#time and be there for her while she goes through everything

[corroded-hellfire]

Forever Young - Eddie Munson x Reader

An As You Wish story

Summary: It’s Eddie’s 40th birthday and when everything else is making him feel old, you aim to show him that he’s still young.

Note: in honor of our birthday boy

Warnings: smut, p in v, unprotected (wrap it up), oral, m! receiving, older!eddie, Eddie still has his breeding kink of course

Words: 2.7k

[As You Wish masterlist]

To say Eddie wasn’t excited about his 40th birthday would be an understatement. The closer it came to the day, the grumpier your husband became. He’d grumble under his breath, the words obviously not meant to be heard by you or the kids; but the sentiment was still conveyed.

Months before his birthday, Eddie made it clear to you that he did not want a party. Although he loved spending time with his friends and loved ones, he had decided that he only wanted to spend this particular day with his family. But just because he would be getting through the day unscathed by in-person jokes and ribbing from the likes of Steve Harrington and Dustin Henderson didn’t mean his own family wasn’t going to tease the patriarch.

“Happy birthday, Dad!” Luke holds a card out to his father. His grin isn’t necessarily mischievous, but it’s smart to always be on guard when it comes to the teenager.

“Thank you.” Eddie takes the indigo envelope from his son and slips the card out. Before his eyes can even take in the bold bubble letters on the front, a pamphlet slips out. Eddie catches it before it can fall to the floor and holds it up to take a proper look.

Hawkins Comfort: The Exceptional Home for Senior Living

The clenching of Eddie’s jaw causes Luke to snicker. Your husband tosses the pamphlet at your son’s face before reading the card itself. Luckily for Luke, the card itself was sweet and didn’t add further insult to injury.

With a heavy sigh, Eddie nods his head and closes the card.

“Thanks,” he reiterates.

“Aw come on, Dad,” Luke says, stepping forward and patting his father on the back. “I’m just messing with you.”

Freshly dressed for the evening out, Eliza zooms into the room, the three-year-old already tickled pink at the thought of having some cake after dinner. She runs into her dad’s legs and wraps her little arms around them.

“Happy birthday!” It’s the fourth time she’s told him this today and he knows it won’t be the last.

“Thank you, baby girl.”

“See?” Luke says, nudging his dad. “You have a baby. You’re not old.”

Eliza’s face goes from gleeful to rueful.

“‘M not a baby!”

“Excuse me, miss.” Luke bows to her before snatching the toddler up into his arms. “I meant to say that Daddy has a young lady for a daughter.”

Placated by that explanation, Eliza nods her head once. “Better.”

As you walk into the living room, a minute later than Eliza due to her rapid speed, Luke gestures to you with one hand while the other one supports his little sister.

“And look! You have a wife who is in her twenties.”

Eddie’s tongue pokes out of the side of his lips, internally trying to decide if that fact makes him feel better or worse. He does have a young, hot wife. But does that make him feel young as well or does he just feel each and every day of those eleven years between the two of you?

“See! Mama is young!” Eliza says.

“Are they ganging up on you, honey?” You playfully pout as you approach your husband’s side.

“Luke’s ready to check me into a nursing home,” he gripes.

“Why you need a nurse?” Eliza asks.

“He doesn’t,” you say before Luke gets a chance to be a wiseass. “Daddy takes care of himself and all of us. Right, Lize?”

“Yeah!”

“Are we ready to go?” Ryan asks, waltzing into the room as he pats his flat stomach. “I’m starving.”

“Didn’t you have a bowl of cereal an hour ago?” you ask.

“Yeah,” Ryan replies. “An hour ago.”

Eddie sighs, remembering the days when he too was a teenager and could inhale food all day and keep that small waist of his. As if able to read his mind, you slip your arm around your husband’s middle and give it a small squeeze.

“Alright gang,” Eddie says, “let’s head out.”

After you all return home, Eliza isn’t nearly as excited about cake as she was before. Her head rests on your shoulder, soft whines coming out of her mouth as you carry her into the house.

“We told you not to eat too much ice cream,” you say.

“Daddy said I could,” she groans.

The restaurant gave Eddie a free ice cream sundae for his birthday and he invited all of you to share it with him. The boys, of course, had room even after finishing off their dinner plates completely. But Eliza’s tiny tummy was already decently full of her noodles before she picked up a giant spoon and started scooping the vanilla dessert into her mouth.

“But you had too much.” You press a kiss to her curls before setting her down on the couch.

Eddie hangs his keys on the hook by the door before coming over and wrapping his arms around you.

“Thank you for a nice dinner, princess.”

You smile up at him and press a kiss to the underside of his jaw.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“Daddy?” Eliza asks.

“What’s up?”

She pushes herself to sit up straighter and tucks her legs beneath her.

“How old you now?”

He gives her a small smile as he drapes his arm across your shoulders.

“40.”

“Whoa.” Eliza’s eyes widen comically. It’s hard for you to keep your laugh in. “That’s big number. I don’t think we got enough candles for the cake me and Ryan made.”

This time you have to turn your head to the side and hide your smile in Eddie’s armpit.

Thankfully, Ryan is able to assure Eliza that they don’t need to put the whole 40 candles on the cake. With a gaggle of offbeat singing surrounding him, Eddie smiles and closes his eyes to think of a wish. Apparently, he takes too long for his daughter’s liking. She sighs, naturally dramatic as always, and everyone else laughs.

