#its been ten thousand years (eleven months)

[starlitcrows]

chapter 19 of the ff7r fic

[sadalmostlesbian]

America Runs On Corn!

(featuring me ranting about sustainable agriculture in the form of a fanfiction excerpt below the cut... and why I think District Eleven was Panem's most important District)

Underneath the artillery hangars, cavernous halls were already beginning to take shape. Scientists from above ground, clearly out of their element, milled about, placing soil in raised beds. The seed samples his platoon had collected in Eleven sat prudently in glass vials, waiting to be planted. 

The research he had been tasked with for eighteen months finally revealed its importance– the Capitol must have known about the rebellion in Eleven, perhaps it had taken root years ago. And they were petrified. Thirteen, Three, and Five were the Capitol’s pride, their shining beacon of advancement, but the outer districts: Nine, Ten, Eleven– those were their life force. No society, no matter their technology nor military strength, could survive without something as simple as food.

Nine produced the bulk of their diets in the form of millions of tonnes of ration grain, but Eleven was Panem's champion of biodiversity. Wheat crops died out frequently in Nine, ravaged by disease that swept through monocultures just as quickly as a wildfire would decimate a brushfield in District Two. 

He remembered a picture he’d seen in a textbook when he was still in school that read, cheerfully: Panem Runs On Corn! Our thanks to the people of District Nine. It was true, corn grown in Nine was turned into feed for cattle in Ten, fermented into ethanol to power the trains in Six, hydrolyzed into syrup as a cheap alternative for sugar. But for all its importance, it was ridiculously easy to wipe out. Once, when Arvada was ten, there had been some kind of soil virus that infected that year’s corn stock. Beef shortages followed, and interdistrict travel was entirely halted, leading to a famine of sorts in Six– who relied on the steady usage of their vehicles for revenue. 

Wild corn grew in Eleven, its multi-colored grains hard and unappetizing, so unlike the sweet yellow stalks that coated the plains of Nine. But it was resilient– even if one plant were to die, withered from disease, the one beside it would remain unphased. It was the same for wheat and wild rice, soy, fruits and vegetables of any kind. The wild ones survived while the engineered ones– blueberries plumped to the point of bursting with hardly any flavor besides a sickening sweetness, oranges with berry-red flesh created out of pure scientific greed– died out at the merest hint of hardship. 

He and the other officer recruits in his platoon had taken those wild plant strains and subjected them to all kinds of agricultural torture to test the extent of their durability. Now, those same seeds were being lovingly tucked into soil in l’abri. 

Was this the Capitol’s foolish replacement for Eleven? Surely it wouldn’t provide enough food for the entire nation. A few thousand square meters underground could hardly replace the sprawling vastness of an entire District. The moment the thought crossed his mind however, it was superseded by another, far more realistic, explanation– it was very possible the Capitol didn’t intend to feed Panem at all, and would leave its people to starve while they cowered away, taking l’abri for their own.  

What would become of them, the trench diggers that worked meters ahead of him, prodded along by the ever present threat of death strapped across Arvada’s chest? Brielle’s warning seemed to echo through the room, drowning out the deafening roar of machinery. “Where will we go when they need this place for their own?”

Six months, he repeated, looping the phrase in his mind like a prayer. Just six months, and you’ll never have to look at this place again. 

[butchtwelfthdoctor]

thinking a lot about time horror and how it relates to doctor who recently. like idk if 'time horror' is a thing as such but you know what i mean right. starts off small. rose discovers she missed a whole year of her life & had no idea. martha lives through the year that never was, and then it never was. she's a whole year older and has lived through so much, so did her family, lucy saxon and jack, and no one will ever know. donna thinks she has years of married life with lee only to discover that that time wasn't real either. in one of teh audios ten spends 7000 years trapped inside his own head in a time dilation that only took ten minutes for everyone else.

amy and rory get it constantly - rory dying in angels take manhattan in that apartment building, in the broken tardis hallways when amy thinks rory spent his whole life waiting for her. amy waiting 36 years for the doctor in that parallel timestream. the girl who waits - the inherent tragedy of waiting for a time traveller. rory spending 2000 years as a plastic centaurion. he can only half remember it but it was very real while he was living it. the pandorica. eleven spending 200 years avoiding his own death. river knowing that every time she sees the doctor he may know her less and less.

clara lives and dies thousands of times. she sees the doctor live and age nine hundred years and then regenerate over the course of one evening. she is ripped from death to discover the doctor spent four and half billion years, an incomprehensibly long time, trapped in a loop in order to get her back, and he doesn't remember that but it happened. ashildr lives so long she forgets who ashildr is. bill waits ten years for the doctor to come back, watches him spend weeks raising his eyebrow, only for him to miss her by two hours. yaz waits ten months for the doctor not knowing where she is, and jack spends nineteen years trying to get into a jail cell beside her to break her out. jack harkness lives for billions of years too. he is changed in every way possible and becomes somewhat of a lonely god himself. he gets stranded in the past and has no choice but to keep living it, hoping he'll see the doctor again

we see sarah jane, mel, ace, teagen, who spent decades thinking they would never see teh doctor again - thinking they were abandoned, or in sarah janes case, that they never even got to say goodbye. by the time the doctor sees donna again, its been around a thousand years for him. fifteen years where she didn't remember and a thousand years where he very much did.

[mariacallous]

BRUSSELS — While no European leader or bureaucrat has threatened to deport 20 million people or ban Muslims — except, perhaps, former President Donald Trump’s favorite European, Hungarian strongman Viktor Orbán — the European Union and Trump are closer on the issue of migration than words may suggest.

EU countries have individually pushed to crack down on migration after substantial surges in support for anti-immigrant parties in various European elections this year.

While they mostly eschew the racist, xenophobic rhetoric Trump uses to describe immigrants, in the cold, hard light of policy their positions are not all so different. At a meeting in Brussels, EU leaders spent hours discussing migrant processing centers, speedier deportations and “hybrid warfare” by hostile powers using migrants to destabilize EU countries.

“A new wind is blowing in Europe,” said the Dutch anti-Islam, anti-immigration populist Freedom Party leader Geert Wilders in Brussels on Thursday after a meeting of far-right leaders.

Migration has been at the forefront for Europe’s politicians since 2015, when more than a million migrants, many of them Syrians fleeing war, made their way to the bloc.

In the ensuing decade, the EU collective has shifted from the “we can do it” stance of former German Chancellor Angela Merkel to trying to shoo new arrivals away from the EU border altogether. In 2023 fewer than 300,000 people made it to the continent; this year the EU’s border agency, Frontex, estimates about 160,000 migrants have reached Europe.

In recent months, nearly a dozen European countries have instituted some form of border restrictions in an attempt to deter migrants, refugees and asylum seekers.

Poland this month announced a temporary halt to processing asylum requests from migrants arriving from neighboring Belarus, invoking a security threat. Germany’s Olaf Scholz instituted border controls this summer to stop undocumented migrants from crossing into Germany after a Syrian man stabbed eleven people, killing three. Six other countries, including Italy, France and Austria, have introduced border checks. 

Some analysts say if Trump were to return to the White House, it would put more wind in the sails of those who have matched and mirrored his administration’s ambitions on migration.

“Certainly, many member states that have pushed for a restrictive approach to migration will be watching the American elections very closely. This will give [EU countries pushing for more restrictions] further bargaining chips to push for their preferences both in the U.S. as well as in the EU,” said Alberto-Horst Neidhardt, head of European migration and diversity at the European Policy Centre.

Returns and deportations

The vague terminology around “return hubs” and “processing centers” mirrors Trump’s “Migrant Protection Program.” The initiative, colloquially known as “Remain in Mexico,” took effect in 2019 and forced tens of thousands of non-Mexican migrants back across the U.S. border to Mexico to await migration decisions there.

In a letter to leaders this week, Ursula von der Leyen, head of the EU’s executive branch, endorsed the idea of what she called “return hubs,” buildings to detain migrants in non-EU countries. (Spain’s prime minister, a relatively lonely voice on the matter, on Thursday rejected the idea after the EU leaders met.)

Italian Prime Minister Giorgia Meloni has inaugurated “processing centers” in Albania where people headed to Italy will be transported — echoing Australia’s policy of sending asylum seekers to Papua New Guinea to have their claims processed.

Meanwhile, France is pushing to change EU law to facilitate deportations to third countries. And the EU already has thousands of kilometers of physical fencing at its external borders — a setup that far exceeds Trump’s ballyhooed but abortive border wall with Mexico.

Some experts argue that the mainstreaming of hardline rhetoric is leading to policy changes that favor Europe’s right.

“If you listen to Orbán and Meloni at times and others like [France’s far-right leader Marine] Le Pen over the years, the rhetoric has been as harsh and as virulent as what we hear from politicians like Trump in the United States,” said Judith Sunderland, associate Europe and Central Asia director at Human Rights Watch. 

“There is an intent to make it sound like it’s legal, like it is in line with international law.”

The policy changes have similar aims to those of Trump and his running mate, J.D. Vance: Reducing the number of new arrivals and sending people back to their countries of origin, even if those places are potentially unstable or unsafe.

“We have to recognize the current solutions don’t work,” said one EU diplomat who was granted anonymity to speak candidly about the conversation.

That is something Trump and many EU leaders would agree on. 

What’s in a word?

The major difference, though, is in style and tone. Europeans tend to tiptoe around contentious issues.

Take the d-word: “Deportations.”

For Trump, who has vowed to deport between 15 and 20 million people from the U.S. if re-elected in November, using the word “deportation” is a badge of honor. 

“Under the Trump administration, if you came in illegally, you were apprehended immediately and you were deported,” the Republican presidential hopeful crowed at a rally in July. “That’s why, to keep our family safe, the Republican platform promises to launch the largest deportation operation in the history of our country.”

For European leaders and officials, though, the d-word (which is linked, for many in Europe, to Nazi deportations to death camps during World War II) is almost taboo. The bloc’s officials speak gingerly of “returns” or “return hubs” to describe the enclosed camps or detention centers they’ve set up outside the EU.

And when it comes to describing how migrants reach its borders, EU leaders tend to tread carefully again. 

While Trump has no qualms about qualifying some migrants as “illegal” and decrying “illegal immigration,” in the EU migration that doesn’t come via airports or other official routes is officially described as “irregular.”

Hungarian Prime Minister Viktor Orbán is the one EU leader to buck the trend, doing away with European niceties and fully embracing Trump-style rhetoric, and straight-up villainizing migrants with his right-wing nationalist stance. The strongman leader vowed earlier this month to bus migrants to Brussels, copying a similar vow by Florida governor Ron DeSantis, who sent migrants in his state to Martha’s Vineyard, a posh vacation spot in Massachusetts.

“I have been chest-deep in the bloodbath of the migration debate for quite some time,” Orbán recently told a press conference in Brussels, channeling Trump.

Forging ahead

But it’s not all smooth sailing for Europe’s migration hardliners — some leaders are facing setbacks in real time.

This week, Meloni proclaimed Italy’s migration policy “a model for Europe.” But on Thursday, while she gathered with other European leaders in Brussels, her offshore detention centers in Albania hit their first hurdle. 

Four of the 16 migrants sent to Albania have already been put on a boat back to Italy because they were children or were considered vulnerable (only male adults who are not considered vulnerable can be taken to Albania after a screening at sea under Italy’s own rules). 

Opposition groups and NGOs immediately called the project a failure.

“It will have very real consequences on people around the world, potentially, because those other countries look at what the EU is doing to them and say, well, you know, why should we guarantee people’s rights?” said Sunderland from Human Rights Watch.

The bigger concern, for some critics, is that harsh rhetoric and measures on migration will open the door to other policies.

“Migration has really become a Trojan horse for conservative forces to then push an agenda that goes beyond migration,” said the European Policy Centre’s Neidhardt.

[moon-megami]

New Neurologist

Today I had a very inconvenient auto-rescheduled neurologist follow up appointment. I've only seen the actual Neurologist once, but he didn't find anything 'wrong' with me other than "it's probably migranes", so I got shuffled off to one of his nurse practitioners. This time I got a new one since the old one was no longer there. If anything, the old NP was passionate and caring, which helped. But she was mostly making sure the headache that likes to shatter the base of my skull hasn't came back and that I'm using my CPAP. I've been using 500mg of Magnesium to keep that skull-shattering pain away, and it's working. No one is going to pry that supplement out of my cold dead hands.

She starts out with the broad question "How are you?". A loaded question for someone who has a thousand problems. How am I? For which part of me? I could only muster up that my POTS was acting up because I got a stomach bug last week and my body hasn't caught up. I could kinda tell she didn't really 'follow', not a great sign. I felt slightly dizzy when standing yesterday, I had to use the scooter at the store to get myself a birthday present. She looked at my BP and just said "It's normal". No shit shirlock.

She steers the conversation to my headaches. My regular GP gave me Topimax at the beginning of January to try, but I was really weary of the side effects. I had finally eluded to him the fact I was smelling and tasting cigarette smoke out my nose and it had gotten worse and worse since August (I experienced phantom smells for at least 7+ years), so he gave me a low dose of 25mg Topimax because it could be a migraine aura. Checks out I guess. I've always known I have painless headaches or at least non-conventional headaches. About a week ago I finally noticed the effects and the smell is mostly gone. But the brain fog is still there.

The brain fog. I've always had brain fog since I've been diagnosed with POTS and Dysautonomia 13 years ago. I was 22 when all my issues started. But recently, around August or so (along with the phantom smell), it has gotten so much worse. So much so, that I can barely do my job. I'm a web programmer, and I need my brain to work. I need to be able to write more than a few lines of code a day, and yet, lately, that's all I can muster. Following a few trains of thought has been hard for me the past few months. This is a different beast of brain fog. As I sit there pouring this out to my new NP, tears roll down my cheeks. She asks me if I'm "sure" it just didn't start happening with Topimax (because one of the side effects is cognitive decline and brain fog). I reiterated to her, no, definitely not. If only I could show her my git history, hah.

She says "Let's take a little test". She gets up and brings back a paper, saying it's a memory test or whatever. I thought to myself, ok, this is easy. I don't like being put on the spot but I put my best effort face on anyway. She gave me 5 words to remember at the start of the test. Easy. She put a timer on one minute and told me to list as many animals I can think of. Sure.

"Cat, fish, chicken, dog, ... bird ... lion .. giraffe ....... cat ....." before I knew it, the timer was going off and I was sitting there in a ball pulling my hair out practically. Ugh. Failed that one miserably. I've always been bad at pulling things out of my ass. Go ahead, ask me where anything is. I know exactly where it is, but don't get the word "dresser" out of me when I tell you "its on the thingy over there".

