Write Like No One’s Reading

✨Thanks for being here!✨ She/Her | 30s | Minors DNI Writing blog of @zoe-creates

[zoe-creates]

wip wednesday monday

Thanks to @electricthursday for tagging me!!

I took a step back from Shake It Up to deal with personal things that have taken priority (iykyk, I won’t repeat myself), but I have started on Chapter 3! So here’s a snippet from that. Enjoy!

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Over the next few days, you attempted to discretely monitor Jerry’s comings and goings to see if you could parse any sort of scheduled pattern.

This presented some obstacles: first, his office was clear on the other side of the building, making it impossible to placidly observe him without outright stalking him. Second, you had an ever-growing pile of work that needed doing in order to keep your job. If you gave yourself any slack, all of this would be for naught, having failed at what you and Mabel set out to do.

While you could have asked Mabel to surveil Jerry’s home, you both couldn’t risk the potential restraining order that Mabel would get, her penchant for conflict with the mayor teetering on the edge of a legal altercation.

Looking at it from every possible angle, you only had one option: befriend Mayor Jerry’s secretary and get unrestricted access to his private calendar.

Easier said than done as Drea had upgraded her regard for you from maligned indifference to sneering disdain, curling her lip whenever you crossed her path, like you exuded a foul odor.

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Thank you for reading!! I no-pressure tag @lady-lazarus-13 and @citrus-moonlight !!

[zoe-writes-things-sometimes]

Shake It Up: Chapter 2

Fandom: Hoppers (2026)

Pairing: Mayor Jerry x f!reader

Chapter Rating: Teen

Overall Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 4.75k

Chapter Summary: You debrief with Mabel and start your first official day on Mayor Jerry's team.

Warnings: detailed description of a panic attack (please take care of yourselves!)

Now on AO3!

Divider graphics by @saradika-graphics

Author Notes: Thank you for your patience with this chapter!

“Soooooo, how was your first daaaaay?” Mabel sing-songed in your kitchen later that night, sat backwards on a rickety wooden chair that had seen better days, her arms propped on the chair back. “Are we anarchists, yet?”

You laughed as you went back to stirring the ramen you were preparing for the two of you. “Tedious. And overwhelming,” you said, ripping open the flavor packet and sprinkling the contents into the pot. “I have no idea how we’re going to pull this off, Mabel. This is, like, legit government espionage. You know that, right?”

Mabel snorted and waved off your concerns. “It’s not government espionage. I don’t even think that’s a thing.”

You rolled your eyes and turned off the burner on your stove. “I had to sign several NDAs. How am I supposed to give you a rundown of what happened in hours long meetings when the fucking government has my name in a database?”

“Are you planning on telling anyone other than me?” Mabel asked sweetly, rocking the chair forward, causing it to creak dangerously.

“Don’t do that!” you admonished Mabel, both about the chair and the guilt trip. She quickly righted the chair, her eyes wide at your tone. You exhaled. “Don’t…brush this off like this isn’t a bigger deal than you think it is, Mabel.”

Mabel’s expression turned sincere. “What we’re doing is going to be good, I swear. It’s just a little bit illegal,” she said causally.

You snorted. “More than a little bit.” You gave the plumped noodles in the pot a quick stir before getting two mismatched bowls from your cupboard. “We’re just going to have to be careful about how we communicate. Maybe we can have a weekly meeting here or–”

“Holy shit you’re in the news.”

“--we could go to your place, and–” Mabel’s words sunk in. You sharply turned to her and whispered, “What did you just say?”

Mabel’s face was illuminated by her phone, her expression downright gleeful. “You’re in. The news,” she repeated, turning her phone toward you to confirm that you were, in fact, in the news. You took a shaky step toward Mabel, trembling hands reaching out for her phone. Mabel had her browser open to the Beaverton Herald–your graduation photo plastered next to Mayor Jerry Generazzo’s signature grin, teeth bared like a predator. Your eyes grazed over the headline: Mayor Generazzo Hires New Policy Advisor Amongst Dwindling Popularity Numbers. Your lungs tightened, your heart hammered in your chest, sweat collected at your hairline.

The reality of this whole ordeal suddenly came crashing down on you. You could barely hear Mabel addressing you as your vision tunneled. The phone slipped from your fingers as you began to hyperventilate, a high-pitched ring deafening your ears, your breath coming out in uneven, short bursts.

You felt Mabel grip your shoulders, seeing a blur of a human figure entering your line of sight.

“--Out, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four. In, two, three, four…” Her voice felt distant, but you could somewhat register that she was giving you breathing instructions. It took you a minute to figure out how to suck in a breath without choking on it, your brain firing off in too many directions for you to pin down simple breathing. 

You forced yourself to listen to the lilt of Mabel’s voice and managed a shaky inhale, only making it to two counts before you had to hold your breath for the allotted four counts, then releasing your breath in a rattly exhale. You both repeated the breathing exercise a few more times until you could finally feel your lungs taking full breaths on your inhale. The soft vignette clouding your vision returned to normal. You felt absolutely wrung out.

“Thank you,” you rasped, not exactly knowing what to do with yourself. Mabel rubbed your arms as you came out of your panic attack and led you to the chair she vacated, sitting you down.

Your fingers still tingled with the remnants of the attack. You needed something tangible to help ground you and you ended up bringing your hand to your chest, digging your fingernails into your shirt, bunching it. 

“Are you feeling hungry?” she asked.

You shook your head, eyes unfocused. “Not anymore. But I could use some cold water.”

Mabel offered a tight smile and quickly got you a glass of water, holding it out in front of you. You unclenched your hand to grab the glass, your grip on it strong enough that you believed you could break the glass. 

You took a sip of water, relishing in the feeling of the cool water coating your throat, grateful that your fingers had something solid to wrap around. As you drank, Mabel helped herself to the abandoned pot of ramen, filling one bowl. She sat down across from you and began to eat as you stared at the center of the table, glass clutched in your hands.

It made sense that there would be more eyes on you given the position you just took, but you didn’t expect it to happen so quickly. You’d have to skim the article later to go over what was said about you—see if the journalist assigned did their research or just made assumptions about you based on posts you made on social media in your 20s. 

Oh god, what would your dad say? You definitely owed him a phone call.

Mabel reached out to place a hand on your wrist, breaking your reverie, causing you to look up into her eyes. “I promise nothing’s going to happen to you. You have my word,” she said sincerely. 

You sniffed and offered a pinched smile. “You can’t promise something like that.”

She removed her hand and returned to eating her meal, shoving a mouthful of noodles into her mouth before speaking. “Thure I cahn,” she attempted to say around her food. She swallowed.

“If Jerry comes for you, I can always distract him with a good, old-fashioned verbal spar.”

You exhaled heavily. “Won’t the timing seem a little suspicious?” you pointed out.

Mabel clicked her chopsticks repeatedly at you. “Ah, ah, ah! I know what I’m doing here.”

You rolled your lips together, looking at Mabel skeptically.

She dropped her chopsticks in her bowl and looked acutely at you. “Do you want to back out?”

You sighed, sliding your hands up and down the cool glass, collecting condensation on the edges of your fingers. “I don’t think I can at this point.”

“Yes, you can,” Mabel argued. “You can always show up tomorrow and tell Jerry ‘Thanks for the job, but I gotta bounce,’ and give him some half-brained excuse or tell him that you’re way in over your head.”

You turned Mabel’s invitation for an out over in your mind. It would certainly make your life easier to bow out of the position, though it wouldn’t look great to future employers. 

