turn your gaze upon this wretched thing

At night, if I hold very, very still, I can hear another heart beat alongside mine. This thing in me, it slithers to the back of my head and burrows a home for itself there.

The horror of it is unimaginable. I am not alone in this body. There is something in me.

It is akin to a tumour, I imagine. Silent in its conquest, merciless in its desire. It spreads its flimsy wings and flies leisurely in my body, filthying it as it pleases. I can feel it at the back of my throat sometimes—the shimmer of those wings. The smoothness of its scales.

I dream of screaming, "Get it off me! Please!" but when I awake I am quiet and complacent. I eat and remain hungry. I do nothing I want to do. There is something sinister digging through my brain. My insides shudder, but I remain calm. It's all a bit boring, really. There is something monstrous and foreign making the hollows of my body its own. So what? I swipe down to the next reel.

At the kitchen, I stand in front of the knives and imagine for a moment picking it up and hacking off all that is wrong with me. The thought is mango-sweet, almost perverse in its simplicity.

Cutting this thing out, it doesn't require delicacy. I cannot lay under the hands of a surgeon and hope his scalpel can strike true. No, this is messy work. It needs a butcher knife and a packet of cigarettes. It needs the hands of an alcoholic and the desperation of a teenage girl. I need to hack this out, piece by fucking piece.

But here comes the problem: I have let this thing grow in me as it pleases and now I don't know where it ends and where I begin. I don't know if we are different, or the very same. I don't know what it is I want to cut out of this body: the thing, or myself.

The panic rises. "Do something!" I am screaming at myself, "Move!" But the thing has always been good at keeping me quiet. The fit passes, and once again I am staring at my phone. I'm hungry. I don't remember why I was so scared. There is a sound coming from the backs of my eyes— a strange mix of hissing and purring. It sounds pleased.

it’s him!!! razzle dazzle man!!!

Femji on company time

listen, he is exactly where he wants to be

Later that night :

Zoro made a sound somewhere between a hum and a grunt. He let the barbel he was crunching fall to the floor with a resounding crack that would have Frankie no doubt griping on about hull integrity or whatever later on.

The hand trailing his arm started roaming the planes of his back. A second hand wrapped around his front and came to rest on his belly. Breath ghosted at his neck.

"Usually you're such a stickler for manners, cook," Zoro said mildly. "You think it's gentlemanly behavior to grope a man before asking?"

"Like you ever needed much persuasion," snorted the response. The cook's voice was mellow, warm. His roaming hands, however, were worryingly cold. Zoro grabbed the one exploring his belly and intertwined their fingers.

Well, why not. He could do with blowing off some steam, and he didn't need to be gentle when rolling around with Sanji. He could give as good as he got. Zoro had missed that. Zoro had missed a lot about this.

You haven't even made me dinner, Zoro very nearly said. He choked down the joke. It would be in poor taste these days, since Sanji lost his heart for cooking. Zoro was trying to be more thoughtful and shit, after all.

Tea party - when you take your friends comments serious 😏 @inthestarsisyourhome

Fem Zosan, anyone?