Next was a few math problems, took me longer to answer but I think i was still riled up from the last question. After that I had to repeat back numbers backwards in increasing length, easy.

Next, I had to put an X on the triangle. She hands me the paper. I go straight for the square and mark it and she's like "No... that's the square." FUCK. "oh.. uh.. oh yeah the triangle lol haha". She then tells me to draw the hands of the clock "ten til eleven". I re-read the sentence next to the clock to make sure I understood and drew the clock, perfect, yep.

Next she read me a short story at the bottom of a paper and I answer all the details she asked for after. At the end she asks me for the words at the begining of the test.

Oh yeah. Those.

2 of them I was certain of. Pen and Tie. 2 I wasn't sure but I tried to remember her gestures at the time, Ball and Shirt, surely. The other was a mystery.

She takes the paper and totals the score. She had a slight downturn in her smile as she looked at the answers and the score. She says to me "Perhaps we should refer you to a center for further evaluation.". I asked her what I scored, out of curiosity. She forced a smile and scooted her chair closer to me. I know a polite blow when I see one, and it was coming. "Well... I expected a little higher score for someone your age and education level". There is is. Boom.

I asked her what I scored and what I missed. She said I got a 20/30, which doesn't mean much to me. But apparently, I only remembered 2/5 words, and missed all the number backward questions except for the 2-digit one, she seemed to have forgiven me for the triangle mistake. I drew the clock wrong. WAIT. I DREW THE CLOCK WRONG? Damn, I'm really stupid. Yeah, I drew it as 11:55 and not 11:50. All I had to do was draw a straight line with 2 arrows. Ugh. At least I got all the details in the story right.

So she wrote up some labs I have to go get now, told me to stop taking Topimax, and wrote me a prescription for Qulipta, which, as you know, is a very expensive medication. CBC, TSH, Total T4, B1, B12, Folate, D 25 hydroxy. All will come back normal I'm sure, I've had most of them checked recently anyway. And that referral, which will probably also take months to hear back from. In the car, I was mad at myself and a little sad. What did the test mean for me? I have always had... difficulties in some departments. I know I had learning difficulties, but I've always conquered them. I have never let it define me or interfere with my successes.

As soon as I got home, I wrote my GP an email through my portal explaining that she wanted me to stop taking the Topimax and start Qulipta, and about my test result. I had mentioned the crippling brain fog to him on my last visit too.

He wrote back in the evening, I assume after all his patients for the day. The tone of his correspondence came off to me as slightly spiteful, and I don't know how I feel about it. I've been building up a great rapport with him for 4 years, trusting him with more and more of my symptoms as I went along, him listening to just about every one of them and offering is best knowledge.

"I only have experience with Topimax and not Qulipta, but it seems like they have convinced your insurance to cough up the money for the expensive drug by using your cognitive test to justify taking you off Topiramate."

So was I just... used? Was all that test for was to get a kickback for a drug? It didn't feel like it, surely she wouldn't have bothered with ordering all the labs and that referral for further testing to a completely unrelated center? Talk about knocking me down a few inches more, to how already diminished I was feeling earlier today after my appointment. I feel mad and betrayed, but did he really mean it the way I am taking it? Was he mad I went against his own recommendations?

Again my closest friend is no help, he tries to comfort saying he'd score the same as me. From my quick Google search, and I do mean quick, because I didn't want to scare myself, 'normal' educated people my age don't score that low, even if they try. I don't tell my husband because I don't want him to worry, he has anxiety and worries too much. I only tell him things I am certain about. I don't know what to do with myself but type what I feel here and cry.

I guess that's the point of a blog.

[fakenewsfactcheck]

What IS normal is that in some cultures, statements like that are made almost poetically: not meaning that there are literally children dying of heart attacks, but that it feels as though children are dying of heart attacks, dying of fear, in these grave and tragic circumstances. And in other cultures, such statements are either made as facts, or as "close enough" to the facts.

And I think that OP was speaking poetically, metaphorically, expressing what feels like a deeper truth, rather than presenting something you can fact-check.

I also think that the majority of the 17,500 notes on here are assuming it's literally true.

Unfortunately, what is also normal now is that people will immediately, 100% believe a completely unsourced factual statement that Palestinian children are dying from heart attacks. With zero evidence. Zero numbers. Zero examples.

Zero critical thinking, is what I'm saying, as nicely as I can. I realize that people are believing this out of an immense amount of concern and compassion.

But also, it's very clearly not true.

Heart attacks aren't caused by fear. Heart attacks aren't caused by nervous system exhaustion. Not without preexisting heart problems.

And no part of Palestine has experienced anything like near 24 hour bombardment for even one month, much less eleven.

If you go to Google News and put in, say, "Gaza" "children" "heart attacks" --

Okay, so one Israeli child died from a heart attack. Triggered by the rocket alert sirens. A few weeks after Israel was invaded by terrorists who tortured, mutilated, and burned their way across an area larger than Gaza in just one day.

But the fact that the shock of yet another siren caused her heart attack (in a country that has gotten an average of 4 missile attacks per day since 2001) probably means she had an unknown preexisting condition.

Dr. Noa Rosenfeld, the manager of the emergency children’s ward at Assuta, told the Ynet news site that incidents of heart attacks are rare, but some people are “very sensitive to adrenaline in high doses that can cause them a cardiac problem.”

Nothing else in the news about heart attacks in children. Not from any source, from CNN to Al-Jazeera.

I did find one about strokes in children during war:

"We see strokes in children aged 12 to 13,” Liashko said. “Before the war, such cases were really unique. But now, our health system has children with strokes.”

Inna Ivanenko, Director of Patients of Ukraine, the nation’s largest patient organization, added in an interview she knows of even younger stroke victims.

“Ten,” she said quietly.

The surge in pediatric strokes is just one facet of the escalating health crisis affecting Ukrainian civilians, the country’s health minister said. Years of war have left the entire population, not just children, at higher risk due to extreme stress and untreated post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).

“People have strokes 10 to 15 years earlier,” Liashko said. “Also heart attacks, 10 to 15 years earlier.”

If you all remember the months and months of "Israel has killed more people in Gaza than Russia did in Ukraine!" You might be thinking something like, "if this is happening in Ukraine, it's gotta be happening in Gaza too!"

First, Ukraine is MUCH bigger than Gaza. That means a MUCH larger number of children, which means more tweens who might have strokes.

Second, Russia'a current invasion of Ukraine has been going on for two and a half years. And it actually began its attacks on Ukraine ten years ago.

Third, its attacks are far closer to genocide.

Genocide often includes forced population transfer:

The transfer of hundreds of thousands of people from Ukraine is part of a deliberate and systemic strategy, laid out in Russian government documents.

An “emergency mass order” describes the “distribution” of 100,000 Ukrainians to some of the most remote and impoverished regions of Russia. None was to be sent to the capital, Moscow....

One refugee, Bohdan Honcharov, told the AP that about 50 Ukrainians he traveled with were sent to Siberia, so far away that they effectively disappeared with little chance of escape.

Genocide typically includes the attempt to erase all evidence a culture even existed:

Eight months after Mariupol fell into Russian hands, Russia is eradicating all vestiges of Ukraine from it – along with the evidence of war crimes buried in its buildings, such as the famed Drama Theater where demolition started Thursday.

The few open schools teach a Russian curriculum, phone and television networks are Russian, the Ukrainian currency is dying out, and Mariupol is now in the Moscow time zone.

On the ruins of the old Mariupol, a new Russian city is rising, with materials from at least one European company, The Associated Press found....

Russian authorities in October dismantled Mariupol’s memorial to victims of the Holodomor, the Soviet-engineered famine in the 1930s that killed millions of Ukrainians, according to video posted on Russian television. They also painted over two murals commemorating victims of Russia’s 2014 attack on Ukraine, images obtained by the AP show.

And most relevant here, genocide involves killing a massive percentage of a group: usually between 30%-90%.

The repeated statement that Israel had killed more people was, factually, entirely untrue. It was based on the UN's count of deaths that it had been able to independently verify, something that has largely stalled in both places because war.

As of August 2024, the UN has verified almost 12,000 deaths in Ukraine. But in Mariupol alone, just in the first three months of 2022, the AP found that the death count was probably over 75,000. Which is still almost twice the deaths in Gaza over the past year.

Back in May [2022], when the city finally fell, the municipal government in exile estimated 25,000 people at a minimum had died. But at least three people in the city since June say the number killed is triple that or more, based on conversations with workers documenting body collection from the streets for the Russian occupation authorities.

In short, there are many reasons that Ukraine is more likely than Gaza to see children having strokes.

I'm just giving that sort of detailed comparison so people can understand why there also haven't been reports of children in Gaza having strokes. (And yes, I did check.)

I know, nobody will see this. But in the hopes that I will one day be wrong, there it is.

palestinian children are dying of heart attacks because of the constant fear and nervous system exhaustion of near 24 hr bombardment. for ELEVEN FULL MONTHS palestinian children have been dying of heart attacks. dying from fear.

[libraryofcirclaria]

1405 to 1416

Library of Circlaria

Remikra Timeline

 The Silonk Amendment

Signed into law by Prime Minister Silonk early January 1405, the series of legislative changes, informally known as the "Silonk Amendment," dramatically altered the EIFA Forum. Under these changes, Tier I was now democratically elected by the members of Tier II, and was also not industry-selective. Multiple industries were now represented in Tier I. As a result, the scriptfire industry saw a major increase in funding in the coming years.

The Tri-Platform Integration Project

In September 1405, the Commonwealth Council wrote and passed legislation authorizing the effective merger and budget reconciliation of the lightfire industry, dymensional fire industry, and a part of the South Coast Deal. On 23 September, the Tri-Platform Integration Project was signed into law by Prime Minister Silonk, and, on 2 October, the business merger took effect, resulting in the integration of the now-ailing Leon-Kontacet Trust. In 1406, the formal budget reconciliation of the Project took effect.

Not long after, to compliment the project, the Council voted to change the public fiscal schedule from a quarterly to an eleven-week schedule.

The First Thysaren Environmental Crisis

In September 1407, a series of freak events occurred in various locations throughout the nation, where flocks of birds fell out of the sky dead, and thousands of people were hospitalized for psychosis symptoms, of which 600 died. A thorough federal investigation found the chemical, Thysaren, to be the cause.

Thysaren, a compound regularly used to enhance the development of the gyroplane industry since the 1370s, had been a primary source of controversy regarding its toxicity to the environment. After much debate, the Commonwealth government permitted its use in moderation. By the first decade of the 1400s, however, numerous claims demonstration the ability for long-term exposure to do as much damage as untreated Benjamin Arnold Syndrome to the human brain. In the wake of the September 1407 crisis, the Silonk Administration placed a ten-month ban on its use.

The OCEA Fallout

Another fallout in the remaining lightfire industry market led to an economic crisis toward the end of 1408. As OCEA investments plunged, numerous reports found the existing Commonwealth platform, established over 100 years previously, to be corrupted and costly. In response to passed legislation by the Commonwealth Council to end funding for the platform and reconcile the budget for a new platform, Prime Minister Silonk, in October 1408, ordered the platform to be shut down.

In March 1409, the Silonk Administration established a new OCEA platform. While the platform bore striking similarities to the original, there were notable differences. The most important difference was that this new platform was governed by an appointed board and existed under more stringent privacy measures in order to protect it from corrupt Circlarian interests.

1410

After the ten-month ban, Thysaren was carefully reintroduced back into the market under strict regulation. The agenda to control its impact on the environment, however, came to a failure in February 1410, when the Second Thysaren Crisis hit. This time, portions of numerous wildlife species were dying out, drinking water in many parts of the nation become highly toxic, crops were failing, and an additional 900 people died. In response to this, the Silonk Administration placed a complete and permanent ban on the chemical.

On 6 June 1410, Prime Minister Silonk signed the Ninth Amendment of the Constitution, which provided a firmly grounded right of functional establishment for the Darkfire Community. Of the provisions of this Amendment included the Darkfire Community's right to continue its functions in spite of any external interference, the right to impose non-disclosure of sensitive information to foreign entities, and right to carry out non-compliance to foreign inquiries.

In conjunction with a divided opposition, the passage of the Ninth Amendment and handling of the Thysaren Crises earned Silonk re-election for the 1411-16 term.

1411-1412

The establishment of the Ninth Amendment paved the way for the setup of "mobile community units," or MCUs, along with increased defenses, beginning in 1411.

Meanwhile, integration began between the scriptfire industry and the Library of Circlaria. Up to this point, the Library had consisted of dymensional planes based on books and manuscripts. Such a collection was inconsistent and disorganized. However, in conjunction with the Tri-Platform Integration Project, books and paper manuscripts began being copied onto scriptfire platforms. As the Library became more uniform, dymensional planes remained independent but became otherwise integrated into one system, something for which former Prime Minister Kontacet strived.

It is important to note that during this time, the nation of Locin had, in May 1411, voted to officially leave the Remikran Union. In January 1412, the decision took effect, meaning that, while certain economic ties remained with the Remikran Union, Locin no longer accepted Remikran Union currency. As it became part of the South Circlarian Trade Federation, the nation enacted further logistics in customs, as a result. This would have a profound impact on the Commonwealth and Remikran Union.

1413

In March 1413, a Commonwealth military general used a Kontacet-style "fearful" tactic against a foreign entity in the South Coast Trade Deal during a logistical confrontation, resulting in concern in the Commonwealth for diplomatic consequences. In response, the Commonwealth Council met, where it quickly wrote and passed the South Coast Diplomatic Protocol Act, with its main provisions being rules for civil disengagement and continuance of business.

Meanwhile, the re-emerging Trader Party touted the above Act as not being sufficient for diplomatic standards, and stated that better diplomacy was needed in order to regain prosperity relative to the Circlarian Realm. Such stances gained popularity, and, on Election Day, the Trader Party gained half of the Commonwealth Provincial Governor seats, slightly less than half of all seats in the House of Representatives and slightly more than half of a third of the seats in the Ministry Council. Prime Minister Silonk would consider the results of this gubernatorial election to be a "fluke."

1414

An economic conference was held with the Edoran Regiondom in January 1414, during which the Edorans admitted the technical sector of the scriptfire industry to not be as profitable as was stated during the years of Kontacet's Administration. This spurred a motion in the Commonwealth for the EIFA Forum to withdraw significant amounts of funding from the Tri-Platform Integration Project. That month, as a result of this drastic economic shift, the Commonwealth Council quietly voted to discontinue the Project altogether. The Trader Party called for a replacement Project with more consistency and unity, boosting popular support only to be further bolstered by sympathy over the death of Former Prime Minister Raoul Robinson in December.