You began think about what it was like growing up in Beaverton, your cherished memories floating to the front of your mind: your dad taking you on hikes to the Willamette River where you’d find a shallow bank and shove warm bottles of coke into the silt just under the running water, the temperature of the river cooling the glass; the forests you’d run in, ankles ridden with mosquito bites, dirt on your knees, and fresh air filling your lungs; sitting at the base of Mount Hood huddled with your parents, staring at the stars littering the sky, listening to the symphony of owls hooting in harmony. 

Over the years, you noticed a difference in Beaverton’s landscape. The river water line was lower in the summers and increasingly violent after a rainstorm. You noticed less of the wildlife at your favorite ponds that grew smaller and smaller with every passing year. You found yourself mourning lush fields, dewy the morning after a drizzle, now dry and patchy from the wildfires that became routine. Mountains that were covered in snow for half the year now only held the frost for what seemed like a handful months before it melted off.

Environmental changes like this weren’t exclusive to Beaverton, which is why you wanted to get into government in the first place. You had to start somewhere. While all of this was extremely out of your depth, it’s where you always wanted to be. How you got here didn’t matter anymore. You could finally start making a difference for Beaverton.

“I’m not backing out,” you decided unflinchingly, causing Mabel to whoop and clap her hands together. You chuckled at her enthusiasm, feeling more at ease.

The two of you talked next steps for a few hours before Mabel departed for the night, leaving you to clean up and go through your nightly routine.

As you crawled into bed, you opened up the article donning your name and photo, not quite prepared for what was in it, but figured that knowing was better than not knowing. 

It wasn’t terrible–just a few hundred words about Mayor Jerry’s previous policy advisor and his departure coupled with bullet point facts about your experience, basically a copy of your resume. There was also a bunch of flowery praise for the mayor which made you roll your eyes.

Praising a man in power for doing the bare minimum and looking good doing it had become so normalized, it unsettled you. The difference now was that you were a part of his team. You had the opportunity to humble him, hold him accountable for his less-than-favorable legislation and steer him in a better direction.

That also meant that if the people of Beaverton disliked the changes made by your hand, you’d become the scapegoat. 

You supposed that was a risk you were willing to take.

Every step you took toward Beaverton’s City Hall made your stomach knot tighter, the click of your heels rhythmically hitting the concrete feeling like the second hand of a clock counting down to your demise. Your fist was firmly clenched on the handles of your bag, palms so clammy that the faux leather could easily meld with your skin. Your inner mantra of ‘you deserve this, this is what you wanted’ played on repeat while your heart thundered in your ears.

After going through security, getting thoroughly scanned and examined (feeling properly exposed), you pushed open the door to the mayor’s office to be greeted by Drea, Mayor Jerry’s secretary. She glanced up at you and raised her perfectly drawn brows.

She didn’t say anything. She just…stared at you, shrewdly, like she was dissecting every part of you and figuring out where to hide the pieces.

Unfortunately, you had to pass by her desk to get to your office. You swallowed and approached her desk, giving her a tight smile, muttering a weak “Morning,” before making a beeline to your office. You could feel her eyes following you as you scampered off, like she was imagining a ‘kick me’ sign on your back and considering it. You dropped your bag down next to you and exhaled, closing your eyes, relieved to be in relative solitude.

When you reopened your eyes, you realized that the piles of paper on your desk had doubled since you left last night. You groaned and began organizing the bound packets in order of importance.

A sudden knock on your doorframe caught your attention from the mess on your desk and you lifted your eyes to find Drea in your doorway, gaze fixed on her phone screen, scrolling. At least she stopped scrutinizing you.

“We tried adding your new email to the cal, but IT is still getting you set up with that. There’s a meeting in the conference room in five,” she told you flatly, never breaking her stare from her phone.

“Oh. Thank you,” you replied, but she had already turned and walked away before you could form the ‘th’ in ‘thank’. Your brow flattened and you huffed, feeling mildly irritated.

You gathered your notebook and laptop from your bag and got up from your chair, taking a few purposeful steps before realizing that you had no idea where the conference room was. You must have missed it during your frenzied orientation, now feeling decidedly disoriented.

You groaned internally and walked to Drea’s desk, your laptop and notebook in your arms strapped tightly against your chest like a shield.

“Um,” you started, standing awkwardly off to the side, trying to get Drea’s attention as it was still glued to her phone. How she managed not to bump into anything with her concentration so focused on the device either said something about her acute awareness of her surroundings or her memorization of the floorplan of the office. Or she was a witch. You couldn’t be sure.

You brought out one hand to wave your fingers in her periphery, which earned a curt, “What,” from her ruby lips, still not breaking eye contact with her phone.

You jerked your hand back as if she’d tried to nip at you. “Oh, uh, where’s the conference room, again?” you asked, returning your hand to your makeshift shield.

Drea lifted her arm and pointed a blood red nail to the hallway behind her, gaze still fixed on her phone. “Down the hall and to the right. Big glass room. Can’t miss it,” she instructed dryly, turning away from you as soon as she was done.

You muttered a “Thanks,” in a similar tone, unsure how to respond to her standoffishness before walking off in the direction of where the conference room was per Drea’s blunt guidance.

As you approached, you saw that the conference room was already occupied by six other bodies, huddled in a conversation at the head of the table. You pushed the glass door open, silently hoping you’d be able to slip in unnoticed, slinking into a chair near the door at the opposite end of the table, placing your laptop and notebook in front of you. 

A man who could have easily donned the cover of Prep Boys Magazine noticed your presence and broke from the pack, blonde head swerving in your direction. “Hey, hey! It’s the new kid!” he called, garnering the attention of everyone else. You folded your lips together in a strained smile, suddenly feeling like you were under the heat of a spotlight. So much for subtlety.

“Uh, hi,” you said, lifting your hand in a pathetic wave. 

“You have some big shoes to fill,” the preppy blonde added, walking to the chair across from you and planting his hands on the chair back. “I’m Ted—speech writer,” he introduced, then gestured to the other faces in the room. “Anthony, Claire, and Scotty are Deputy Chiefs of Staff, Kat over there tackles our socials, and our beautiful killjoy on budget is Sascha,” Ted rattled off in quick succession, your eyes trying to keep track of names and faces as they were introduced. The woman you believed to be Sascha rolled her eyes, flicking her sleek, black bob with a long, inky fingernail. 

“Ted, stop hitting on me,” she said, perfectly lined green eyes glittering with mirth. 

“Your beauty softens the blow when you tear our plans to shreds, Sasch,” another man, tall and bronze-skinned, who you thought to be Anthony, added, taking a seat at the table. The others took his cue, setting up all around the conference table.

Sascha threw Anthony a sardonic smile as she sat down. “Bite me.”

The group chuckled at Sascha’s retort and you huffed a laugh, already feeling a little more at ease by the easy camaraderie shared by some of Jerry’s team. You admitted that you didn’t really think about who was behind the mayor until you were finally in a room with some of them. You felt silly in your ignorance, so focused on the figurehead that you didn’t stop to think about who might be operating the rest of the ship.

“Okay, what did I miss?” Mayor Jerry piped in from the glass door to the conference room, striding in with a confidence that made you bristle a little bit. “Did Anthony piss off Sascha again?”

“What else is new?” lilted Scotty, whose name felt apt since he nearly resembled a Scottish Terrier in appearance, bushy eyebrows, mustache, and beard a rich brown with streaks of grey peppered in.

“Also corrupting the new kid,” teased Ted as the mayor reached the head of the table, whose eyes landed on you as if he just noticed you were there, despite the conference room resembling a fishbowl.

