this!!! Insane to me!!!

Ohmygod, could you imagine it being Italy or Spain. I'm not sure what would be more dramatic. Would it be international court, though? Maybe it's considered too biased to be held in italy or Spain?? Either way - insane. Huge scandel.

Yes, I think Marc would hate it. Especially if we consdier that he's only just maybe accepted his omega, I'm not actually sure he'd be able to cope with it.

It makes me think maybe someone was pushing for him to take legal action, but he said no. Mainly because he couldn't cope with it, it would he so public and awful. Also not a good look for the sport, so they would be against it (why weren't you protecting omegas etc etc).

So interesting about vale having to step down as pack alpha. I wonder how this would work. Especially if people are loyal to him. Also, could the law forcibly remove someone as an alpha from an independent pack??? Such an interesting concept.

What really gets me, though, is what you've written about Vale's community service type work.

I'm imagining Vale having to work with people who have the same sickness as marc has. Maybe palliative care? Something Marc was meant to go to (he refused) - I feel like imma make his illness that bad, maybe.... anyways the first time Valentino sees someone really deteriorate, he absolutely loses it, sobbing uncontrollably in the bathroom. Too busy imagining marc like that to function!!!!

It really really hits him hard, and i guess that's the point.

He calls luca frantically, tries calling marc , again and again. I guess if they don't make up, Marc doesn't respond, and Vale spirals.

Idk I'm just throwing stuff out there.

Either that OR some kinda omega abuse rehab/safe house. Although. I guess in terms of safety/safeguarding, maybe Vale wouldn't be allowed to do any of that.... hmmm. In a world which doesn't make sense, he would maybe do that. And that would also ruin him a bit.

Either way. The GUILT would be insane

Also-

His alpha vocal chords removed!!!!!!! Omg! I love your brain.

This was a wild read. I loved it. I love thinking more in depth about the politics and nuiances of an abo society rather than my silly little surface level rpf. So thank you for the ask, anon 🫶🏼🫶🏼