1415

In June, a large storm system, known as the Great Storm, ravaged the East Coast, adversely affecting traveling and infrastructure, and putting the Commonwealth under economic strain. In light of this, Stanley Arland Moore, the son of Arland Terrace Moore, rose to popularity with his promise for a unified front for economic prosperity. During the week of the Primary Elections that September, he stressed the importance of integration between the Darkfire Community and the trade sectors of the Commonwealth economy. On Election Day, after winning the Trader Party Primary nomination for Prime Minister, Moore, in his speech, spoke the words: "We need integration. And we need it badly."

1416

The darkfire industry carried out a trial known as "encapsulation," which did not meet economic quotas as expected. Investors in this project withdrew suddenly, triggering government intervention. Nevertheless, panic ensued as the darkfire industry temporarily shut down. In response to this, on 16 April 1416, the Commonwealth ratified the Tenth Amendment of the Constitution, which prohibited any public or private entity from imposing so-called "binding schedules" upon the darkfire industry.

Moore's campaign platform called for unity between the Darkfire Community and the trading front, a concise agenda for expansion in the scriptfire plane sector of the scriptfire economy, and enhanced diplomatic measures with foreign entities. With Silonk's re-election platform simply citing the risks posed by Moore's agenda and calling for closer alliance with the Great North, Moore won the Election on 16 September, as the Trader Party gained majorities in both Houses of Council.

<- 1393 to 1404 <- || -> 1417 to 1428 ->

[iriemorning]

timekeeper

time is a very fickle thing. it’s a manmade construct alongside calendars. there are different time zones and different calendars around the world. the earth can go through a massive wipeout and the new civilization that emerges would invent another concept of time starkly different from what we‘re subscribing to right now, which we all follow to maintain order. even the earliest epic ever recorded—the Epic of Gilgamesh from the ancient city of Sumer and Mesopotamia—was referencing a much earlier civilization that we dont know of.

only two thousand years of this planet ever being acknowledged is a dastardly degeneration of all its progress and all that has been. humans are also fickle. we keep on changing with the times, but we also severely downgrade how much our generational actions directly affect its impact. we treat time as a ticking clock and a reminder of our dues, work, and mortality on earth; but turn a blind eye when it comes to finally having the chance to make its arrowheads circumvent in our favor.

it’s ironic considering how progressive we’ve become and with the rise of AI it’s the most opportune time to think outside the box, but barely only make it when it comes to serving what’s actually functional for the greater good and what comes after. time is manmade, and thus, we shall be ruling over it like it’s our empire and not act like its slave. we can reinvent it again and again, not as a mandate, but in our own little corners. it starts in the mind. we can paint our timing.

even in the little things. especially in the little things.

i already talked about how i live my life in seasons; almost episodic. as this year’s summertime ran its course, my own concept of time just got brighter and brighter. in a single month, i experience three decans. kind of like a pie in three slices. i am always focused on a single goal and it always takes me nine, ten or eleven days to build up to that goal. its not fixed because the total days of the month are uneven. for example, on the first ten days of april i was focused on recovering my body after camping in the mountains. the next ten days i was preparing to go to the beach with my best friend. another ten days for rest time and reflecting on my trip. those are my three decans in a month. they’re like episodes that contain a beginning, middle, and end. the first decan would be peaceful, the second decan the busiest, and the third decan would look like not a lot is happening in my external state but there’s actually a lot of internal transformation happening inside me since im meditating and reflecting. all decans are interconnected and equally as important.

numerology also comes into play. i noticed that on days with 5 (5th, 15th, 25th) i would receive a new piece of information, message, or announcement that would kickstart the current decan im in. kind of like a plot twist in a story, since i have reached the midpoint of the ten-day rule. on days with 9 (9th, 19th, 29th) im already receiving a preview for whats gonna happen in my next ten days, as im close to finishing my goals for the current decan. in my own experience, every 25th and 29th of the month were always the most impactful since the twist and climax would encompass the three decans i just went through in a single month.

viewing my schedule this way made me properly invest my energy in the rightful places. it lessened my worries and overthinking; to take it easy on a single goal one decan at a time. i could only have limited energy but i can very much manipulate time within my own means. i painted my own timing.

of course this would only work if you observe your own capabilities first ahead of time. take a breather. look back at your past goals that youre proud of and how you achieved them. i broke free from the seven day-rule and made it ten days because that is how i naturally operated in the past few months. the gift of realization only upgraded my lifestyle even more.

just remember that it all starts in the mind. get creative.

[itstheendofthegoddamnworld]

Demon Knight: Odel

[I plan on making a part 2, I just needed to write something, to begin with!]

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Part 1  |   Part 2

Ad Laetitiam et Pacem

“It is set in ink. I will not hear anymore else of it,” your father, the King declared. “You will marry Lord Meriweather’s son by the arrival of spring.”

Perhaps in the hopes of pleasing your father, you would have heeded to words, to remain dutiful as princess of the realm and make your family proud.

That same night when you heard of your fate, you prepared to dress comfortably in a washerwoman’s ensemble, before slipping out the high window.

To hell with the arrangement, I would rather live a life of celibacy. This fate will not ruin my life.

The third daughter out of six and the eighth out of eleven living children, you had many brothers and sisters older that would be set for better matches from well-known lords and ladies. Yet, you were not put to become queen or to be married off to a wealthy lord, you were assigned to marry a minor lordling, his youngest son feeble and health ailing.

Of all the four sons of Lord Meriweather’s brood, you had to be matched with one with no proper destiny. Hugh was sickly and frail, not a knight or the heir to his father’s land, he was predestined to nothingness, and upon your first meeting with him, you snidely advised he was better suited to abstinence than to displeasing his future wife.

To your dissatisfaction, it had to be you that would be disappointed.

The moonlight acted as your only guide as you run blindly through the streets of the capital. Dead of life with only a few patrolling, you were able to squeeze into dark shadows, ducking and weaving before you found yourself on the outskirts of the capital. Its high, towering walls were manned, but you covered your face with your hood, ducking your head as you run out, away from the life you knew.

The adrenaline pumped swiftly in your chest, and a sense of freedom was overwhelming as the smile broadened on your face, racing your body as fast as you could through the woods.

Months of planning had come underway, and the only place you knew would be deserted; was Whitehaven Hold.

Your other option could’ve been to stay with your older sister, Alinor. Eight years your senior, she was married at eight-and-ten to a well-known and comely lord, giving him babes a year into their marriage.

Father will know I will go to her. You knew it would be a rooky mistake. He knew how much you loved your sister, how you missed her dearly after she was sent away to live the rest of her days in someone else’s castle.

Your older brother, Cassius was four-and-twenty, acting as a scholar in the south, but they did not accept women to the life of academics. No, it would’ve been harder to dress as a man to be accepted into his school.

It was a day or two away, and you spent your nights by a fire, rummaging for food and keeping what stale biscuits you hid in your dress pockets. You lay, wide awake, with no knowledge of where exactly you could go next.

The morning came easily when you arrived at the sight, a smouldering heat and smoke billowing from the mess in front of you.

Whitehaven Hold was a twisted, horrid sight. The battlements for a two-hundred-year war, its walls were burnt and destroyed, the stone had crumpled as it burnt and melted like candles, thousands burning inside. It acts as a haunted sight for travellers, with no Lord or Lady sane enough to reside there.

You entered through the battered doors, cold and damp easily enveloped you as you shuddered, looking around. It had been quickly looted of items by travellers, with not a sight of heirlooms or gold in sight. What remained was tattered and worn furniture, rooms dark and clammy and all the very same.

I’m not staying here before I lose my mind. You thought in disgust, but the thought of residing brought you to chuckle. The Lady of Whitehaven Hold- imagine the look on father’s face. It would not be good to stay a day or two before the cold enters your system and bring the chill quickly. It ached in your chest, not knowing where you could go next. South, always south. Away from it all.

The rooms were simple and easy to roam, a large, broken dining hall, fit for a Lord, wife and many heirs, its kitchen located on the far side. The table was battered and disarrayed, little to nothing scattered that remained of contents of food and dirt. You continued, walking past the cold entrance, up towards what remained of the grand staircase.

Spotting at the very top, are three displays of suits of armour, posing in similar positions. Their hands were positioned to have a greatsword in their hands, but only one remained in the grasp, the one in the middle.

You observed its armour, shinier and similar to molten black obsidian, it gleamed as if recently polished. You flicked your finger across the armour, its armour hummed low as you dragged across its armour to inspect for dirt.

“Hmph, just as I thought. A collectable.” You scoffed, wiping the grime from your finger as you stared up into its helm. The helmet was a beautiful display, gleaming in brilliance, except when you looked into the eyeless sockets of its eyes, something was not supposed to be there.

Eyes staring back. Alit with burning, enraged flames.

“There is little of me that I would class as a collectable,” a low, rumbling voice boomed, startling you rigid. You stepped back, towards the staircase, watching in horror. The talon-like fingers twitched momentarily, before another jolted with life, the whole hand was soon moving with existence.

The suit of armour slowly and lazily tested its movements, its long leg swung forward, groaning and choking as the armour moved. His fiery stare was towards you, raging with anger. “You are not meant to be here. You are trespassing.”

“No one lives here.”

“The Lord of Whitehaven Hold resides here, and I must protect my Lord from all.”

To your surprise, his fingers jerked to grip the hilt of his deadly sword tighter, a flash of silver startled you as he unsheathed the mighty weapon, before you were staggering, sprinting back down the stairs, hearing the squeaks of worn armour following hotly behind.

Leaving through the front door was an easier move, but with adrenaline pumping quickly in your chest. You stumbled and fell, your body kicking to keep moving, to hide, to do anything to get away from the deadly sword.

Something swung just behind you, a scream bubbling over you as his sword got caught into the wall, clinging with a hiss as it hit the wall and avoid taking a chunk out of you. You continued to run, in hopes you could find anywhere to hide, but no matter, the knight was hot on your tail.

You swept around the table, the knight rounding the other side, eyes flaming with the sword ready to swing before something caught his eye, something behind you. His sword lowered as he took in the damaged painting behind you, and you too turned to see what it was he was looking over.

The painting was of no doubt, the old Lord of Whitehaven Hold, yet he had been the first and last during the two-hundred-year war, murdered by conspirators who took over his castle after their coup.

There was a sadness that filled the knight’s eyes, lowering his sword, his entire demeanour changed to become defeated. “He’s gone?” His voice was gravelly and soft.

“He was murdered two-hundred years ago,” you spoke carefully, still gazing periodically towards the silver of his large sword. “There has not been another lord of this Hold since.”

The knight did not answer for a moment, looking at the painting with a solemn gaze that was so vivid without seeing the rest of his face. “Oh,” was the only word he spoke, before he sheathed his sword, marching back and away from the hall, back up towards the stairs.

“Hey, where are you going?” You stared in disbelief, uneasily tailing behind him a few feet. You watched how he climbed the stairs stiffly, moving back towards his display.

“I am no longer needed,” he spoke quietly. “I am free from my pact.”

“Pact from what?”

“The pact grants anyone who rules this hold the protection and my sword.” He moved towards to set himself in his display once more, propping the sword out to rest between his hands once more. You were by the bottom of the stairs, cautiously standing there. “I am no longer needed.”

Your cheeks heated the same way a child would grow in a tantrum. “Well, what if I became the next resident?”

His eyes peered over you, wide and in incredulously. “You’re a mere washerwoman.”

You remembered your clothing, the ones you snuck out in, and you knew you had no way of making him believe you. “Would you believe me if I said I was a Princess—and runaway one?”

He scoffed light-heartedly. “You’re rather funny, aren’t you?”

“I am!” You insisted. “My father is the current King, Cassius XV. My oldest brother is Crown Prince Isolde. My mother, Queen Adora, was forty when she passed, giving birth to my youngest sister, Margarita.” You told him your name, the one you despised using.

He did not answer once again, yet he seemed amused. “Anyone could know that of the current rulers.”

“I can read that,” you pointed towards the small display name, written in the old language of Ald, passed down to royalty and nobles to keep alive. “Would a washerwoman know about the culture and language of Ald? Would a washerwoman even know how to read?”

“Maybe so,” he assessed warily. “What is a princess like yourself doing out here?”

“My father wished to have me married off.”

He inquired amusedly. “You ran away from your betrothal? I don’t think I’ve heard of such a thing before.”

“You don’t know many princesses.” You muttered.

“Perhaps,” he mused. “It is known many Princesses of the past have been fond of comely knights and princes from far lands. It would be their dream to be married off.”

“Hugh Meriweather looks more weasel than man.”

The knight looked perplexed, but he did chuckle at your words. “Weasel, you say? I’m unsure there is some tale of a Princess and a weasel.”

Fairy tales are nightmares in reality. Just stories to keep girls happy. You thought. “It isn’t some fairy tale. I have no say in who I can love.” You huffed, crossing your arms. “That is why I’m here. Running away from the fate destined for me; misery, squeezing out babes and dying from childbed fever. You wouldn’t have to worry about being wedded off, you’re just a piece of talking armour.”

The silence that followed your passing words made you realise that you may have overstepped. You peered over at him, and though his face was shielded, you could tell your words had insulted him.

“You’re talking to a piece of talking armour.” He jeered and your cheeks had rouged once more in embarrassment. “What then, little Princess? You believe your father would not find you here?”

“He can sure try to.” You huffed. “I will not leave here.”

If he had eyebrows, you could be sure he had a face of exasperation. “You think you’ll have protection here?”

You shrugged nonchalantly. “You’re here.”

“I’m free from my pact, however.” He recalled.

“What about forming a pact with me? It can’t be that bad.” You said excitedly, too naively to think anything of it. You’ve had knights in service of protecting you your entire life: how different could this be?

“Princess,” his voice was laced with unease. “If you go ahead with this, you will need to sacrifice something of your life.”

Your silence was a tell-tell sign that you were uncertain. Sacrifice something, like what? You thought about the things you had to you: you had no titles to own, no claim to the throne, so you couldn’t give that up (you doubted you would’ve if you did own one). It seemed like an easy deal, yet nothing came to mind for you to give in return, until—

“I shall give you my hand in marriage.”

The knight recoiled almost as if he had been burnt in his ink-black armour, his demeanour changed to seem hesitant, almost incredulous to your offer. “What about Hugh the weasel? You don’t think I’m a married man already?” He asked.

“You wouldn’t be here if you were already married now, would you? You would be with your lady wife.”

He seemed pleased by your words, stepping forth towards you, around the table, before he was standing in front of you. His full height towered easily over you, and you imagined what he looked like without the helmet on him.