“Ah, that’s right! Please welcome our new policy advisor,” Jerry introduced, stating your name, as he unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat down, papers already arranged impeccably in front of him.

The focus on you was uncomfortable, but you straightened your back, smiled, and nodded in acknowledgement to the faces all pointed in your direction.

“Should we get started?” Jerry asked to the room, flicking out his wrists and planting his hands on the table, bringing up one of the packets in front of him.

You opened your laptop and your notebook, pen poised, as you saw your colleagues do the same.

“Where are we on the data center legislation?” Jerry asked, brow furrowed as he flicked at the papers in front of him.

“We’ve got budget approval on adding data centers to downtown Beaverton, per your request,” Sascha piped in, nails clicking on her keyboard.

“Great. And what do we plan on telling people when their electricity bills go up, Ted?” Jerry posed.

“That the data centers will be great for Beaverton’s revenue and we should see an increase in funds aimed toward Beaverton’s infrastructure. Taxpayers won’t have to worry about an increase in their taxes since the financial output made from the data centers will contribute to filling potholes and adding stop signs to suburban streets,” Ted rattled off, nonplussed.

You were positive your eyes were about to bug out of your skull. Where did this data come from? You knew from scientific journals and the multiple studies done by certified news outlets that the electricity it took to power these data centers would not only greatly affect the citizens of Beaverton negatively, but would also affect the quality of their water, especially in the poorer parts of town.

Hunched over your notebook and under your breath, you scoffed quietly.

You could feel the eyes of every single person at the conference table land on you, including Mayor Jerry. Your palms turned damp, your hand slipping down the pen in your hand with every stroke. You were sure that if you were to lift your other hand, a liquid imprint of your palm would remain on the glossy table.

It was deathly quiet, but you didn’t stop scribbling in your notebook until Jerry stated your name. “Something you’d like to add?”

You brought your head up to seven pairs of eyes looking at you in varying degrees of incredulity. You scanned the room before landing on Jerry, whose mouth was curled in a frown.

You cleared your throat and straightened, putting your pen down and threading your fingers together, staring directly at the mayor at the head of the table.

“What are you actually trying to say here?” you asked, heart pounding in your chest.

Several chairs began creaking as your colleagues fidgeted, eyes flicking back and forth with each other, curious to see where you were going with this line of questioning.

Jerry’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“All that word salad Ted just spewed out. What are you actually trying to say about this policy other than lying to your constituents?”

Jerry’s brows rose sharply at your bluntness. “Excuse me?”

“Are we trying to make people feel better about the fact that their electricity bills are skyrocketing by lying to them or are you just repeating what these tech companies are telling you because you’re unaware of what these data centers actually do? I’m just trying to clarify.” You were surprised by your own boldness for a first meeting, but you couldn’t de-rail this train if you wanted to. You were trying to prove a point.

Everyone, sans Jerry, began looking at each other nervously or looking down to avoid eye contact. Jerry never broke your gaze as he took in your assertive question.

“We’re trying to tell people that these data centers will create a better infrastructure for Beaverton,” Jerry replied, voice dangerously calm.

“But that’s not true,” you shot back. “Look at Silicon Valley. Large data centers there are sitting empty because the state can’t handle pumping all that energy through the building. Their infrastructure is already damaged and they can’t afford to power up those data canters. That doesn’t sound like it’s a positive for their infrastructure.”

Jerry eyed you warily, hands firm on the table. “I see.”

“Then there’s the water consumption to run these data centers. Data centers suck up to 5 million gallons of water per day. It siphons off clean drinking water to neighboring areas, causing a myriad of issues including sickness and damaged farmland, which affects local husbandry and our resources to food.” With every word, you gained confidence. You knew your facts. You’d done your homework. And it was becoming harder to argue against the case you’d presented.

“Mayor Generazzo, if you build these data centers, it will ruin Beaverton’s financial and ecological infrastructure, causing a financial decline for its citizens.” 

Mayor Jerry laced his fingers together in front of him, mirroring you. “The problem there is I’ve already gotten budget approval from the city to build these centers,” Jerry said, smirk gracing his lips. 

You internally rolled your eyes. What a shit argument.

“So un-approve it. You can put the money toward better legislation that won’t negatively affect electricity costs,” you retaliated. “This will affect your taxpayers, Mayor Generazzo. Just not in the way you’re promising and people will notice.”

The woman you believed to be Kat piped in, her computer connected to the television in the conference room. “Looking through X and TikTok, it has been pretty well-established that people aren’t happy with the data centers in their towns,” she stated, clicking on links to videos of people in rural areas pouring dirty water into glasses from their faucets as an immediate cause of data center usage in their towns. People documented how high their electricity bills had gotten over the past few months, their bills increasing by hundreds of dollars, crying over how they can’t afford to pay these bills on their salaries.

The mayor quietly took in this information, brow furrowed in thought.

After a beat of silence, you said, “You wanted me as your policy advisor. I’m advising your policy.”

Mayor Jerry huffed through his nose as he stared you down, unsure if he wanted to scold you or admit defeat. You heard Scotty cough uncomfortably.

“We can table the approval for building data centers for now,” he relented stiffly, setting aside a packet.

“Damn. New kid’s got balls,” you heard Anthony stage-whisper to Ted who looked at you appraisingly.

Score one for you and nil for Jerry.

“Okay, let’s move onto our next piece of legislation, shall we?”

The back and forth between you and Jerry didn’t stop at the data centers. You bumped heads on nearly every single piece of legislation that the mayor brought up in that meeting, the rest of the team’s eyes volleying between the two of you at every argument, like they were watching a heated tennis match.

It was invigorating. Once you’d shed your initial nervousness, you found your rhythm doing what you did best: arguing. It helped that some members of Jerry’s team would back you up with videos or articles that supported your claim, causing Jerry to “table” the legislation in question.

It wasn’t an outright veto, but it was close enough. It was your first week after all. Baby steps.

When the meeting ended, Mayor Jerry rushed out of the conference room, his face redder than it was when the meeting started, leaving the rest of the group to gather their things. You made a mental note to gush about his changing pallor to Mabel later.

Anthony came around the table to clap you on your shoulder smiling brightly at you. “You got guts, kid. Jesse could never do what you did there.”

“Jesse was our last policy advisor,” Claire clarified for you.

You huffed and nodded. “I read all about Jesse in the article the Beaverton Herald wrote about me joining the team,” you said.

“Oh, god, the Herald,” Scotty groaned.

You whipped your head toward him. “What’s wrong with the Herald?”

“They’re vultures,” said Sascha, glaring out into the middle distance as if the Herald could feel her stare from where she was in the office.

“Don’t take anything they write seriously. They’d write about a peach Jerry ate and spin it into some tale about how he eats babies and publish it,” Ted interjected, joining your group.

“And I thought local journalism still had some integrity,” you groused. “Thankfully, it wasn’t too bad. Just bullet point facts, really.”

“That’s how it starts,” said Kat, pushing her wire-rimmed glasses up her nose. “They’ll sink their claws into you soon enough. Make sure to purge your socials of anything you don’t want getting out,” she recommended.

You groaned. “Great. Any way you can help me out with that?” you asked. 

Kat gave you a wide grin and flipped her strawberry blonde hair, her bangs fluttering with the motion. “Nothing would make me happier.”

You all filed out of the conference room to your respective desks, earning a couple of fist bumps and “Welcome to the team!”s from your new colleagues. 

