Cayenne Arachne

Thoughts on erotic fiction, storytelling, desire, tension, and the slow pleasures of getting there.
Reflections on writing, fantasy, and the art of wanting more.

Welcome to Cheekies: Inside Jokes You Don’t Mean to Create

When I first invented Burger World, I didn’t think twice about it.

I just needed a place for my characters to grab a bite without dragging a real-world brand into the story. No McDonald’s. No Wendy’s. No arguments about regional loyalty or trademark landmines. Just… a burger place.

So I made one up.

Burger World was meant to be forgettable. A placeholder. A stand-in for any random, generic burger joint you could imagine.

And then something strange happened.

It showed up again.

***

By the time I was writing my second book, a character wandered into Burger World without much thought on my part. It felt natural. Familiar and convenient.

By book three, it had become a pattern.

Every story — completely unrelated, with different characters and different circumstances — featured someone stopping by Burger World.

Suddenly, this intentionally bland little invention had become… a thing.

Not a setting I’d planned.

Not a shared universe I’d mapped out.

Just a recurring detail that quietly refused to go away.

***

The same thing started happening elsewhere.

I needed a breastaurant — the kind of place that exists more for spectacle than food — but didn’t want to name-drop or parody anything too closely. So rather than use Hooters or Twin Peaks, I created Cheekies. A place that very clearly knows exactly what it’s doing, and is unapologetically built around that premise.

I needed a rock band.

So I named one April–May–June.

Again, these weren’t meant to be clever or meaningful. They were practical solutions. Fictional labels to avoid real-world baggage.

But once they existed, they had a way of sticking.

***

What surprised me wasn’t that these invented places and names reappeared.

It was the effect they had.

Even though the stories themselves aren’t connected — different characters, different arcs, different emotional journeys — these little details created a sense of continuity.

A feeling that all of these stories might exist in the same loose reality.

Not a shared universe in the cinematic sense. No grand crossover plan. No hidden timeline.

Just a familiar texture.

The kind you notice only after the fact.

***

It’s funny how repetition works in fiction.

Say something once, and it’s a detail.

Say it twice, and it’s a coincidence.

Say it three times, and it starts to feel intentional — even if it wasn’t.

At some point, these invented places stopped being placeholders and started feeling like inside jokes I hadn’t meant to create.

Jokes mostly for myself, admittedly.

But maybe also for the reader who eventually notices and thinks, Wait… haven’t we been here before?

***

There’s something comforting about that.

About the idea that fictional worlds quietly accrete details over time. That even unrelated stories can leave fingerprints on one another.

It’s a reminder that writing isn’t always about control or planning. Sometimes it’s about habits forming. Preferences revealing themselves. Patterns emerging without permission.

You solve a small problem once — what should I call this place? — and suddenly you’ve built a tiny piece of mythology.

Not because you meant to.

Because it worked.

***

I don’t know if Burger World will keep showing up forever. Or if Cheekies will become a permanent landmark. Or if April–May–June will ever top the charts in the fictional world they inhabit.

But I do know this: once something exists in a story, it has a way of wanting to exist again.

And maybe that’s how fictional worlds really grow.

Not through grand design.

But through small, practical choices that slowly, quietly, become familiar.

So if you find yourself wandering into Burger World in more than one story…

Or hearing about a band you swear you’ve heard before…

Just know you’re not imagining it.

Welcome back!