“I, swear by my name and honour, to protect and keep you in my stay, for as long as you may live. I am yours, Princess," he says. "I will shield your back and give you my life in the moment of need.”

You easily presented your hand to him to take into his, there was warmth oddly in his armoured fingers, and his obsidian suit of armour hummed and almost felt as if it was burning up on the inside before the knight brought your hand to his lips to place a kiss to your knuckles.

“Arise, sir-“

“Odel. Sir Odel.”

[akystaracer22]

I have a habit almost nobody practices. It's stupid, completely inconsequential and I've even been bullied for it. But I like it, and it's become such an important part of me that I can't change it if I tried.

It's called Timekeeping.

A thousand milliseconds in a second.

Sixty seconds in a minute.

Sixty minutes in an hour

Twenty-four hours in a day

Seven days in a week.

My habit goes on.

It's always there at the back of my mind, keeping track of that funny little thing called time.

I know it's been exactly Ten years, Four months, Two weeks, One day, Twelve hours, Thirty-seven minutes and Sixteen seconds as of this moment since I have started this habit. It was hard at first, what with the whole concept of time being all but erased from the planet, but the old internet was still reliable for those who used it. The concept of time fascinated me from the moment I first heard of it, and I couldn't help myself, I became possibly the only human alive to keep track of it.

It had its upsides and its downsides however, like all things did. The adults didn't really like it at first, and my peers bullied the fuck out of me for it. But it almost became a challenge for me, how good could I get at "keeping track of time" as I call it.

Turns out pretty good.

Today when I woke up I was able to tell that I'd been asleep for exactly seven hours, three minutes and twenty four seconds, which is supposedly below average from what I read.

Later, when one of my classmates asked how long it would be until first period ended, before anyone could reply with the stupid boring "Soon" or "When the bell ring's" I blurted out "Twelve minutes and Fourty-eight seconds."

Believe it or not but I'm not trying to sound pretentious. When the concept of time becomes applicable my mouth works before my brain does. My class know the basics of my "Timekeeping Condition" as the adults call it. They know the units and how many are in what but... they don't get it get it.

Being able to "tell time" as the old humans put it is just part of who I am now... and it's weird. I know it is. I tried to stop once too but all it took was my friend joking about how he'd been alive forever and the words "Fifteen years, Eight months, One Week, Six Days, Thirty-two minutes, and Fourty-nine seconds," slipped out before I even had time to process I said them. That was One year, Eleven months, Three weeks, Two days, and exactly One hour ago.

Two day's, Eight hours, Fourty mintues and Two seconds later found me in the office of my local GP, but that moment with my friend was when I realised that it was going too far.

I'd only seen my friends birth certificate once, his family was super traditional and it was the only thing with a time in the house.

It was the first time I was ever scared of my ability to keep track of time.

It was like I'd been cursed with some sort of time related affliction, maybe it was the gods way of punishing the people of earth for forgetting that once so important measurement. That pillar of society that has been forgotten in the changing tides of history.

My parents certainly thought so, yelling at the doctor and Seven Hours, Thirteen minutes and Seven seconds later the Psychiatrist that the doctor referred me to. Pleading to find something to fix me, to save me from myself.

I felt like a madman that day.

I still have to have tests taken, scientists just love to try and figure out just how my brain got so damn good at this. How it's able to latch onto those specific numbers associated with time - my Math grades demonstrated it was just time - and keep track so perfectly that even years later I can tell people with complete accuracy the exact time and date they requested.

"When did the session start."

Fifteen minutes, Thirty seconds, and One Hundred and Eighty-Six milliseconds from now.

"How long has it been since you have last eaten."

Three hours, Twelve minutes, Seven seconds, Eight Hundred and Two milliseconds ago.

"What will the date be in 103... day's? is that the term you use for it?"

April the Third Thirty Twenty-one.

Every Two Weeks, since that fateful day they learned my little habit had taken over too much of me.

I felt like a lab rat... I was one.

I don't know what will happen to me come the inevitable summer holiday's. I'm seventeen now I know what will happen.

My parents never said a word about employment or further education. They talked about moving, about this nice little place I'd feel at home. They talked about a cage.

I have to go to school each day knowing I'm ticking closer to my last day free. I think my friend knows it too, he stopped asking me to play time keeper for me. He started asking me more questions of how it worked. He asked me to teach him how to tell time like I can.

I hate how much it means to me to actually have someone sitting with me every day whenever possible, listening intently as I'm able to explain in depth with an actual person, a friend, how I tell time.

Just Yesterday he was able to announce how much longer until the bell rang to signal the end of lunch. I hugged him for the rest of that time because it just felt so good to have someone else keep track of the time for a second I almost felt human. What my friend did was more than any of the whackjobs "monitoring" me ever thought to do.

He also came over to my house and discussed way's he could potentially become a full on Psychiatrist in the future, he had a whole path mapped out and everything. He definitely has the grades to do it.

He shouldn't be doing all this for me, I'm just too desperate to say no.

When in doubt, just keep the internal clock ticking Horace.

Just keep it ticking.

It’s the year 3020, and humans have achieved immortality through advanced technology. However, with the option of living forever, the concept of time has lost all meaning. Write a story about an average day in this new reality.

[kirozai]

-Mushroom Anon-

I’ve been quite serious on this blog, so why not lighten the mood?

Let’s strike a deal. If you enjoy this AU, write at least ten headcanons related to it, yeah?

WARNING: Mentions of Cousin AU, I have squatting rights u_u

Imagine SAGAU!Teyvat.

Now imagine Mario Kart 8.

Reader isn’t the most powerful, but they do have a better reputation than the average creator. Sometimes, the other deities visit in secret to deliver gifts and exclusive treasures on special occasions. This year is no different. Once every ten millennia, every creator across the universes gather to participate in a battle for speed. Nobody could afford to be absent, not if their honor could help it.

Anyone could host it, really, but everyone agrees that Teyvat has gorgeous scenery and a thrilling landscape. Which is why the reader has been pacing around their room without rest, not even noticing that their shoulder had been bruised from all of the clumsy movements.

Of course, once they finally do ask for Teyvat’s help for the first time, they agreed.

The preparations were smooth. For the first few weeks, fleets upon fleets of lakitus (basically this AU’s maintenance staff xD) arrived in Teyvat for construction. Reader specifically selected Mondstadt and Inazuma for it’s spacious environment, but tracks a little outside of the two nations were spotted as well. Stalls and shops were moved aside, strange and unfamiliar technology was placed, billboards were built for citizens in remote areas, and constant safety checks were performed with the local government. Not to mention the impenetrable barrier that was established to protect bystanders from possible disasters.

After a month had passed, the gods descended. Teyvat better be prepared to welcome eleven more creators otherwise the reader will never forgive them for it. Liyue was the designated “lobby” for reader’s fellow divinities due to its market diversity and totally not because Morax’s pride was injured for not being nominated. Trust me when I say that some of these gods will be expensive. If they don’t leave with at least a million dollar tab per person, I wouldn’t believe that they were here at all.

Then came the final week of preliminaries. Lakitus wielding sports cameras, fishing rods, and colored flags were becoming more and more frequent. Deities are beginning to ride briskly on the race tracks, familiarizing themselves with shortcuts and experimenting with the security measures. Most of them are heading from Liyue, to Mondstadt, and all the way back to Inazuma. Hey, they’re driving electric vehicles, where else better than Inazuma to refuel?

Now, it’s the day of the race.

And every sentient being in Teyvat horribly regrets their support.

They began in Inazuma, since it’d be irrational to waste the extra electricity traveling elsewhere. As soon as all the countdown lights glowed a crimson red, the archon war suddenly looked like a 17th century comedy show that failed because of it’s cringeworthy romance plot.

I mean, the creators are bashing into each other with enough fervor to slaughter a thousand archons upon first contact. Who wouldn’t be terrified? That doesn’t even include the speed items, stunt ramps, varying colors of shells, and bombs. Now the citizens understand the true reason for the barrier; no one other than the mighty twelve could survive this.

Lakitus are scrambling across the sky, vigorously fishing up gods once they’ve been flung out of bounds like it’s their new religion. Several of them lingered behind, using the numerous waypoints to film their competition. But nothing beats the anguish of watching their creator being targeted by two consecutive blue shells and losing their item to a lightning strike- why do I feel like the electro archon might have to run now?

Oh, poor them, this is only the first round… of two separate race tracks. Reader better at least win a gold medal or else the following chaos would not be worth it.

MARIO KART? HELLO WHERE DO U COME UP WITH THESE THINGS 🤩 (im obsessed)

[ftm2bbw]

That's the hope, right? I mean, if your body thinks you're pregnant, then surely it'll know to stop after nine months. Either it'll force you to birth nothing (which could be interesting on its own) or it'll figure out that you're not actually pregnant and shut everything down. Those really seem like the only two options. At least the good thing is that not actually being pregnant means you can keep eating your favorite foods (and your favorite coffee) both to sate your bottomless appetite and to manage your ever increasing dysphoria.

When you look in the mirror, all you can see is "Woman." Massive, leaking tits that could feed a household or more. Wide hips perfect for pushing out child after child after child. An ass and hips that some women pay tens of thousands of dollars to emulate and they don't even come close. And a belly, swollen and (to the outside observer) incubating a small army of children. You emanate such femininity and fertility that it's a wonder that people don't start spontaneously ovulating in your presence. Of course, given the way that people gawk at your curves, you probably do inspire your fair share of, shall we say, procreative activities. Fitting for a fertility goddess.

And it only gets worse. Your boobs get bigger and milkier. Your ass gets bigger and your hips get wider. And your belly keeps growing. You live in perpetual fear, wondering which milestone will come first. What'll happen sooner, you'll hit the nine months mark or your ass will become too big to squeeze through the doorways in your home? Every time you struggle to stand up and you have to waddle around your gravid belly, you wonder if it'll be the last time you can stand before your belly becomes too big to navigate around. And the proportion of your day spent draining your tits only increases as your milking convinces your body that the demand is ever-growing.

The only thing keeping you going is the thought that, eventually, it has to end. You'll hit that nine months mark and this nightmare will finally be over and maybe, if you're lucky, you might be able to go back to some semblance of normal. You find yourself actually growing excited, truly pleased for the first time in months when the nine month mark comes.

And goes.

Okay, well, you don't know exactly when it started, so maybe your calculations are a bit off.

There are some cases of delayed birth, so ten months isn't a big deal.

You scour the internet, desperate to find cases of pregnancies that lasted for eleven months.

When a full year rolls around, it finally starts to sink in that it's never going to end. Your body is just going to keep going and going and going, trying to support and make room for a litter of babies that would make some animals jealous. The worst part is the mixed messages the hormones are sending through your body. On the one hand, it thinks that it still has to get bigger, the growing of your body only barely outpaced by the growing of your appetite. You now spend nearly half of your waking hours milking and you're starting to wonder if it wouldn't be worth it to get an automated pump that you can hook yourself up to while you sleep. Your udders are just so full in the mornings. On the other hand, your body thinks that it's been enough time and it's time for you to get knocked up again. Your body aches for it in the most embarrassing way. When your friend comes over to check on you (and bring you your coffee. You're up to three a day, now), you can feel your body aching for him in a deeply embarrassing and decidedly womanly way. If you could lift your hips, you'd be offering yourself to him. It really is an animalistic heat, a deep-seated, instinctive need to be bred. And the worst part is that your belly is now so massive that you can't even reach with a toy. The best you can do is to squeeze your fupa with your thighs and hope that it gets you off. That or ask your friend for help. You know he would. He's so helpful. But you're not that desperate.

Not yet, anyway.

It wouldn't take long until I was dependent on him, too. I'd be far too embarrassed - and let's be real, far too lazy and fat - to leave the house at that point. Not to mention how I'd have to content with my aching, leaking tits if I went out in public.

I have to wonder if he'd get more bold the more I...developed. Almost as if he could guess exactly what urges I was struggling with. If he'd steal a feel here and there, or make pointed teasing comments. Of course, I'm sure he'd only encourage me to drain my tits and keep eating. And to enjoy the ritual of my daily coffees, naturally.

[jiminrings]

umm maybe this is me projecting bc i am messaging you during my break but for a drabble request, yoongi in a retail setting???? 😐😐😐😐 oc could either be a co-worker or a regular customer who asks too many questions 😔😌

retail-type beat

drabble week: day three

drabble week masterlist

pairing: customer!yoongi x retail worker!reader

wordcount: 3k

glimpse: "hi! almost thought you were hiding from me for a second. anyways, is this sweater wool or cotton?"

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the last time you checked, work doesn’t start until nine

you kNEW it doesn’t start until 9 in the morning, so clearly that’s why you’re just wearing slides instead of your sneakers

the company uniform is either black or purple (it has to be from what the store is selling though so you can get to choose) with of course!!!! a lanyard!!!!

and you know this, because you’re still wearing your slides from home because it isn’t opening time yet

“goddamn it, i forgot to bring my slippers,” jin moans the moment he walks to see you, looking down on your feet that only reminds him he’d be stuck in his cool yet painfully uncomfy sneakers

he’s probably the only co-worker that you’re truly close with, not feeling the urge to sell him just to get a free day

“i told you to get the sneakers that nurses use!!”

hands-down one of the best purchases you’ve ever made

retail’s hard and it’s not exactly the best-paying job!!! thankfully the franchise owner is a bit more generous so that’s why you get slightly-higher hourly pay

“i would if they looked a little more seasoned,” jin snorts and stubbornly crosses his arms, “i might sacrifice my pride and buy some compression socks.”

OOOOOH THOSE ARE GOOD TOO

makes you feel like ur walking on air

but lol no seokjin isn’t ready to buy those just yet

he’ll settle on some blisters and putting salonpas patches because they look cooler that way, thank u very much <3

jin yawns, talking about finding a steam iron somewhere to replace a blowdryer so he could break in his shoes

“you wipe the glass this time.”

oh right he absolutely hates wiping down the glass — even before opening!!! even when there aren’t any grubby kids that would soil it instantly with their equally as grubby hands

you don’t mind it honestly

you might honestly like it

you prefer wiping the glass a hundred times over than steaming clothes

there is nOT a single thought in your head when you spray on the solution to the glass, rag and squeegee tucked between your fingers when-

maybe you should’ve hOLY FUCKING SHIT

it’s not opening!!!! it is nOT nine o’clock in the morning!!!!

you know that the shop you’re working in is pretty fucking famous and it’s located on one of the most populated streets ever BUT THERE’S ALREADY SOMEONE

although the bucket hat seems familiar from a distance and-

oh it’s just yoongi

yoongi?

yoongi’s already here????