The rest of your day went smoothly. Your email got set up, as well as getting added to the Teams channel in order to connect to your other colleagues. You’d already started getting direct messages from them of several appropriate memes based on your performance today. 

By the time the sun had begun to set, you were able to whittle down some of the paperwork that accumulated on your desk and started on some counter proposals to present at the next meeting. 

When you finally checked your phone after being so busy with your tasks, you saw that you missed several text messages from Mabel:

How’s it goin’?

Helloooooooo?

What’s going on over there? Has Jerry started bleeding out of his eyes yet from how awesome you are?

Answer me!

👉👉👉

DID YOU DIE???

You chuckled and finally responded:

Not dead. Busy. No bleeding eyes, but does blood in the face from rage count?

🥳

As you started to leave for the day, you inconspicuously walked over to Mayor Jerry’s office. Drea had vacated her desk and the rest of the office was practically empty. It was late enough that the only people around were the cleaning staff, vacuuming and emptying the trash.

The door to his office was closed, warm light pouring from the crack at the bottom. You could hear his voice, muffled on the other side. He sounded…tense. You tiptoed closer, stopping just at the edge of the doorframe, leaning forward to see if you could hear anything by pressing your ear to the door.

“ – We’re working on it. Those data centers will go up as planned, Mr. Fretterman.”

You seethed. 

That snake.

Mayor Jerry was going down.

Author's note: We're getting a bibliography for this one, folks.

I found some articles in the LA Times about data centers in Silicon Valley and elsewhere, as well as a 2025 study about the environmental impact of data centers.

Tag List: @tarrenterror25, @aeshiinou, @florist-of-the-valley, @vamguts, @thepuppetsmuseum, @onlythehobi, @joleadied

[zoe-writes-things-sometimes]

Caught and Collared

Fandom: Peter Pan (2003)

Pairing: George Darling/Mary Darling

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 4.57k

Summary: Mary Darling couldn’t get the image of her husband living in their nanny’s doghouse out of her head.

Warnings: pet play, f!dom/m!sub dynamic, choking, mild footjob, handjob, coming in pants, praise kink, mild degradation, cunnilingus, fingering, allusions to piv sex, tooth-rotting fluff, they don’t know what they’re doing but they’re having fun doing it

Author’s Notes: Thanks to @lady-lazarus-13 for the idea and for gif-ing the deleted scene of George in the doghouse. 🙂‍↕️ Also, I am American and I used British English spelling throughout because I’m insane. So take that how you will.

AO3 Link

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Mary Darling couldn’t get the image of her husband living in their nanny’s doghouse out of her head.

He’d called it a punishment, exiling himself to the hound’s quarters, putting himself on display at the bank in a grand gesture of humiliation. She could hardly believe it herself – the guilt he must have felt for the absence of their children weighing so heavily on his conscience to do something so demeaning.

After the miraculous return of their three darling children, and the addition of several orphaned boys, George returned to their bed, the sole occupant of the doghouse once again inhabited by its original owner.

Mary began to notice when George fell asleep before her, he would curl in on himself as if he still resided in the doghouse, knees flush with his chest, hands pressed together and tucked beneath his head. His hair would flop adorably over his closed eyes, brow once pinched tight relaxed by sleep.

Mary would gaze affectionately at her foolish husband, fingers reaching out to tuck the rebellious strands back in place on his head, before clicking off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

In the evenings after he returned home from work, George began to play with their children in the nursery acting as the villainous Captain JAS Hook while John, Michael, and Wendy pretended to be Peter Pan and his Lost Boys. It was a more than welcome change.

Mary luxuriated in being sat in the front row to their performances, clapping and laughing joyfully while her family put on an extravagant show, costumes and all. It warmed Mary’s heart to see George be his silly self, not fraught with the societal expectations of masculinity. Here in the hearth of their home, love and safety cocooned the Darlings.

George even began to take more initiative in their more intimate hours. Door closed to the younger members of their household, George would graze his hand over Mary’s hip, dipping down to her inner thigh before reaching her mound, already dripping for him. He would make her a writhing, whimpering mess in minutes before taking her completely, her muffled sighs spurring him on as they reached their peaks together.

Yet Mary couldn’t let the influence of the doghouse go. Every time she walked by it, she almost expected to see her husband occupy it once more, a tad disappointed when a furry head with drooping eyes would pop its head up, ruining her presumption.

At first the concept startled her. It was meant to be a sort of self-flagellation for his actions before the children disappeared. Now it haunted her in a different way.

On a dreary afternoon, the children off at school and her husband earning their keep at the bank, Mary took it upon herself to do a bit of shopping in the city.

She popped into a few clothing shops, trying on some lavish dresses, but nothing she tried on seemed quite right. Her sojourn was almost for naught until something sparkling caught her eye.

There in a pet shop window was a gorgeous burgundy leather collar affixed with a glimmering gold tag and matching fastenings, set delicately on a plush, navy-coloured pillow. The tag itself had the name ‘Rover’ etched in cursive, an example of the custom engraving the shop was able to perform.

She couldn’t look away from the collar, absolutely entranced with the way it looked in the shop window. She didn’t realize she’d been staring for so long until the shop owner came outside, the tinkling of the bell above the door breaking her gaze from the leather band.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it. What’s your dog’s name?” the owner asked, cheeks made ruddy in the cool, English air.

Mary smiled brightly, the name coming to her lips almost subconsciously. “George.”

The shop owner assured Mary that the collar she picked up a few days later was made for larger dogs. She flushed beautifully when she saw the collar presented in a hinged, maroon box, her husband’s name on the tag, almost as if she were looking at a ruby-encrusted necklace from a jeweler. She felt as though she’d gotten away with something far more devious than simply buying a collar.

The shop owner made an assumption and she didn’t correct him. There was nothing wrong with that.

That evening, once all the children were properly kissed and put to bed, George and Mary Darling retired to their bedroom, pleasantly satisfied with their choice of entertainment – another Pan story sans Hook, for George’s sake.

Mary had stashed the box under their bed before the whole household returned home earlier that day, hoping that her husband wouldn’t find it. Blissfully, the attention of their children kept him from their bedroom most of the night, allowing Mary to breathe a sigh of relief as they went through their nightly routine.

Instead of getting into bed, Mary sat herself in a chair at their bedside, her silken, aquamarine dressing gown draped elegantly over her body while she waited for her husband.

“George, darling,” Mary called sweetly to George as he re-entered their room from their ensuite washroom, wearing his blue striped pyjamas and wine-coloured robe, shutting off the light.

“Yes, my love,” George answered as he set his wire-rimmed glasses on the bedside table and sat on their bed, facing his wife. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

“I have a surprise for you,” she teased, twirling the cords of her dressing gown in her fingers, the lamplight catching the devilish glint in her eyes and the ever-present kiss at the corner of her mouth.

George’s eyebrows rose, an amused grin on his lips as his eyes swept over his wife. “What kind of surprise?”

Mary bit her lip and reached forward, folding in half to grab the box she’d hidden beneath the bed and placed it on the plush duvet, looking to George expectantly.

George’s brow furrowed. “What’s this?” he pondered aloud, reaching for the box and pulling it toward him. She watched eagerly as he lifted the lid of the box, the hinge creaking as he was greeted with the sight of the collar. His smile quickly dropped, pale blue eyes lifting to his wife with a sense of unease.

“Is this what I think it is?” he asked solemnly, pulling out the collar, the tag glinting in the low light. His frown deepened, the crease between his brows pinching as he read the engraving.

“What do you think?” Mary questioned, the glee on her face fading by degrees as the expression her husband donned grew more concerned.

“I just – I thought that I’d done my penance,” George said, despondent. “I didn’t realize you were still cross with me about –”

“George, what are you talking ab –”

“I’m so sorry, Mary,” George interrupted, his eyes full of sincere regret as he clenched the collar in his hand and rose from the bed, walking around it to fall to his knees in front of his wife, robe fluttering dramatically around him. “I’ll say it to you a thousand times and it still won’t be enough to earn your forgiveness, I know that.”

“George, wait –”

“So, where is it?” George asked desperately, looking around the room, his hair flipping with every swivel of his head.

Mary reached out to still George’s frantic head turning, his eyes wide and crazed. “Where’s what, George?” she asked with worry in her voice. He wasn’t making sense and what started as a token of her appreciation was quickly unraveling into a bloated ordeal.

“The dog, Mary,” he cried, tears starting to rim his eyes. “The dog you brought into this house with my name to punish me for my abhorrent behaviour all those weeks ago.”

Mary’s eyes widened. It took all of her strength not to outright laugh in her distressed husband’s face, knowing that it would just upset him more, and the plans she had for him required a level of emotion that did not pair well with remorse. She rolled her lips together to prevent the hint of a grin from breaking out and gently rubbed her thumbs on George’s cheeks.

“Oh, George,” she cooed comfortingly, shaking her head. “There is no dog.”

George’s brow furrowed. “What?” he croaked around unshed tears, pupils flicking back and forth with confusion.

Mary’s hands left George’s face and reached down to the collar in his fist. He released it once he felt his wife’s soft, tender fingers take the loop of leather, the tag jingling in her grip.

She turned the collar over in her hands, the blue of her eyes shone gold from the glint of the metal, smiling softly as she felt the quality of the leather beneath her fingertips. She lifted her gaze to the man she was hopelessly in love with, who was currently a befuddled mess on the floor and said, “The collar is for you, George.”

His brow softened by half. “For me?”

Mary deftly undid the buckle, presenting the strip of leather to her husband. “May I?”

George hesitated and shifted from his position on the floor, gaze dropping down to the collar in his wife’s hands before meeting her eyes once more and offering a short nod.

She leaned forward with the collar and wrapped it around George’s neck, taking her time to fasten it at a notch loose enough as to not cut off his airway and to allow him to adjust to the heavier material against his skin.

Once securely buckled, Mary slowly dragged her fingers around the edges of the leather, skimming his pulse, to the front of George’s neck, toying with the metal disc dangling just below his Adam's apple. It was a perfect fit.

“Comfortable?” she asked, searching her husband’s eyes for any trace of reluctance to his new form of neckwear, startlingly different from the ties he’d secure at his neck daily.

George nodded. “Yes,” he rasped just above a whisper. Mary noticed the tick of his pulse quickening at the side of his neck, his breath catching.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it,” she crooned, pupils flicking down to the tag pinched in her fingers.

George swallowed, his throat bobbing above the ring of leather. “I-it is.”

“It looks very pretty on you, darling.” George’s cheeks pinkened at the compliment. Typically, George was the one to shower his wife with compliments on her appearance, not that she didn’t return the favour, but whenever she did, it never failed to have an immediate effect on his countenance.

“Do you like it when I say you look pretty, George?” Mary lilted, releasing the tag and slowly hooking her forefinger under the leather, almost testing how tight the collar fit around his neck.

“Yes, Mary,” George breathed, the blue of his irises slowly disappearing in the black of his pupils.

“And what if I were to call you a good boy?” Mary posed the question so sweetly, like it wasn’t the filthiest thing that had been uttered in their shared quarters. The effect was immediate and Mary preened at her intuition – George groaned low in the back of his throat, eyelids fluttering closed, head tilted back slightly as Mary’s words washed over him.

Mary gently tugged on the collar to bring George’s head back toward her. He opened his lids halfway, looking as if he’d downed half a bottle of sherry before bed, when in truth, the alcohol that coated his throat was the praise from his wife.

“You are such a good boy, George,” Mary repeated huskily and she caught the movement of George’s hips canting forward in her periphery, the bulge in his pyjama bottoms becoming more prominent. Her mouth watered at the sight – her husband on his knees, collared, and desperate for her approval. A web of heat curled low in her belly and she squeezed her thighs together, barely earning a modicum of relief to her growing desire.

“Do you think you could show me how good of a boy you can be?” she asked, finger moving back and forth under the loop around her husband’s neck, the edge of her finger meeting the thread of his pulse.

George once again nodded, and said thickly, “I’d do anything for you, Mary.” His body was stiff, controlled, eager to move, but wouldn’t dare do so without explicit instruction. He was already behaving so well for her.

Mary removed her finger and leaned back in her chair, the wood creaking with her movements, lifting one leg to hook over the arm of the chair, her dressing gown parting just enough to show a hint of her thigh, like a curtain drawing back on a stage. George’s cobalt eyes dutifully followed her movements, hanging onto her every shift with bated breath.

“Hands on the floor, darling,” she instructed. He obeyed immediately, palms meeting the carpeted floor with a muffled whump. She smiled at his compliance, her nerves alight with anticipation.

They’d never tried anything like this before in their bedroom dalliances. Their couplings were quite typical in nature — George rutting into Mary from above or below, sighing ‘I love you’s into each other’s mouths as they moved and sweat and grasped, sated and happy once all was said and done.

If it weren’t for that damned doghouse…

Her husband wouldn’t be poised on the floor on his hands and knees with a rich band of burgundy leather decorating his neck, gold accents glittering in the warm light of their bedroom. It was a sight dreams were made of.

Dreams once locked in a drawer, she supposed, though she daren’t look too closely at them.

“George, come here,” Mary drawled lovingly, patting the exposed flesh of her thigh. Immediately, George shuffled forward, the clink of the tag ringing out in the room. His eyes focused on the space between her thighs, still covered by silk, stopping a hair away from where she wanted him pressed against her. She could feel the warm puffs of his breath through the material, the sensation causing her to clench on nothing.

Mary reached out a hand to pet the head between her legs, threading her fingers through George’s fine hair, turning auburn in the light. He purred at the touch, keeping still from his place on the floor, waiting for his next instruction. To Mary, she felt like the one being tortured as her husband held onto his iron restraint. She could feel the anticipatory tension radiating off his body in waves as he waited, like a springed jack-in-the-box eager for the crank to turn one more rotation.

Mary exhaled shakily as she lifted her hand from George’s head and bunched the fabric of her dressing gown up and up and up to reveal her bare beneath it, her folds puffy and glistening. George whimpered pitifully as she edged forward on the chair, opening herself up wider to him, the hair on her mound barely ticking his nose. She felt her nipples pebble and tighten against the silk, sending a wave a heat through her. He was so close — she was so close to getting what she desperately wanted.

He inhaled sharply, taking in her scent, his eyelids fluttering, and swallowed harshly, the tag clinking with the force of it.

“Lick, George,” she muttered lowly.

The growl wrenched from George’s throat as he tipped forward to lave the flat of his tongue over his wife’s dripping cunt rumbled through Mary’s body and she keened. He was hungry and desperate to bring her pleasure, the curve of his nose pressing into her stiff clit as he lapped at her core.

The grip on her dressing gown tightened as she watched George, her breath beginning to come out in pants and soft moans as he worked at her. George was anything but silent as he ate – the sounds of sloppy slurping ringing beautifully in her ears, grunts and whimpers leaving his throat in a perverted song, each noise crafting a sweet melody.