:O

yoongi, the guy in question, is an always customer!!

no, not a regular customer — an always customer

he comes every week and maybe even twice within that period

he’s a nice talkative customer who likes asking questions and even occasionally guides the other customers on what to buy and where to find it

he’s yoongi!!! of course that’s expected of him

he’s been going here long since you ever started working here, and jin keeps iNSISTING that he’s been here more frequently since you started like a year ago

but doesn’t he come at eleven in the morning?

“woah, yoongi’s already here? — doesn’t he come at eleven in the morning?”

?!!?!!

“i was just thinking the exact same thing.”

jin bangs the glass with his fist and you automatically wince and frown

you dO like cleaning the glass panes!! you didn’t say you liked cleaning them a second time :(

“YOONGI!”

“YES??”

you push jin’s fist away to wipe at the smudge his hand left

“IT’S NOT OPENING YET!”

“I KNOW!!”

wow they’re uh

they’re really loud

sometimes you forget how seokjin could be since it’s been awhile since you heard him yell

lol no one’s been shoplifting recently so you haven’t been hearing him

a mind-blowing idea is for jin to come outside and talk to him in a normal talking voice, so your ears would stop ringing

“HEY! WHAT IF YOU JUST ENTER EARLY IN?”

“REALLY? IS THAT EVEN ALLOWED??”

"YOONGI, EVERYONE ON THE FLOOR KNOWS YOUR NAME. NAMJOON EVEN GAVE YOU A CUSTOMARY BIRTHDAY GIFT, AND WE DON'T GIVE CUSTOMARY BIRTHDAY GIFTS TO ANY OTHER CUSTOMER!!"

namjoon, who technically should be called mr. kim because no one really thinks to call the franchise owner with their government first name, is actually pretty cool

but he's too busy these days and haven't been visiting because he's too busy tending to his newly-opened coffee shop

as if the money he earns from opening his franchise in a day alone isn’t enough :0

"IF YOU SAY SO?"

you’re the one who hikes up the roll-up door in the slightest, enough for only yoongi to enter and not encourage anyone else to nOT enter when it’s still not opening time!!!!

he only has to crouch a little but he still has to dust his thousand-dollar pants as if he crawled through mud

his cream-colored slacks with a large black hoodie that has a giant bear embroidered on the middle of it and mules

... you don't hate his outfits

pretty cute, actually

it's yoongi!!

you'd never catch him lacking!!!

you don't even have to envision him rocking the shit out a paper bag

one time, he came in the store wearing the WRINKLIEST brown linen jumpsuit that no iron could possibly fix and he still pulled it off

toon-teen-ten!

oh god that’s the sound of the intercom

and the sound of the intercom equates to jungkook

... as in jeon jungkook who’s the floor manager and his constant top one goal for every month is to endearingly annoy seokjin

he’s young and mischievous!! but if you were to ask him, only you and jungkook are the people in this floor he’d actually get drinks with outside the shop

“seokjin come to the lingerie department right now, please.”

you see the thing is :D

“now this is just funny

there’s walkie-talkies for everyone here!! jungkook likes intercoms, and seokjin like yelling!!

“WHY ME AGAIN?? I’VE ALREADY FOLDED-“

“there’s a literal rat and i need yOU to catch it!! you know that i hate rodents!!”

him and jungkook are forever gonna be on this eldest-youngest brother dynamic and while jungkook pouts and shared the extras that he gets, jin is the one who kills the bugs :D

10/10 totally fair

fine then!! he’ll catch that goddamn rat

that leaves you and yoongi. alone.

“why did you come so early this time?”

you ask out of courtesy, genuinely baffled too because you know that yoongi’s a creature of habit

yoongi’s eyes pop out, head fervently shaking no

“i’m typically not the type to do that, no.”

???

is he-

are you-

are you both talking about the same thing

yoongi’s face flushes in embarrassment, his mind just then registering what you were actually saying

“o-oh! it’s because last night, i dreamt of the sweater i saw here last week!!"

oh right

typical :D

"need me to find it for you or do you already know the aisle?"

you align the folded shirts by the corners as you pass, looking at yoongi briefly while he trails behind yoh

“not unless you pulled it out already."

he's hoping that dear god you haven't

the black sweater with the moon aND buildings on it and when you turn on the flash, the windows of said building reflect it right back???

he SHUDDERS just by thinking about it

it’s gonna go with everything!!! an instant boost of serotonin every time he sees it

"for you, yoongi?" you shake your head, a small smile on your face that he only sees every once in a while, "i'd comb through the entire stock room."

wait

that’s sweet :((

“i’ll hold you to that.”

you know what??? you're less cranky when it's only him, and a couple of hundred people less

your smiles aren't for customer-service and you don't have misplaced clothes hanging from your shoulders and your walkie-talkie isn't talking in latin

or when no one’s asking you to reach something from the top shelf

or when you’re on the way to the intercom because a kid got separated from their mother

or when someone’s approaching for a refund for a shirt who has a stain that’s 100% no doubt customer error

his feet immediately move on its own because he’s memorized the outline of this too many times

there it is!!!

the sweater he’s dreamt about is already on his hands, only a handful few left

the piece is considerably more expensive than majority of the items here, so that’s why they’re all spaced-out instead of being clustered altogether

yoongi rarely goes to the dressing room, regardless if it's a full-house or not!!

he could just look at an item and immediately tell that it’s made for him ta know

he's beyond sure that this sweater fits him perfectly, but he may want to be here a little longer

yoongi may have say inside one of the fitting rooms and spent a little time in it just to sit on the chair inside, not fitting the sweater at all

he's gotten his item SO quick and he wished he could've just walked slower or pretended to not know where it was!!!

he wants to spend a little more time here

you don't hate yoongi!!! but sometimes he could just be... yoongi

he's quite talkative and strikes it whenever, making you unguarded

he could be overbearing but like an overbearing kind of nice

yoongi’s nice!! he’s the type to ask a lot of questions sure, but he’s also the type that would point the other customers what to buy and where to find it

he’s the type to find an obvious faulty stitch on a shirt, but he’d just quietly exchange it instead of asking for the manager

he’s the type you wouldn’t want to stand behind in line because it would take a long time for him to finish, but he’s also the same one who buys giftcards with generous amounts for family and friends

yoongi’s kind of cool and that’s cemented on your mind

"what do you got for me?"

he materializes out of nowhere, spooked because you thought he already ringed up and was out of the store already

it just happens to be ten minutes before opening and you’re doing last-minute arrangements on a new spread

well, yoongi most certainly is still here and his attention’s piqued

“we have... a new collection."

you clear your theory, awkwardly gesturing because you’re more than aware that yoongi hasn’t seen this either

“yeah, i know that. but like, what's going on??" he gestures to the displays and racks, squinting his eyes, "what's the theme? what's the material?"

:O

uhm you haven't read the brief about this

you aren't even sURE if there is one!!

doesn't everyone make up something on the spot in retail

or atleast that’s what seokjin tells you

“the theme," you clear your throat, scratching your temple before gesturing towards the full rack, "is everything."

“everything?

yoongi’s eyebrow is raised, not expecting that answer at all

you look back to the new feature, and nOW that you think about it,, there's no cohesion at all

“y-yes. the shop was going for the theme of uhm, everything... all at once — yeah, that's it. everything all at once."

it’s a nice way to put it when not one bit of the new collection goes together

“hmmmm. i like it,” yoongi nods solemnly and tilts his head, “and the material?"

"the material?"

you repeat, eyesight not the best so you can’t really tell anything off the bat or uh aNYTHING really

"t-the material is shirt."

they're all shirts!!! that’s it

yoongi grimaces in disgust, the first time you’ve seen of it

“what?? you can't say that.”

he outsretches his hand to the nearest article, holding it up by the hanger

"this, right here, is satin. see how it shines like silk, but doesn't feel like silk?"

uhm yes

you have a gist of what he’s saying but yes

yoongi picks up a pink button shirt this time, flipping it inside out

"this, is silk charmeuse. look at the inside, is it smooth?"

okay where is he going with this

he urges you to put your hand on the fabric and uhhh you didn't sign up for this???

it looks smooth, sure!! end of discussion

"yea-..."

“it's not. it's rough. it is smooth, but it's dull. silk charmeuse is still silk, but the backing it has is different from the lustrous part."

okay yoongi

you’re starting to feel uncomfortable and it has to do something with the tone he’s using on you

“can't believe you didn't know that!! how about this," he plucks out a shirt with a tiny print at the middle of it, "cotton or polyester and rayon?"

"i don't-"

there’s an itch in your neck that you want to scratch, a tell-tale sign that you just wANT to remove yourself from this situation

“come on!! it's a dead giveaway!!"

:((

why is he being like this?

toon-teen-ten!

“y/n, panty section please. jin almost got bit by a mouse and he needs comforting. two minutes until opening, people!!"

jungkook speaks at the right moment, and jin’s little incident is enough of a reason for you to bolt

yoongi's still looking at you but you can't afford to embarrass yourself further

“bye. happy shopping."

huh?

yoongi’s face falls when you leave as cold as that!! typically when you were going to show him out (when it’s regular shop hours), there’d be a smile :((

there's not even a customer service smile :(((

yoongi goes to the only cashier that's open so far and it happens to be far away from you and a teary seokjin

seokjin's fine he didn't even get bit!! that much he could say

but are you okay? uhhh you kinda went cold on him by the end and he thought he started on a good note

yoongi doesn't visit for another week and you don't find yourself counting the days until you meet him again

you did not have a devil wears prada moment where anne hathaway has an epiphany for fashion knowledge

you just felt belittled at a job that isn’t exactly what you wanted anyways

needed, yes. but wanted? not exactly

you know that basic knowledge about clothes is required in a retail job like this and you have it!! you do!!!!

you’d know more if only there were actual available resources for employees to know!!! nobody besides yoongi asks anyways

you’d know if you have time to yourself and aren’t working two jobs trying to make ends meet and tHEN you could pull up a book or something!!!

you’d know if your life is as lax as yoongi’s and could have the budget to buy new things for yourself every single week

“jin, i need to ask you something.”

he hums as called, looking at you briefly until you get on with it

“do you know the difference between silk and silk charmeuse?"

he shrugs casually while you're sitting inside one of the closed-off fitting rooms to catch a break, sharing a burger because the store’s packed-packed

why did you ask him? it’s too easy

“one's made by worms, and the other's a pokémon."

that,.,., could not possibly be righti* it brings you a laugh and you honestly don’t even try to correct him

it’s 11:15 and you kNOW it’s time to resume your shift, straightening your shirt because atleast one (1) person would hound you when they see a familiar red lanyard

oh you’re hounded alright

“hi! almost thought you were hiding from me for a second.”

yoongi????

oh

you haven’t seen him for a week and you don’t know what to feel in all honesty

"anyways, is this sweater wool or cotton?"

wow

you're quite speechless as he holds up the item

really?

this thing all over again???

why are you even surprised

the only thing that yoongi gets your customer service smile, fishing your hand from inside the sweater to show him

“70% wool."

that's it???

NO GOOD MORNING????

you're mad at him, aren't you?

he knew it :((

he knew something was wrong but he just didn’t know what

he’s gonna fix this!! he will

which is why the very next day, he takes the day off from his work and comes to the store at a time he knows you’d surely be there

you're on cashier duty and you like it actually :D

you have an option to sit and the way you’re just gonna scan pricetags (and occasionally enter the code if it doesn’t work) is really appealing

“good morning!"

you’re about to grab the items from the basket laid on the counter and your eyes could only see the very familiar hand

the same one you’ve seen go through racks and racks

yoongi??

he sets his items one by one, buying himself more time

the first one is the same exact sweater he came to wait for before opening

“you already bought this."

you tell him even before you could hold it back, looking back at him briefly before you scan the tag

“i know. i just wanted to see you."

oh

oh

yoongi threw a bunch of other items (individually) so it would be a longer talk, but you scan each item quickly that he’s grabbing things from the counter

hand sanitizer!!! hair ties!!! keychains!!!! yeah he needs them

“i'm sorry that i tend to spring shit on you most of the time. you don't need to know the difference between silk and silk charmeuse."

you only chuckle then, a meek smile on your face

"it's okay, yoongi.”

“it's not."

... it’s not?

yoongi fidgets, opening and closing his mouth like he’s nervous!!! he’s never had his credit card cancelled but he could only feel that this type of jitterness is more than the former

“can i make it up to you? no lanyards, no baskets, no customer service?? i don't wanna fuck things up with you."

“don't feel obligated-"

“i know i could be a condescending ass who expects people to automatically know fabric and whatnot, but i wanna make it up to you."

alright yoongi’s a really good apology-maker

you mIGHT be even flustered a little

“you're holding the line, yoongi.”

“i cleared my schedule."

“i haven’t!!!!!” - guy in the back

“dinner at my place at 8. i-i promise to make your hard-earned break after your shift worthwhile!!!"

hmmm

maybe that wouldn’t hurt

“okay. just because you're holding the line."

“fine by me."

:))

yoongi transfers all the items he bought, all but one, to his tote bag

he hands back the paper bag to you, scribbling his address on the back of the receipt before he does

he lingers a little while at the counter, the people behind him ALREADY switching lanes to the one seokjin’s just opened beside you

it's the sweater that he has too

yoongi scratches the back of his head, this time being the meek one

“what? m-matching sweaters for our first date. s'cute."

[moldisgoodforyou]

you'd come with me?

wordcount: 1.5k

lol this picture just makes me laugh we love a mich ultra man

“How much longer?”

“Just a few…” Sophie answered Rafe absentmindedly, biting her bottom lip in concentration as she typed.

They’d assumed their usual positions while studying in her room - she was sprawled out on her bed, while he sat at her desk, concentrating on whatever homework he had for the day. She’d banned him from the bed during study time, much to his dismay, claiming he was far too distracting. (He still got away with distracting her half the time anyways, slinking over and tucking his large frame into her side like a dog that had overgrown its owner’s lap years ago.)

“Rafe?” She broke the silence after a while, punctuating her sentence with a firm shut of her laptop.

“Yeah, baby?”

“I just applied for a grad program.” She told him nervously, unsure of what his reaction might be.

He shrugged, not turning his attention to her. “Okay? I thought you applied to Ohio State’s, you’re basically in already.”

“Well, yeah. But, um - can you look at me, please?” Sophie bit at her bottom lip, anxious.

He glanced up and finally noticed her nervous energy, then came over to sit next to her on the bed. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, it’s just big news. Maybe. I don’t even know if I have news yet, really -”

“Spit it out, Soph.” He nudged his knee against hers, concerned.