He was certainly playing at her, using her folds as his choice of instrument. He moved up to lick and suck at her neglected clit and she couldn’t help but release her grip on her gown and curl her fingers around the back of his head, biting her lip to keep from wailing too loudly as to not wake her sleeping children down the hall.

“Yes, George, just like that,” Mary encouraged, bucking her hips into his face. She worried for a moment that she might be suffocating him, but the sharp exhalations through his nose on her skin said otherwise, the ministrations of his tongue and lips never slowing.

Her hands slipped down his head to meet the buckle at the back of his neck and she got a wicked idea. In a flash, Mary brought one hand down to the collar and yanked George back from her, causing him to choke and whine at the sudden change, a wheeze leaving his throat.

Mary assessed her panting husband held back in her grip—mouth and chin glistening with her essence, sweat formed on his brow, pupils blown wide with want, and further down, past the open vee of his shirt, down the buttons, George’s clothed cock, hard and weeping, staining the front of his trousers, the sight of the darkened spot sending a thrill through her body.

“Oh, George,” she purred, swallowing the saliva that had pooled beneath her tongue. “You are doing so well for me.”

George’s fingers were digging into the carpet, yearning for something else to grip onto. “Please, Mary,” he begged, the words seeming to take a great deal of effort to expel from his swollen lips.

“What do you need, George, hm?” Mary lifted the knee draped on the arm of her chair and brought her foot to where he was straining, pressing it to the hard ridge of his cock, causing him to curse under his breath. “Do you need release?” She carefully dragged the ball of her foot down, putting more pressure on where he was suffering.

He whined and ground his hips forward, still restrained by his wife’s hand, relishing in getting the barest hint of relief. “Please—” he choked out, the pressure of the collar at his throat beginning to turn him a lovely shade of puce. The sight of his purpling face caused Mary to release him and he gasped, a surge of regret going through her.

She breathed out an earnest apology before asking, “Do you want to stop?” slightly panicked, and removing her foot as George brought a hand up to his throat, fingers curling under the leather to alleviate some of the pressure the collar had on his windpipe, a string of coughs following.

He shook his head, the metal disc jingling with the motion. “Please don’t stop.” The answer came to him so quickly that Mary huffed a sigh of relief. He reached forward for Mary’s hand and placed it on the back of his head, curling their fingers around the collar. “Please,” he insisted, dropping his hand and returning to his position before she gave him the sudden reprieve.

At that moment, she couldn’t be more grateful that this was the man she’d married and had three children with. So many couples in their social circles would grow to misunderstand their partners' needs and thus a rift would form between them. But not with George. George and Mary spoke a secret language that felt so beautifully rare that Mary could hardly believe she got so lucky.

Mary smiled and surged forward, planting her lips on her husband’s, hands coming to either side of his head and joining him on the floor. She could taste the heady musk of herself on his tongue as they kissed, which only spurred her on more. George skimmed his hands over her waist and around to her back, bringing their bodies flush together, and he whimpered at finally being able to touch his wife.

Mary groaned at the arousal pressing against her hip and decided that her dutiful husband had suffered enough. She reached her right hand down to palm at his length through his trousers and George hissed, breaking their kiss and setting his forehead on her shoulder.

“So good for me, my love,” Mary whispered in George’s ear, hand dipping under the waistband of his pyjamas and cupping him fully. A pained groan tumbled out of his mouth as she began to stroke the velvety flesh.

“I won’t last long,” George ground out, hips moving in time with her strokes. She pressed a kiss to the side of his head as she sped up her movements, her husband’s shuddering breaths and twitching muscles keeping her going.

The final straw was her turning her head a little more to graze her teeth along George’s earlobe, her left hand shifting down to the collar at his neck to curl a finger under the leather and whispering, “George, come.”

He jerked in her hand and bit down on the fabric at her shoulder to muffle a roar as he followed her command, reaching his climax, ropes of his spend coating the inside of his striped pyjamas. Wave after wave of pleasure coursed through his body, the pulses seeming never ending as Mary slowed her ministrations, hand now sticky with George’s seed.

George exhaled thickly and unhinged his jaw from Mary’s shoulder, bringing his head up to settle his heavy-lidded gaze on his wife. He looked more satisfied than he’d ever been after release, his shoulders considerably lower and his jaw so lax that Mary imagined his tongue might loll out in a perfect mimic of a dog.

Mary giggled to herself at the image and George quirked an eyebrow at the joyful outburst, clearly not in on the joke. “What?” he asked, genuinely curious.

She shook her head. “Nothing, my love. You’re just–” She swept her eyes over her husband’s face slowly returning to its normal shade, hair flopped boyishly over his brow, his blue eyes sparkling. “You’re perfect,” she said, fingers coming up to sweep his hair off his forehead.

He flushed and leaned forward, grazing his lips over Mary’s cheek before moving them along her jaw, his path teasing and slow. She sighed and closed her eyes, hand slipping out of his sodden clothing as his lips traveled. George’s hands slid from where they were on her back, landing on the knot still firmly fastened at her front, deft fingers untying the cord and releasing it from its binding.

The gown revealed Mary’s soft, supple skin, covered in moles and freckles that George had assigned constellations to long ago. The warmth of his palms grazed her sides as he laid open mouthed kisses down her neck, the heat under her skin returning to a simmer as George worshipped her.

“Did you enjoy your surprise?” she asked softly as his hands moved north, cupping her breasts, thumbs rubbing small circles at her nipples. She could feel herself growing slick again from her husband's ministrations, a moan catching in her throat.

“Mmhm,” George hummed against her skin in agreement, the cool metal of the tag tickling her collarbone. George’s lips moved further down, skimming over her sternum before reaching her left breast, the hand there migrating down, ghosting over the soft of her belly as his fingers met her dampening folds. She gasped as a finger teased over her clit, George’s lips sucking on her sensitive nipple.

He released the nipple with a wet pop to say, “Now let me show you my thanks,” before he pitched forward, sending Mary on her haunches, her back meeting the edge of the chair. She clumsily untucked her legs from beneath her, bracketing his body, the fabric of her dressing gown pooling around them, as his mouth began to wander.

George moved further down her torso, the tag gliding along her skin with him until he was flush with the carpet, wincing a bit at the feeling of his drying release within his trousers. He pushed his wife’s thighs open and rubbed his thumbs along the creases of her legs, teasing her with his touch as his hot breath hovered over her cunt.

Now Mary was the one to beg. “Please, George,” she whimpered, bringing her clean hand to his head, threading her fingers through the strands there.

George couldn’t help the noise that rumbled in his chest at the gesture as he bowed his head between Mary’s thighs, lips and tongue meeting her folds once more. She gasped as he lapped and sucked enthusiastically, almost doubling his efforts from earlier. He managed to curl his left hand under his body, pressing his middle finger to her entrance and slipping it inside.

Mary threw her head back at the feeling of the digit inside her, her pinned tresses meeting the soft cushion of the chair as she moaned, fingers clawing at the back of his head. George pumped his finger a few more times before adding a second finger alongside the first, slowly sinking them into her tight heat and curling them forward.

“Oh, God, George!” she cried, helpless at the whims of the pleasure he was wringing from her. His mouth and hand were sending her hurtling towards the edge faster than she anticipated. The room filled with the wet, squelching sounds of George’s fingers manipulating deliciously inside of her, each movement of his hand causing the tag of the collar to tinkle melodiously, coupled with the slick pass of his tongue on her clit, she reached a crescendo.

Her body went taut as her orgasm crested, her legs shaking with the force of it, mouth open in a silent cry. She gasped, chest heaving as everything concentrated at the point between her legs, her skin singing with pleasure.

George slowed his fingers and delivered little kitten licks to her clit as she came down from her peak, cool eyes shining under his brow as he gazed at his wife from his place on the floor.

Mary huffed a laugh and lifted her head to look down at her husband, who had transitioned to soft kisses on her core, eyes never leaving hers. She petted his head affectionately.

“So,” George began, moving to shove his elbows beneath him, propping himself up, collar proudly on display, “there is a dog.”

Mary knitted her brows together in confusion. “But I told you –”

“I’m the dog,” he clarified, flicking at the tag, the light catching the metal and highlighting the custom engraving.

She tilted her head, a coy smile playing on her lips. “In a sense.”

George furrowed his brow in thought before asking, “Is this about the doghouse?”

“You did seem to enjoy it, George,” she pointed out, playing with his hair.

George shifted from his place on the floor, rising to his hands and knees and crawling over Mary’s body to press a sensual kiss to her lips. She brought her knees in to wrap her calves over the backs of George’s legs, lifting her arms to slide over his shoulders.

They lay like that, kissing in the warm glow like new lovers who had snuck away in the night.

George pulled away slightly, rubbing the edge of his nose against Mary’s. “Sometimes I feel as if you know me better than I know myself,” he muttered reverently.

She smiled against his mouth and kissed him again, happy, sated, and looking forward to buying a leash of the same colour.

[zoe-writes-things-sometimes]

Hi all!

I know most of you are here for my Mayor Jerry x reader fic ‘Shake It Up’ and for that, I am immensely thrilled with your support and enthusiasm!! I’m having so much fun writing it and I’m currently working on Chapter 2.

Please note that this is a writing blog and I’m in a few different fandoms at the moment, so I’ll be posting my writings for those fandoms here as well. If that doesn’t float your boat, I totally understand. Just be kind about it!

Once I have more work under my belt, I’ll probably add a pinned post that links to everything, but since I’m just a baby writer (not in age, but in breadth of work, good lord), it’s going to be a little slapdash here.

I posted a little preview of Chapter 2 here, if you’re interested!

I’m also working on a one shot Peter Pan (2003) George Darling/Mary Darling fic that’s quite raunchy that I’ll be posting here, soon. 😈

Anyway, if you got this far, thank you again for following!

💕 zoe-creates/zoe-writes-things-sometimes

[zoe-writes-things-sometimes]

Shake It Up: Chapter 1

Fandom: Hoppers (2026)

Pairing: Mayor Jerry x f!reader

Chapter Rating: Teen Overall Rating: Explicit

Summary: The wheels of government aren’t moving fast enough for Mabel’s tastes, so she gets you to infiltrate the Beaverton mayor’s office from the inside. Tension, some light angst, and a whole lot of hijinks ensue.

Warnings: mentions of money troubles, brief sexual innuendo

Divider graphics by @saradika-graphics

Author Notes: Author has no experience in government or law but watches a lot of The West Wing and listens to political podcasts. If I get things wrong, I’m sorry. I will do it again.

“Beaver 1 to Beaver 2! Come in, Beaver 2!”

Mabel’s harried voice piped through your right ear in the earbud you begrudgingly decided to wear to this godforsaken interview with Mayor Jerry Generazzo. You winced at the sudden noise.

The mayor noticed.

“You alright there?”

You cleared your throat, and straightened in your seat, waving off the lapse in your otherwise professional demeanor.

“Sorry, sir. Thought I had a bug in my ear.” Not a lie. “I’m fine.”

Mayor Jerry eyed you suspiciously before shrugging noncommittally and launching back into your interview for the open position as policy advisor on his team.

You exhaled, subtly bringing up a finger to the hidden earpiece once Jerry’s eyes had lowered to his desk, and ended Mabel’s excitable diatribe. You had over a decade on her. You knew how to execute the plan, especially since the two of you went over it ad nauseum days before.

A few years after the Unusual Animal Incident that ravaged news headlines for weeks, Mabel Tanaka graduated from Beaverton University with her undergraduate degree in Environmental Studies, immediately launching herself into a grad school program, gunning for a PhD in Wildlife Ecology. You happened to be the student teacher’s aid in one of her classes that Mabel zeroed in on and latched onto. Her persistence and lack of personal boundaries eventually wore down your walls and you ended up making a friend in Mabel.

She was a firecracker. You found her lack of fear for fighting for what was right endearing and admirable. It made you a better advocate for environmental preservation while you worked on your thesis–Integrating the Human into Nature.

Finding a way for humans and animals to live side by side without endangering the natural wildlife biome was a tightrope conflict, a topic Mabel was intimately familiar with. It helped having her hands-on expertise as a reference point.

When you first asked Mabel how she was so familiar with human/nature integration, she dove into a fantastical story involving transferring her consciousness into a robot beaver (‘So, like Avatar.’ ‘Yeah, kinda.’), convincing a beaver king to return to the glade by her house, inadvertently inciting an animal uprising, which in turn involved a flying shark (that you definitely caught on the news), nearly killing Mayor Jerry Generazzo by said shark, and finally getting the mayor to avoid building a highway directly on that glade.

You didn’t believe her story at first, but poring over the evidence (the shark, the fire, the robot horror show at Mayor Jerry’s re-election rally), you eventually relented to the idea that Mabel was telling you the truth, unbelievable as it all was.

After months of getting to know each other, and learning to trust each other, you and Mabel discovered that you could use each other to further your goals.

While Mabel wanted to be more physically involved when it came to environmental preservation, you wanted to be the one pulling the strings of government so that it made the lives of those working on the ground easier. In order to do that, you needed a legal backbone on top of the ecological expertise to even think about having any sway in government.

That’s right–on top of your growing debt from the Beaverton University Wildlife Ecology PhD program, you also had a law degree under your belt.

Why was qualifying to save the planet so expensive? At least you managed to nab a scholarship this time around, while also working on the side at an environmental law firm as a paralegal. It didn’t pay much, but you managed just fine. Your sleeping schedule was nonexistent, dried ramen noodles stocked your pantry, and you might have had scurvy at some point, but it was all for the greater good of the earth.

When it came to Mabel, she had an unhealthy obsession with the mayor of Beaverton. You thought it was a crush at first. Jerry Generazzo was, for all intents and purposes, a very handsome man and he definitely used that to his advantage. You’re pretty sure if it wasn’t for his incredible hairline (not a hair transplant) and winning smile (not veneers, the bastard), he would have lost re-election. His good looks and charm swayed voters into another term as Beaverton’s mayor, even after The Incident. You would have a crush on him too if his policies weren’t antithetical to the platform he originally campaigned on.

But Mabel’s fixation on the older man was one of self-righteousness than one of attraction. You and Mabel bonded over Mayor Jerry’s disappointing turn as a politician. But Mabel being Mabel, she outdid your ire for him tenfold. She schemed. She plotted. She crafted a plan to upend Mayor Jerry’s final term by using, well, you.

The mayor didn’t know who you were, unlike his bitter familiarity with your younger companion. You could weasel your way into meetings and disrupt his destructive plans for the city from the inside, with help from Mabel of course. In return, Mabel would assist your thesis and live with the satisfaction of causing anarchy within the Beaverton political system.

It was a win-win situation.

How hard could it be, really?

“Well, you certainly are less qualified than our other applicants with no outside experience in politics. Why should I pick you over them?” Mayor Jerry asked you, folding his hands in front of him on his desk, looking at you with intrigue.

You cleared your throat, adjusting in your seat. You’d gone over this bit with Mabel a thousand times. You could do this. Appeal to his sense of duty.