She nodded, taking a breath. “Okay. I applied to three other places, too. Two are in New York, one’s in Texas. And I know, I should have told you, but I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to do it in the first place, I kind of applied on a whim - well, I’ve been perfecting the application essay for weeks, but -”

“Soph, hey, it’s okay.” He cut off her rambling and a broad grin spread across his face, completely surprising her. “New York and Texas, for real?”

She raised her eyebrows and fidgeted with her ring, glancing at him worriedly. “That doesn’t worry you at all? That we’d be apart?”

She’d thought about how to tell him, when to tell him, for weeks now. She’d been hiding that she was interested in applying to other schools since June and though she felt incredibly guilty, she kept thinking back to long distance and how sad he seemed sometimes. She couldn’t break him with the news again so soon, not when she saw the way he lit up when they were together again and how content he was. Not when she saw how hard it was for her to support him from thousands of miles away, knowing physical touch was a big thing he relied on for comfort in their relationship.

He interrupted her train of thought as he took her hand, lacing their fingers together. “Sophie, baby, do you know how many jobs are in New York and Texas?”

“Wait, you’d come with me?” She stuck her bottom lip out a little, overwhelmed and almost near tears at his response.

“I was planning on following you no matter what.” Rafe smiled encouragingly, reaching out and stroking his thumb over her cheek. “If you’ll have me.”

“Oh.” She said softly, growing shy. “You’re sure? You could go wherever you wanted, I don’t want to hold you back -”

“Hey, hey, none of that. Where’d you apply, when do you hear back?”

“You’re sure this isn’t an issue.” She asked warily, not wanting to undermine his feelings.

“I’m positive.” He gave her a proud grin. “What schools?”

“Okay, um. Columbia -”

He let out a long low whistle, nodding. “Impressive.”

She blushed, finally grinning back. “Hush. Columbia, Syracuse and UT Austin. Isobel already got into Syracuse. Columbia’s my top choice, but that’ll probably never happen.”

“Of course it’ll happen, get out of your head.” He leaned down and kissed her, smiling against her lips. “Look at you, big shot, applying for an Ivy.”

She relaxed, her hands trailing along the hem of his shirt, and ducked her head to hide her grin. “Stop. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“It is that big of a deal. When do you find out?” He shifted to lay down by her, then tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.

“Um…not for a couple months, I think. You’ll really follow me?”

“Course I will, if you’ll have me.” He nodded earnestly.

“Yeah. I’d like that.” She beamed, nudging her nose against his. “You’re my favorite.”

“Love you too.” He responded. “Wait, did you just apply? Like right now?”

She nodded, biting the inside of her cheek. “Just finished my Columbia essay, I did the rest last week. Now I wait.”

He smoothed his thumb over her cheek, making her relax again. “You’re so damn smart. Should we go celebrate?” Rafe gave her a cheeky grin. “Double scoop with sprinkles?”

She rolled her eyes. “Doesn’t have the same effect now that you get it for free.” As a part of his internship program, he’d received a punch card for 25 free visits to Jeni’s, their favorite ice cream shop - they’d hardly made a dent in it since returning to school.

“No, I pay extra for the sprinkles and your waffle cone.” His grin gave way to a slow smirk and he kissed her neck, sucking gently for a moment. “We could celebrate other ways…”

“Wait, no, I actually do want the ice cream.” She pulled away before he could leave a mark, giving him a warning glance. “I gotta make up for what I missed over summer.”

He laughed, getting up and offering his hand. “Alright. C’mon, genius. Jeni’s is waiting for you.”

She took his hand, but didn’t stand. “Wait, Rafe. You’re sure, this is okay with you? I know you have your job lined up and all…”

Rafe paused, shrugging. “Yeah, well. Uh, Brooklyn got the job offer too, she’s already accepted it. So I wasn’t too psyched about it anyways.”

“Oh.” She nodded, thoughtful. “Have you been to New York? Or Austin?”

“I have. You haven’t? You want to go visit when you get in, so you can make your final decision?” He tugged on her hand, pulling her up into a hug and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“Not sure I could afford that.” She mumbled, resting her head on his chest.

“Man, too bad you don’t have a boyfriend with money to pay for those trips.” He hooked a finger under her chin, tilted it up so he could look her in the eyes and see her scowl. “If you want to visit, we’ll go. Easy weekend trip.”

“Right.” Sophie nodded, unsure. “Maybe. I’m not even sure I’ll get in, I’ll probably be stuck here in Columbus for another year anyways.”

“Hey. Stop talking like that. You’ll help me look for jobs in New York and Texas, right?”

“Of course I will.” She confirmed. “You know, we could probably find something related to film in New York…”

He scoffed and looped his arm around her shoulders, steering her out of her room and down the stairs. “I think my dad might write me out of his will if I did anything adjacent to the film industry. Waste of my time, he says.”

She frowned, letting him usher her out to the car. “Maybe you should go talk with the career counselors, see if there’s options to combine both. You’re good at marketing too, maybe there’s something there?”

“Not sure. Haven’t really thought about any of that.” He dismissed her quickly, feeling uneasy like he did any time he thought about his future outside of school.

Sometimes he realized he was really good at absorbing other people’s interests, like he was able to always match his personality into a perfect mold to other people’s expectations. With Colin and James, and now Sophie, he was able to let his guard down a little and figure out who he was, who he wanted to be beyond his father’s expectations. He felt like he was thinking about this ten years too late - eleven year old Rafe had always written his ‘dream job’ in school as working for his dad. Now he was about to graduate, set to get a job, and wasn’t even sure if he could list his hobbies outside of hanging out with Sophie and his friends, and watching movies.

“Look, I just...I don’t want you to lose sight of what you’re actually interested in just because you need a job. You don’t have to hate your job.” She told him, carefully.

“I know.” He nodded, shutting down the conversation. “Today’s not about me, though, we gotta celebrate you, hotshot over here.” He grinned at her, leaning over to kiss her quick across the seat. “I think they have the chocolate cake back in stock, I’ve missed it.”

She picked up on his hesitation, but didn’t push it. “You’re such a creature of habit.”

“No, you’re just a psychopath picking a different flavor every time.” He shook his head as he reached his hand to rest behind her seat, turning around to back up. “Good thing I love you anyways, smart girl.”

“Love you too, sweet boy.” She replied with a smile.

taglist: @drewstarkey @lemur46 @jjmaybanksbaby @edgeofgr8 @quxxnxfhxll @obxtess @hoodpankow @vtgirl802 @outerbankies @messagesinthesky @nicolecarsley @svechnikolan @ilovejjmaybank @obxtess @abbyj1822 @oopsiedoopsie23 @g4bster @jjmaybankzz @freddymaybank @dontjinx-it @illbesafeforyou @moniamaybank @tovvaa @jailcalledlife @sunshineitsfine44 @randomficsandshit @outerbankspreferences @outerbanksbro @karsinner @kkmaybank @whoeveniskendall @lemur46

[rpf-bat]

Scream Out ‘What Will Save Us?’

Pairing: Frank Iero x Reader

Genre: Angst

Summary: Written for Gothtober 2020, Day 15. Prompt: “Catharsis.” 

Your band just broke up, and you’re trying to force yourself be okay with that. But, when you visit Frank, at his home in New Jersey, he advises you to be honest with your feelings. You find that he has some things to get off his chest, too. 

It had been six months now, since My Chemical Romance broke up. You hadn’t done much since then, except move back to your house in New Jersey, and….sit there. For the last eleven years of your life, you’d drummed for a living, and life had moved to a frenetic pace. There was always another city to travel to, another show to play. But, now? Life was suddenly at a standstill. 

You didn’t have to do anything for a living now, you supposed. The royalties alone, could probably sustain you, for years to come. Perhaps a millionaire like yourself, had no right to complain. Bullets You would, after all, kill to have Current You’s problems. 

But, having lived at both extremes, you found that being functionally homeless, in a dirty van with your four best friends, was more enjoyable, than being all alone, in this spotless mansion. You hadn’t joined My Chemical Romance to make money. There were other things that mattered more - the joy of spending time with friends, who slowly became more like family. The creative fulfillment, of writing a piece of music, and then having ten thousand fans sing along with the tune. These were the things, that made your life meaningful. 

These were the things, that you had now lost. 

The Way brothers - who, up until recently, had felt like your own brothers - were still residing in Los Angeles. Ray, too, had stayed on the West Coast. You hadn’t seen them since the decision was made, to disband. You weren’t sure that you even wanted to. 

But Frank - good, old, loyal Frank, who had known you longer than any of them - was merely a few miles down the road. Perhaps today was a good day to pay him a visit. 

You called him on your cell, and he answered the phone, almost immediately. Like you, he probably had nothing better to do. 

“Hey, Y/N,” Frank said in a tired voice. “How are you doing?”

“Alright,” you shrugged. “Just bored, I guess. How are you?” 

“Not so good,” Frank confessed. “I’ve been having, like, the worst stomachaches.” 

“Oh, no,” you said sympathetically. “Do you want me to bring you some medicine?” 

“The doc says I have a bacterial overgrowth of the small intestine,” Frank explained. 

“What does that mean?” you asked. 

“It means your drug-store Pepto ain’t gonna do shit for me,” Frank chuckled bitterly. “I got prescription pills for it, but it still hurts like a bitch. Some company might take my mind off the pain, though.”

“So...I can come over?” you asked hopefully. 

“Please do,” Frank agreed. “It’ll at least give me a reason, to get out of bed.” 

You chose not to mention that, at two o’clock in the afternoon, you had yet to find a reason to get out of bed yourself. 

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

Frank’s house was nowhere near the main road. You had to drive through nearly half a mile of trees, just to reach his front door. He had selected this property partially because he loved nature - and partially because hated people. 

You supposed you couldn’t blame him, for trying to avoid having nosy fans show up on his doorstep. The only person who always seemed welcome on his doorstep, no matter the hour, was you. 

You found him sitting on his front steps, his acoustic guitar in his hands. The melody he was playing drifted over the air, as you got out of the car, and approached him. 

“Is that...Disenchanted?” you recognized instantly. 

“,,,..Yeah,” Frank sighed, his inked hands ceasing their strumming. “Hi, Y/N.” 

“Hi, Frankie,” you frowned. “What made you decide to play that one today?”

“I don’t know,” Frank said sadly. “Doesn’t it feel strange to you? Knowing that we’re never going to play that song onstage again?”

“Or any of them,” you noted. “If I had known that set at Bamboozle would be the last gig we ever played, I would have tried harder, to make it count.” 

“You and me both,” Frank said wistfully. “But, anyway….it’s a nice day. Do you want to take a walk with me?” 

“Sure,” you nodded, extending your hand to help him up. “As long as you’re feeling up to it.” 

“I’ll be fine,” Frank assured you, groaning as he stood. “C’mon.” 

You followed him, around the house, through his backyard, and from there, into the woods, that sat behind his home. The trees were beginning to lose their leaves, and the sky has turned overcast, and grey. Summer, you supposed, was just another thing that wouldn’t last. 

“Careful,” Frank warned, “there’s a brook up ahead.” 

You saw that was what he said was true. The small body of water separated the hill from the valley, in the same way that a garotte wire separated a head from a neck. 

“Take my hand,” Frank offered. “I don’t want you to fall.” 

You found yourself blushing, as his calloused fingers, intertwined with your own. He pulled you up onto a rock, in the center of the brook.  

“Are we going to have to jump?” you guessed. 

“Yeah, but don’t worry,” Frank said softly, “I got you.” 

He leapt from the rock, to the other side of the brook. Still holding hands, you leapt with him. Just as he’d promised, you made it to the other side safely. 

“It’s just a little further now,” Frank assured you. 

“What is?” you wondered. 

“You’ll see,” he replied cryptically. He could have let go of your hand, but instead, he kept it held tightly in his own. You didn’t mind. 

“....Whoa,” you gasped, as you realized, that you’d arrived at your destination. You were at the top of a cliff. From here, you could see the whole city, stretched out before you. 

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Frank admired. 

“Yes!” you gasped. “Thank you for bringing up here! The view was totally worth the hike.” 

“I’m lucky as hell, to have a hidden gem like this, on my property,” Frank confessed. “I like to come up here sometimes, when I need to think.” 

“....What have you been thinking about lately?” you asked, sitting down on a boulder. 

“What happened with the band, of course,” Frank admitted, sitting down beside you. “I just….I don’t know. Gerard’s decision felt so sudden. It was like having the wind knocked out of me.” 

“Yeah,” you recalled. “It was like….it wasn’t fun anymore to him, so he just….dropped it. Like it was nothing.” 

“I’m not gonna pretend, that being in My Chem, was sunshine and roses all the time,” Frank acknowledged. “Sometimes, touring sucked.” 

“It did,” you admitted. “I hated the early bus calls, and the jet lag, that never seemed to go away. But, I don’t know. It was worth it, to go through all that, if it meant I would end my day, on a stage with you.” 

“I guess it wasn’t worth it to him anymore,” Frank frowned. “But, what can you do? You can’t continue a band, without its frontman.” 

“I guess our time was just up,” you shrugged. “All we can do, is move on.” 

“I know it was messing up his mental health, trying to write the new record,” Frank said, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “It’s not right for us to ask him to keep doing something that’s hurting him.” 

“You’re right,” you sighed. “It’s not fair, to risk causing him another relapse, or something, just because we thought the album could’ve gone somewhere.”

“But now, you and me?” Frank grumbled, lighting a cigarette, and taking a drag. “We’re not gonna go fucking anywhere.” 

“We’re right back where we started,” you realized. “Stuck in the same little town in New Jersey, where it all began.” 

You and Frank, had been in another local band, called Pencey Prep. That band had broken up, and then Gerard, had asked you two, to join My Chemical Romance. Even before you’d become a member, you’d known just from listening to the demos, that this band would be something special. They’d captivated every soul, in the shitty dive bar, where you’d gone to see them play. 

After you and Frank joined their ranks, things began to pick up speed so quickly. Local bars, turned into clubs on the other side of the state. And then you’d attracted the interest of a major label. And then, the next thing you knew, you were playing in fucking Japan. Clubs turned into arenas. Obscurity turned into infamy. You’d done things, you never thought, you would have an opportunity to do.  It was a wild ride. And it was….over now. 

“It makes me want to scream sometimes,” you said honestly. 

“So, do it,” Frank said, exhaling smoke. 

“....What?” you blinked, staring back at him. 

“Go on and scream,” he suggested. “I mean, we’re in the middle of nowhere. Nobody’s going to hear you, except for me.”

“You’re serious?” you gaped. 

“Yeah,” Frank nodded. “Honestly? I think it would be cathartic.” 