“Because you need me,” you started, the confidence in your voice covering the nervous patter of your heart. “I’m sure those other candidates with experience are great for the job, but you need a fresh voice right now, especially after…the incident.”

Jerry choked, as if the mere mention of it caused war flashbacks in his mind.

In your strategy meeting leading up to your final interview, Mabel said, ‘Make sure you bring up what happened on the day of his re-election rally. He acts like it was the best thing to happen to him, but I think he was traumatized. If you call attention to it, it’ll break his composure and soften him up to listen to you.’

While Mabel was able to tell you what happened from her perspective, you didn’t know how Mayor Jerry felt about the whole thing. Just that he started to change.

But that wasn’t fast enough for Mabel’s tastes. When a window opened, apparently, all the windows needed opening. And the doors. And the windows and doors of the house next door.

Sure, he had the beltway built around the glade and made it a nature preserve, but there were other plans on his desk for energy-sucking data centers, cost-cutting measures for chemical plant waste regulations, and a proposal to integrate solar panels on low-income housing that you were positive he was going to shut down.

“Voters are disappointed with your performance as mayor, despite winning re-election, and I believe you need someone like me to bolster your base. I know it’s your final term, but don’t you want to go out on a high note? Leave a mark on the history of Beaverton?”

The question was rhetorical, but you were appealing to his ego. He straightened in his seat, a prideful grin spreading across his face at the mention of being significant. You internally rolled your eyes. Men were all the same.

“Mr. Generazzo, do you love this city?” you asked pointedly.

He blinked rapidly at the question being asked of him. “Of course I do. I was born and raised here. My mother was born and raised here.”

“Then why are you acting like you don’t care how you leave it when you’re done as mayor?” you posed brusquely. It was a risky move, given that you were trying to get a job, not tell him off, but you hoped that calling him out would give you an edge. You weren’t fawning over him, tripping over yourself to laud the so-called 'good work' he’d done as mayor. You were pointing out the gaps in his leadership and where you could fit yourself in to close those gaps.

“With me as your policy advisor, I can help you incite real, positive change to the city of Beaverton that its citizens will thank you for. You have your devout followers, sure, but your actions matter in the grand scheme of things to the people outside of that base. We as citizens will still be living here when you’re done being mayor and creating a Beaverton that makes lives better for its people instead of worse is going to make a huge difference.

“And, who knows? Maybe your actions here could launch you to governor.” Stroke stroke stroke. Your mind’s hand was beginning to get tired, but you knew what would make his ego come. “Or even president.”

His eyes widened, pupils drifting off as he pictured himself as the executive in power.

Bingo.

“Well, you’re certainly bold, I’ll give you that,” he observed, meeting your eyes once more after your indulgent speech, looking mildly impressed. He sat there a moment, quiet, as he turned your words over in his mind, his thumb rubbing at the edge of his mouth, leaving you to fiddle with your fingers in your lap. Your heart was pounding in your chest. This had to work.

“I have some things to go over, but expect a call from my office in the coming week,” Mayor Jerry said, rising from his seat and buttoning his suit jacket. He extended a hand to you to shake which you took eagerly, rising from your seat yourself.

“Thank you for your time, sir,” you replied with a wide grin, releasing his hand and gathering your bag from the side of your chair. “I look forward to your call.”

“What if I don’t get the job?” you whined on your couch, arm slung dramatically over your eyes. It had been a week since your interview and you were starting to get antsy.

Mabel reclined adjacent to you in your second-hand easy chair, tossing and catching a hacky sack in the air, legs slung over one arm while her head rested on the other.

“Did you stroke his ego?” she asked, never breaking the catch game with herself.

“Of course,” you said. “But I wasn’t exactly…nice about it.”

Mabel caught the hacky sack and righted herself, rising up from the arm of the chair to look at you. “He likes that,” she said, tossing the sack at you, hitting you squarely at the side of your head. You winced, lifting your arm off of your eyes and grabbing the toy. “Men like Jerry love when girls are a little mean to them. You’ll get the job,” Mabel said confidently.

You jerked up, flushing, a little affronted at what your friend just said. “Mabel!”

She shrugged. “It’s true.”

You groaned. “Mayor Jerry doesn’t have any pending sexual assault charges on his roster, does he?”

Mabel shook her head, snorting. “Nah. Ol’ Jerry’s a momma’s boy. He’s too wrapped up in his job and his mother to even think about dating, let alone groping a colleague.” She rolled her tongue in her mouth as she flipped through her mental rolodex of Mayor Jerry facts. “He also has a strange fascination for horses.”

You laughed incredulously, throwing the sack at Mabel's head, which missed her by a mile. “Have I told you lately how scary it is that you know so much about this man?”

Mabel took on a deadly serious demeanor. “You call it scary. I call it knowing your enemy.”

The following week, you got a call from the mayor’s office that you’d gotten the job.

Your first text to Mabel read:

You were right

She replied:

Let’s get to work 💪

Monday arrived faster than you expected. Bureaucracy may move slowly, but a new hire orientation for the mayor’s office ran at a fever pitch. You were shoved from room to room, fingerprinted, photographed, poked, and prodded. You had ink stains in places you couldn’t even imagine having ink stains from the sheer amount of forms you had to sign. You were almost sure you just signed your life away to the devil.

By the end of the day, you were overwhelmed and drowning in paperwork. At least you could find some respite in your own (small) office. You let out a less than dignified sound and thumped your head on your desk, rattling the pathetic cup full of two pencils and singular pen on your desk so hard that it toppled over, one pencil lightly bumping your cheek.

“Don’t tell me you’re already regretting this.” Jerry’s amused voice interrupted your unattractive grumbling, the sound coming from somewhere in front of you.

You jerked your head up to see the mayor smirking at you, casually leaning against your doorframe with his hands in his pockets.

“No! Not at all,” you assured him, shuffling the papers on your desk together to appear as if you were doing something important and not behaving like a petulant child. Wait a minute, didn’t this form have a post-it on–

Mayor Jerry cleared his throat and pointed at his forehead. “You got a little…something…”

Your eyes darted up to see the shadow of the lost post-it just over your brow. You quickly snatched it off of your forehead and chuckled awkwardly, smacking the post-it on the document it belonged to. “This is a lot for a first day,” you admit.

The older man shrugged. “Sure, but this is what you signed up for.”

You nodded. “I did.”

Mayor Jerry pushed himself off of the door frame and took a step into your office. “So, I’ll say again–are you regretting this?”

You straightened in your seat at the clear challenge. “Absolutely not. I’m just getting my footing.” He quirked an eyebrow at that. “I’m ready for this,” you said, assuredly, giving the man what you thought was your best game face.

He slipped his hands from his pockets and raised them palm-out to you in a placating gesture. “I give, I give! I’m just giving you a hard time,” he relented. “That glare is withering. I obviously made the right choice.”

You softened your brow at the observation, blinking. “Well, thanks.”

Jerry grinned and exhaled through his nose. “I’ll let you get back to it. It is a lot to take in, I know, but you’ll get up to speed soon.” He walked backwards a step, turning to exit, but not before stopping in the doorway to turn and say, “By the way, you have ‘ign ere’ marked on your forehead.”

You knitted your brows together, muttering, “Wha–?” to yourself before taking out and opening the compact you kept with you, not noticing Jerry retreating from your office. Unfortunately, in faded blue lettering, a handful of letters were indeed on your forehead in a block, a remnant of the ink from the post-it that read ‘sign here’.

“Damnit.”