He had a point - you’d been trying to hold a lot of emotions inside you, since everything went down. Maybe what you really needed, was to let them out. 

You went and stood, on the edge of the cliff, and looked out, onto the horizon. You took a deep breath, and tilted your head back. 

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!”  you cried.

You turned back, and saw that Frank was laughing. 

“....Did that feel good?” he grinned. 

“....Honestly, yeah, it did!” you admitted. It felt even better, to see a smile on his face, for the first time today. 

“You should just...feel what you feel, Y/N,” Frank advised. “You say we’re supposed to move on, and maybe that’s the narrative the fans want to hear. Like, they’re sad that they’ll never hear their favorite band live again. And it makes them feel better, to think, well, the band members did this, because it’s what made them the happiest.” 

“But, we don’t feel happy,” you argued. “At least, not all of us do.”

“What do you feel?” Frank asked seriously. 

“I feel….lost,” you described. “Like, I don’t know what my next move is supposed to be. The whole world knew me as My Chemical Romance’s drummer, for pretty much all of my twenties. Now, I’m hitting my thirties and...I don’t know who I am. I don’t know where we go from here.” 

“Well, I know that I want to keep making music,” Frank decided. “Even if nobody else wants to hear it, I’ll play it for myself.” 

“I want to hear it,” you said seriously. “Did you write something recently?” 

“Yeah,” Frank said shyly, stubbing his cigarette out into the dirt. “I actually did start writing a song, the other day.” 

“Play it for me,” you pleaded. 

“I don’t know,” Frank blushed. “I wrote some lyrics, but….you know I don’t have the gift for singing, that Gerard does.” 

“You sang in Pencey,” you reminded him. 

“Yeah, that was twelve years ago!” Frank scoffed. “Who knows if I even remember how?” 

“I know you can do it,” you encouraged him. 

“The lyrics, they’re not all that nice,” Frank warned. “I didn’t write them to be radio friendly. I just wrote them, because I needed to get the thoughts out of my head.”

“You needed your catharsis,” you nodded understandingly. 

“Yeah,” Frank sighed. “But….if you really want to hear it, Y/N, I’ll play it for you.”

He took out his guitar, and set it on his lap. Hesitant fingers plucked the strings. You listened, with rapt attention, as he began to sing: 

Some things change but they don't get better

I'm so sick and so tired of trying to tell them that

I'll never do it, no I'll never make it alone

But pay no mind, it fades in time

Don't we all?

Someone I love threw me away 

Someone I love threw me away

Someone I love threw me away

But I don't mind, no I don't mind at all

“That’s bullshit, Frank,” you interrupted. “You do mind.” 

“.....Of course I fucking mind,” Frank snapped. He looked up from his guitar, and you realized, that he had tears in his eyes. 

You moved over to where he sat, and pulled him into a hug. 

“It’s okay,” you told him gently. 

“It’s not,” Frank shook his head. “I gave my blood, sweat, and tears….my heart and my soul, to that band. I thought you and I were going to be in My Chemical Romance for the rest of our lives.” 

“What, like Mick Jagger?” you tried to smile. “Rocking out, even in his sixties?” 

“I don’t know,” Frank said, burying his face in his hands. “Maybe I’m the stupid one, for thinking that something like that, could last forever.” 

“You’re not stupid,” you said softly. “The truth is….I wanted it to last forever, too. It was the best thing I’d ever done. And now, I don’t know what else I can do with the rest of my life, that could even come close.” 

“If I decided to play that song, in front of other people, someday,” Frank asked, “would you play the drums for me?” 

“Of course,” you promised. “Frank, I’d jump at the chance to get onstage with you again. You should know that.”

“I feel like I don’t know anything anymore!” Frank said vulnerably. “Everything I thought I could count on, is slipping through my fingers. I feel lost. Just like you said. And  I’m aching all the time, Y/N. What if you’re the next thing, that I lose?” 

“I’ll never leave you, Frank,” you vowed. “It’s been you and me, from the very beginning. I couldn’t imagine a life that didn’t have you in it….in one way, or another.”

“You met me when you joined Pencey. But now, for the first time in my entire life, you’re not my band mate anymore,” Frank choked. “So…what am I to you?” 

“You’re my best friend,” you whispered, pulling him close. “And you could be more than that, if you wanted to.”

“Wh-What are you saying?” Frank gasped. 

“Frank….,” you took a deep breath. “The truth is, that I always wanted you. I never told you how I felt, because I thought, if we got into a relationship, and broke up, it would destroy our ability to work together. But….you’re right. We’re not bandmates anymore. So, I have nothing left to lose. I...I love you.” 

“You….love me?” Frank repeated, eyes wide. 

“Yes.” You put it all out there. “Yes, Frank, you’re the one I love. And if you would have me, I swear to you, I would never throw you away.” 

Frank surged forward, grabbing you by the collar, and pulling you in for a passionate kiss. Your startled mouth was suddenly full of his tongue. It felt so good. 

“....Frankie!” you gasped, pulling away. “You...you actually want me back?” 

“Of course I do,” Frank breathed. “It drives me absolutely fucking crazy, that we’ve both been burying our feelings this whole time, to protect a career, that no longer exists.” 

“...Then at least I still have you,” you whispered, and pulled him in again. He tasted like smoke and desperation. 

His body pressed against yours as he kissed you harder, pushing you down, against the hard rocks. His hands found the buttons of your blouse. 

“....Frank,” you stopped him. “We should go back down, to your house, if we’re going to do this.” 

“You’re right,” he chuckled. “My bed is a lot softer.” 

“Take me there,” you begged, laying your lips on him again. 

“Oh,” Frank promised, “I’ll take you all night.” 

[writefinch]

Family-Owned Small Business

(CN: incest, sex work, mentions of sexual assault & suicidal ideation)

The worst part of my job is administration. Last-minute rescheduling when a client flakes on us. Chasing up payments. Booking accommodation at short notice. Answering messages! Jesus, every time in the last year when I've slumped, sighed, and thought to myself "fuck working, I need a break from all this" it's been when I've opened my messages and seen thirty different texts that need a reply. Some people are fine with it I guess, but for me it's boring, time consuming, and stressful.

Big deal though, right, I mean nobody loves doing admin, why even bring it up? Well, if I tell someone that for work last night I ate a client's cum out of my mom's pussy, I'd expect that they'd get fixated on the sex work and the incest. I'd expect them to freak out and not pay attention to the specifics of what I'm saying. So, first, I'd like that person to know that the thing I hate about my job is probably the same thing that *they* hate about *their* job. I would rather lick my mom's asshole for five minutes than answer emails for five minutes, and I answer a lot of emails.

Do we have to worry about violence, danger, cops, and legal trouble? Yeah, we do. Am I scared of these things? Yeah, sometimes, but I had to worry about all of those things before I started doing sex work. At least now we've got the money to buy our way out of the worst of it.

I'm not saying that what I do with mom is an objectively healthy relationship, let alone a perfect one. If you took me back in time and told me I could pick a completely different life for me and my mom, I'm sure there's a bunch of choices I'd pick over this one. But I never had that choice. I got hurt a lot growing up. I feel like I've finally escaped the things that hurt me, but I know that I've barely started to recover from them.

That's why I'm writing this. We've saved enough money to afford some therapy and my first session is next week. I want help with the fear, the nightmares, the mood swings and insomnia, I want to stop the rush of rage and terror that flows through me every time I see the word 'dad,' I want help untangling the stuff that came out of being told I was a pansy when I was growing up, then figuring out I'm gay, then figuring out I'm a girl, then figuring out I'm all three of those things while I was living in a place that kept trying to kill me for it. What I don't want is for the psych to pin it all on the two least harmful and least fucked-up things about my life, and worse, I don't want them to make me believe it. This journal is a prophylactic, an assessment of my job, my relationships and my life that I can refer back to if and when someone sticks their fingers in my brain and swirls them around.

I'll start with a problem statement: my dad. The memories that hurt the most are the ones where he almost appeared human, the flickers of joy, curiosity and humor that stood out from the bland cruelty that made up the rest of his personality. I'll remember him buying me ice cream or talking about a book or a movie with me, I'll doubt myself and wonder if I just went crazy and cut him out of my life for no reason, and then my brain will hook onto a random act of sadism he inflicted on me.

The physical abuse was bad all on its own, real psycho shit like driving me out into the woods and making me pick through the brush for a switch he could hit me with and a whole lot more I won't go into, but the emotional abuse was worse. When I was eleven, I forgot to feed my cat one day. He gave her away to my uncle, but told me that she'd developed malnutrition and had to be put down. I didn't find out the truth for another two years, when he just let it slip at Easter. He bragged about it, even, like he'd invented a really smart child-rearing technique. I don't want to write too much down here because I don't need to, if anything I want therapy to *stop* everything he did from running through my head. He's a punishment-obsessed sadist, a Baptist, and he works as a judge. Did he ever sexually abuse me? No. Parent of the year, right? He kicked me out for being a fag the day I turned eighteen, so it's ironic that my biggest fear is that he comes looking for me. He doesn't even know I'm a girl.

On the other hand, my mom has had an interesting life. She's kind of a fuck up. When I was one year old, mom and dad split and dad got full custody--being a judge helped with that--while mom left the state. She spent a decade trying to kick a heroin habit and a year and a half in prison for related stuff, got banned from even entering the state I lived in on account of her parole--again, dad being a judge helped with that--illegally emigrated to Canada for a while, and went to Oregon by mistake, doing a mixture of bartending, delivery driving, MDMA dealing and whoring to stay afloat.

The only reason we met again is that I was in the same city staying with friends, also whoring. I don't remember the first time I saw her, but the first time we talked was in a mutual friend's tiny studio apartment with a few other hooker friends. We ended up comparing our Pest Lists, shared a few drinks, and swapped numbers. A week later we fucked, and a month after *that* we realized that we'd Oedipus'd ourselves. It seems funnier now than it did at the time.

That was an emotional time. We cried with joy that we'd found each other, we started tip-toeing around the ideas of rebuilding our lives together, and we agreed to pretend that the sex had never happened. Of course, we got drunk together a week later and fucked again. She's hot! I have a thing for older women, I have a thing for breaking taboos, and I have a thing for being mommied in bed. Blame dad for raising me like this, I dunno.

We started doing sex work as a team after she got a dental abscess. The bill for the hospital stay and the tooth removal was insane, and the dentist straight-up told her that she'd end up with another in a different tooth within a year if she didn't get two root canals. Even when she was recovering, we could only afford fish antibiotics off of Amazon. We crunched some numbers and made some inquiries, and figured out that we could pull in two week's worth of our combined income with one night of mother-daughter stuff.

Our first joint session was with a real estate pervert I'll call Stan, a chubby balding powerlifter in his fifties who we'd both had as a client before. Mom took me over her knees and switched between spanking me and fingering me while he watched. I sucked him off while mom made out with him, made out with my mom with his cock between our lips, licked his balls as mom licked my ass, then let him fuck my ass while mom sat on my face. That was the first half hour. He came six more times before we passed out in the early hours of the morning, and I drifted off nursing his finally-limp cock in my mouth. He paid us the price of a used Volkswagen for our trouble, and I blew him one last time before we left as a thank-you.

Six months later, mom's teeth were fixed, I was on spiro, and we had just under a dozen clients for our "doubles sessions." Only a few of our appointments are ones with me and mom together, three or four a month, we mostly work alone. That's not out of a deliberate choice, it's just that we've got a strict criteria for who we'll double up on.

Trust is one thing: depending on the lawyers we can afford, what we're doing is either kinda illegal or extremely illegal. Since my dad is presumably still a judge, I don't want him to ever find out about this. He'd put us in a prison or a mental institution. We won't do a double session with a client unless we've both had individual sessions with them.

Money is the other thing. Getting your dick sucked by a hot mom while her daughter sucks your balls costs a week's wages for the average person. Hiring us for the night is more like a month's wages. Even in a city like this, there's only a few thousand people that can drop that kind of money on hookers. Then, they've got to *want* to fuck a trans girl and her mom together. Don't get me wrong, more people are into mother-daughter incest than you'd expect, but it's not a universal thing.

Clients are, on average, annoying. It's a fact of life. The thing that all clients have in common is a ton of disposable income and a fondness for fucking hookers. They're not necessarily bad people, but there’s a heavy ‘What can a banana cost, ten dollars?’ vibe to them. It’s not that they’re adrenochrome-drinkers who don’t see regular people as human, it’s more that they don’t have an intuitive awareness that other people don’t have savings accounts, health insurance, an investment property, and four figures of walking-around money at any given time. I guess I'd feel differently if I was like, a concierge or a PA, but there's a lot more pillow talk in my job.

I've had bad and dangerous clients before, there's been at least two occasions where I was pretty sure I was going to die--one where the hospital afterwards stay wiped out four months of income, not counting the month where I couldn’t work--but they were all before I met mom, when I couldn't be so careful about screening prospective clients and dropping them if they threw up red flags. I'm sure we'll get bad clients in the future, but we're in a better place to deal with them safely.

I also wanna write down what a "normal day" is like. Friday was a good example. I woke up early at 9am and cooked breakfast for mom. She was up already doing the laundry. We entertain some clients in our apartment, so we go through a lot of clothes and a lot of sheets. You can't fuck a guy on top of another guy's cum stains, that's rude. Some of the job is Housework But More. We don't really use the main bedroom or the sitting room because we treat them like bed and breakfast guest rooms. It's annoying but every time we have a session without getting an actual hotel or motel room we save like $50 minimum.

After breakfast I epilated, showered, and went for a run. Personal grooming isn't that big a deal in terms of time, I'm not saying I don't spend a lot of time on it, I do, but I'd be spending that time even if I worked in a bar or an office or something. Look: I'm hot. I might have been a weird-looking spotty nerd when I thought I was a boy, but as a girl I'm a fucking dime. I could get like, 25% uglier before it had any impact on my earnings. The only part of personal grooming that's necessary for sex work and I wouldn't do all the time anyway is power-washing my guts an hour before every session.

After lunch, mom went to see some friends and I played Magic for a few hours. At two pm, the actual work started. I picked up the work phone for the first time that day and began answering texts. An hour later I'd cancelled the 6pm appointment, blocked out all of Sunday evening, checked in with a few regulars, and provisionally moved three guys to the 'Time Wasters' list.

I spent a while sexting with a good prospect. He was a good prospect because he paid up-front for the sexting instead of treating it like a free samples platter at Costco. We scheduled a tentative appointment for next Tuesday, when his wife would be out of town on a business trip. Most of the guys I fuck have kinks, and I swear that 'cheating on your wife with a sex worker' is the most common one there is. Do I feel bad about it? At my hourly rate, absolutely not.

Mom got back at half four, so I took a break. We made tacos for lunch together and ate while watching Billions. She nudged me and told me that I need to do my injection, and, well, we have a little ritual for that. I'm scatterbrained and I'm not great with needles, but mom has been incredibly supportive with my HRT, and when I told her I was having problems taking them on time, she came up with a way to make me as comfortable as possible. As soon as the needle is ready, I laid down in her lap and she cradled my head in her arms, pressing her bare chest against my face. I took a nipple into my mouth and nursed it softly while she stroked my hair. She called me a good girl, telling me how proud she is of her daughter, how much she loves me, and asked if I was going to take my medicine like a big girl. On good days I inject myself while she pets me and coos over me, and on bad days she takes the needle and does it for me. As soon as I dropped the needle in the sharps container, mom pressed a Hitachi against my cock and took one of my nipples into her mouth, called me her big brave girl, and asked if I was gonna cum for mommy.

As usual, the answer was yes.

Late afternoon and early evening is when the messages start flowing in, especially on Fridays, when the kinds of people with hooker money have either left work early and thinking about getting laid, or are still held up at work and are desperately thinking about getting laid. This kind of messaging gets trickier, because it comes down to what I'm providing. Like, setting up a session is the kind of normal administrative stuff that's baked into the price of a session. It's also partly a sales job, so I'm naturally flirty and solicitous, and because I do sex work I talk openly about sex.

However, *sexting* is not normal administrative stuff. If I'm sending you messages for jerking-off purposes, I can charge by the hour or by the text but I will insist on charging for it. Also, it's not just sex that me and mom provide. There's a reason that 'companionship' is an old euphemism for whoring, it's because whores are good company. I'm a good listener and I don't judge, which means I'm like the fun parts of a therapist but without all the homework and self-improvement. I'm (unsurprisingly) friendly with all of my clients, and I have more than a few clients and former clients who I'd consider good friends and vice versa. I talk to a bunch of them outside of a business context, especially the ones I met outside of my job, and that's a normal part of maintaining a pool of clients for any sales job, but on the other hand... it's a demand on my time and it's a part of my services. I can and have bluntly told guys that they're wasting my time when it comes to uncompensated sexting, but the platonic stuff requires a lighter touch.

One of my regulars, Fintech Pete, sent me a message. Two messages later, he sent me $100, and we're off. Describing in gratuitous detail exactly how I'm going to suck his cock, begging him to fuck me until my clit is drooling all over the sheets, sending him feet pics, things of that nature. Pete is great for sexting because he barely jerks off while he's doing it, he saves all the messages and pictures and jerks off to them later, because he's got some biohacking routine where he only cums once a week. He said once that part of the reason he hires sex workers is that he takes each nut a lot more seriously if he's paying three digits minimum for the privilege. He does this teleconferencing report with the board of directors at his company four times a year, and every time he hires me to kneel under the desk in his home office and suck him off while he makes his presentation.

Anyway, while we were going back and forth like that, he mentioned that I'd made a joke one time about doing a joint session with my mom. I told him it wasn't a joke, and to cut a long story short, half an hour later I was asking mom if she was up for an overnight session starting at 9pm. She agreed, Pete confirmed, so we both got ready--think getting dolled up for a night out but with a more thorough enema--and drove to his place. He lived outside of town in a two-bedroom suburban home, alone with his two dogs.

As soon as we were parked in his garage I did the safety call in front of him: I rang a friend of mine, told her we were visiting a friend, told her it was at the address I sent her earlier, and told her we'd call her again tomorrow morning. Was it really necessary to do that with someone like Fintech Pete? No, but practice makes permanent. If you let these things slip when there's no danger, eventually they'll slip when there is danger.

Now, I don't want to imply that I'm in a lot of danger! There's a reason that most of the faces you'll see on the Trans Day of Remembrance are of poor black and brown women, because real danger comes when you can't turn skeevy jobs, when you can't afford to take precautions, when you have to make the choice over and over between maybe starving and maybe getting murdered. I'm white, I've got a good support network, and I've been relatively lucky in that I can do all these things to minimize my risks. I've still got to do them, though! Things like safety calls are a good habit to get into and it helps all sex workers if there's an expectation that they've all got someone looking out for them.

...I get that there is some bravado creeping into this journal. I start off saying that admin is the worst part of the job and a page later I flippantly mention that the job has put me in the hospital. On a day to day basis yeah, the admin is the bit that sucks the most, but if you offered me a deal where the admin is twice as bad but I never took that session, I’d take it in a heartbeat. This job has left me with some scars. Any time something cold touches my wrist I get a vivid flash of the first time I had my hands zip-tied behind my back in a cop car. I've had nightmares all my life, and more than a few of my nightmares are about stuff that's happened since I got into sex work.

If it seems like I’m downplaying it, it’s because the harrowing stuff is where the job has gone wrong, it’s not baked into the everyday stuff, and most importantly it has nothing to do with my mom. The work I've done with her is some of the least stressful and dangerous I've had since I started this job, and whatever wounds I have, she's not the one who caused them.

On a more positive note, a cool thing about doing sessions with my mom is that we can dress pretty conservatively and still have it come off as insanely lewd. Mom wore a black cocktail dress with an imitation pearl necklace and her hair up in a bun, I was in a white blouse under a lambswool sweater, a pleated short skirt, cheap dark tights--Pete has a thing for tearing them--and patent leather shoes. When you're going to suck a guy's world entirely off alongside your mom, the more modestly you're dressed, the more perverted it looks. Out in the suburbs it also means you get to avoid the microskirts and fishnets look which screams to the neighbors 'I've just hired a pair of hookers' or the mid-range raincoat over microskirts and fishnets look which screams 'I've just hired a pair of pricey hookers."

Pete's living room looks like the back room of a Radio Shack, computer guts everywhere, every surface turned into a makeshift workbench. It's not a suitable place for lovemaking; I don't want to have to pull shards of a soundcard out of my perineum. His bedroom is a lot neater, with a king-sized bed to sit on, a ton of pillows to lounge up against, and a TV mounted on the wall. Mom poured out some wine, a mid-range red zinfandel that we'd picked up on the way, Pete brought out some imported dark chocolate that costs like $40/kg, and I swung my legs over his lap and turned on the Food Network. I took a bite of chocolate, mom took a sip of wine, and before either of us swallowed she pulled me into a deep kiss, mixing the wine and the chocolate. It's a good combination, and Pete enjoyed the show.

The night started off with chatting. None of us were in any rush, not with an overnight session, and since Pete has been a client for each of us for a while it was a pretty relaxed atmosphere. Pete's fingers danced over my thighs, absent-mindedly plucking ladders into the fabric as we talked baseball, business, sex work, the difference between the gentrified fag bar downtown and the really gentrified fag bar downtown, programming and other nerd shit, local politics, the contestants on Cutthroat Kitchen, just normal stuff. Mom and Pete started talking about fancy cooking stuff so I started annoying them both by claiming that sardines are just fully-grown anchovies, that DOP labels are all fake, and that instant grits are better than the regular ones until mom jabbed me with a finger and told me that my mouth should be put to better use elsewhere.

You know how some people say "Cilantro tastes like soap, that's why it's good?" Same thing for how weird it feels to go down on my mom. The first time I ever jerked off, watching a 144p clip of Rocco Sifreddi fucking a girl in the ass while flushing her head down a toilet bowl, knowing that this meant I was going to go to Hell unless I begged God for forgiveness and never did it again, I came so hard I passed out. It feels good, it feels wrong that it feels so good, and it feels even better because it feels so wrong.

She was already wet when I got between her legs. I kissed her clit and started licking, her bush tickling my nose and her thighs squeezing my ears. Fabric rasped over my head as she hiked her dress up to run her hand through my hair. Everything was muffled but I could hear kissing and clinking, and I knew that mom was undoing Pete's belt and jeans to give him a Catholic-quality handjob.

I got mom worked up, bucking her hips and getting all breathy, until she asked me to get up here and give her some help. I crawled up to his groin and winked up at him. He blushed and grinned back. Pete's not a bad-looking guy. I mean, I don't care about looks in general, I guess I can look at someone and say that objectively they're ugly, and if someone is beautiful it adds something to the experience, but like... it doesn't really figure into it. Obviously most johns don't look like supermodels but they're not uniformly ugly, as I said before the thing that johns have in common is being horny guys with a lot of disposable income. Still, Pete is towards the better-looking side of that scale.

...Okay there is one thing about him that's weirdly common for my clients, I call it 'John Balding:' where a guy is losing his hair but in a slow, uneven, and kinda weird pattern, so that even when they cross into being more bald than not, they never bite the bullet and shave it all off. Pete is only like 30% of the way through that process so it doesn't look terrible yet, but he's on that track.

Anyway, back to the sex. A fun thing about double blowjobs is that you can take them a whole lot slower than solo blowjobs. Me and mom have had a lot of practice so we go at about 1/4th speed and it feels twice as good. She started off by wrapping her hand around the shaft, slowly stroking it while she softly kissed the tip, and I licked his balls, gently lapping at one, then the other, cleaning away the day's sweat and musk, carefully taking both of them into my mouth at once. Mom swallowed half his length, and I started kissing my way up his shaft as she pulled back up, my lips touching the head as hers reached the very tip. She grabbed me by my hair and pulled me into a deep French kiss with his cock in the middle, precum mixing with spit, moaning as we felt him twitch and grunt, mom's hand on his balls and my hand on his shaft. We broke the kiss and repeated it in reverse, taking his cock in my throat as mom kissed her way down to his balls. He came after five minutes of gentle little schoolgirl kisses on each side of his cock from the pair of us. The first rope caught mom on her cheek, the second hit her hair, but I wrapped my lips tight around the head and sucked him dry before he could spill another drop.

You can't give a client a mother-daughter blowjob and not snowball the cum back and forth in front of him. We've done it enough times to get the timing down: wait until he sits up straight, because if you don't he'll be too dazed from nutting in your mouth to really appreciate it. Make sure he's looking at you, move your hair out of the way so it doesn't obstruct his view, open your lips so that a trickle of jizz almost sloshes out, move in close to your mom so that your noses are touching and it's clear that you're about to kiss, sink a palm into her tits as she grabs your ass, and then you gotta really go for it: wide-mouthed, feral, energetic, like you're trying to reach each other's sinuses. If a little bit of cum spills out because you're being so sloppy, that's a sign that you're doing it right. You're going to lick it up afterwards anyway.

We broke the kiss, I licked mom's face clean, and we took a break. We drank some more wine, he offered us cigarettes--the coolest clients are the ones that let you smoke indoors--and we cuddled and relaxed for a while with Guy's Grocery Games playing on the TV. Pete went to get some water, and returned with three bottles and a strip of Cialis. He downed two pills, we both stripped off--it was sweltering by that point--and got ready for the next round.

Mom played with his nipples and I got between his legs again, this time going lower than his balls to eat his ass out. Rimming is a trusted client privilege like the mom-daughter stuff is, except it's less about trusting them in the legal sense and more about trusting that it won't be grainy down there. I like it when a client is clean enough to rim, because I'm extremely good at it. Mom says she's better, she claims she once made a guy no-touch cum with a rimjob, but I don't fucking believe her.

He got hard after a minute of digging my tongue into his ass, but his cock was still super-sensitive so we figured we'd tease him for a while longer. We swapped places, mom ate his ass while he made out with me, squeezing my tits and playing with my cock. I like it when guys touch my tits, my cock is... fine, I guess? I don't viscerally dislike people touching it but it doesn't do much for me. After a minute of that he reaches around and works a finger into my asshole, which is much more my speed.

By the time he was two knuckles deep I looked down and saw his cock twitching, leaking precum onto his stomach. He seemed pretty worked up. I kissed his neck, nipped at his ear, and whispered, "Do you wanna breed me, Mister?"

He sure did.

I use condoms unless I've got an extremely compelling reason not to, and mom has a cool trick for getting them on. She grasped Pete's cock around the base, placed her lips around the tip, deepthroated the entire thing in a single stroke, and as she slowly lifted her head back up, his cock was neatly fitted with a condom.

As soon as I lubed up he put me on my back, pushed my ankles up to my ears,  pressed his cock against my hole and sunk into me inch by inch. He muffled my moans with a kiss and rutted me into the bed. I gotta give it to him, all that biohacking and cardio is doing something right because he railed me at a fast, steady pace until my dick was leaking all over my tummy and I couldn't form sentences in my head any more. Mom made out with him as he finished, and at that point I was just babbling nonsense. He was gentle and cautious as he pulled out of me, stroking my hair as I reached down to take off his condom. I poured the contents out over my tits, slumping back against the headboard as mom licked them clean.

It wasn't yet midnight by then, and we went on like that through the night. Licking his feet, mom-daughter 69, him sucking my cock while mom rode his dick like a Sorority cowgirl champion, more wine, more double-blowjobs, tacking an extra $200 onto the fee for the privilege of pissing in my mouth instead of having to get up to go to the bathroom, a whole buffet of fun whore stuff.

We woke up at around ten in the morning, stayed for breakfast, then said our goodbyes. Me and mom thanked him for his custom, and he thanked us for a good time. By midday we were at home, we both showered, checked our calendars, messaged our evening clients to confirm that they were still on, and then... well, the rest of the day kinda evaporated. I played Demons' Souls until I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer, passed out in bed, and woke up when my alarm went off in the evening.

That's one of the things I don't like about overnight sessions: you're technically only spending like, ten to twelve hours with a client, and for some of that time you're either not fucking or actively asleep, but it kinda feels like it destroys two days. By the time it's scheduled, everything in the rest of the day is either preparing for it or doing it, and when you get back it takes the rest of the day just to recover. I don't like that part of my job, and if I sit down I can probably go through a whole bunch of things I don't like about my job. I still know that my job isn't a *bad* job, because the last time I had a bad job it was at a chicken processing plant. Know how I know that the chicken job was bad? Because I excused myself for a bathroom break four hours into the shift, walked off site, and never came back.

You know what, there's another reason I know that this isn't a bad job and that mom isn't a bad mom, and I guess it's part of the reason I've written all this down in the first place. I was seven years old when I first wanted to die. By the time I got to high school, suicidal thoughts were just the radio static in my brain. I can't remember any point after like, grade school where I didn't daydream about suicide every single day.

Now? I sometimes go for weeks without thinking about killing myself. It hasn't gone away completely, it still pops up when I'm upset or stressed out or tired or really hungry, but what I do is I talk to mom about it, and she talks me out of it. I feel guilty sometimes about putting that pressure on her, and taking that pressure off is part of the reason I'm going to therapy I guess.

I hope it works out.

I really think it will.