Eddie is able to blow out all the candles in one go and you cut the cake, giving pieces to your two sons who are eyeing the confection with glee. You’re unable to keep from snorting in amusement at their never-ending hunger and you take a seat next to Eddie to eat your own piece. Deciding to power through it, Eliza manages to eat half off a slice before she lays across her dad’s lap, hands holding her once again full belly.

The perk to her being so full is that it’s easier to wrangle her into her pajamas and under her covers. With one last wish of a happy birthday to Eddie, he presses a kiss to her forehead and her eyes begin to flutter closed.

The boys aren’t far behind. Whether or not they’re going to sleep, you’re not sure. But as long as they’re in their rooms you’re happy. Because you have one last surprise for Eddie today.

You come up behind him as he unbuckles his belt and yanks it out of the denim loops on his black jeans. His shirt raises up slightly and you take advantage, slipping your hands beneath the fabric, letting your nails gently scratch over his pale skin. Eddie starts to unzip his pants and you press trailing kisses across his shoulder blade.

“Baby?” Eddie steps forward out of your grasp and turns around to face you. “I’m pretty tired.”

A frown creases your brow. Eddie has every right in the world to be too exhausted to fool around and just want to climb into bed, but you’re not buying that’s really the case right now.

“Okay,” you say softly, stepping forward and gently cupping his face in your hands. “We can just lay down and cuddle if you want. But something tells me you’ve got something on your mind.”

There’s silence for a moment. Then, Eddie sighs and steps backward out of your hands, and takes a seat on the foot of your bed. You move to stand in front of him and gently card your fingers through his bangs resting against his forehead. He rests one hand on your hip and appears deep in thought for a few minutes.

“I just…” he finally says. “I just feel like the older I get the more pronounced our age difference is.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, not expecting that to be what’s on his mind.

“Hey.” Gently, you take his chin between your thumb and forefinger and lift his head so he’s looking you in the eye. “So what?”

Eddie’s brow furrows and he looks at you, skepticism dancing across his face.

“What do you mean ‘so what?’”

“That exactly. So what if you look like you’re forty and I look like I’m twenty-eight? Those are our ages. Just like you looked thirty-two when we got together and I looked twenty. And how in thirty years you’ll look seventy and I’ll look fifty-eight. What does it matter? Do you really think I give a shit what anyone else thinks? The only two people in this marriage are you and me, buddy.” You grab his shoulder and gently shake him back and forth. “I knew how many years apart we were when we got together. When I married you. When I had a baby with you. You think I would’ve stuck around all this time if I had doubts about our age difference? No way, baby. You’re stuck with me. Even when I get gray hair and all.”

A finger absentmindedly brushes against Eddie’s temple as you speak. Your husband stiffens, connecting the dots between your words and where you touched him.

“I have gray hair?” He jumps up and scurries to the full-length mirror in the corner of your room.

“What?” A heavy sigh deflates your body as you realize the conclusion he jumped to. “No, Eddie. You don’t have any gray hair.” His inspection in the mirror bothers you, so you walk forward and manage to squeeze between him and the mirror. “But even if you did, you’d still be the sexiest man I’ve ever met.”

Eddie sighs and rests his forehead against yours.

“I don’t feel forty,” he whispers to you. “I feel like a kid still.”

“Well, you are a big kid,” you tease, managing to pull a small smile out of him. Relieved to see him feeling a bit lighter, you reach up and wrap your arms around his neck. “And besides, I think I’m the last person in the world you have to convince that you’re still young.”

“And why’s that?” he asks.

Giving him a suggestive smirk, you lean in until your lips ghost against his.

“Because,” you whisper, “of how nice and good you fuck me.”

A low groan reverberates from your husband’s chest and he pulls you flush up against his body.

“Yeah?” His voice is dripping in lust. “You like how I make you feel, princess? How hard I pound that tight little pussy of yours?”

“Uh huh,” you whimper before pressing your lips against his.

Eddie’s fingers dig into your hips as you walk him backward towards the bed. When the back of his knees hit the mattress, all it takes is a small push from you to have him falling onto his back. His eyes are dark with need as he watches you tug his open jeans down his legs. The two of you work together as he yanks his shirt off over his head and you tear his boxers off.

As you fall to your knees between Eddie’s thighs, he sits up enough to pull your top off as well. Once you’re free of the offending fabric, you take Eddie’s cock in your hand. You move it up and down slowly, feeling him harden in your grip.

“Fuck,” Eddie growls.

On a swipe down you lean in and press a kiss to the tip. The resulting moan from your husband sends a pleasant shiver down your spine. You pump his cock a few more times before you can’t hold off any longer and have to take him into your mouth.

“Yes,” Eddie hisses.

You run your tongue along the underside of his length, making sure to keep eye contact with him the entire time. The way he watches you with lust-blown eyes and his chest rises and falls in rapid succession with his shallow breaths has you squeezing your thighs together.

You start to bob your head up and down, taking him a little deeper each time. He becomes impossibly harder in your mouth. A large hand gently cups the side of your head and pulls you off of him. The way you whine in protest makes Eddie chuckle darkly.

“Sorry, baby,” he says. “Feels too damn good, though. Need you up here.”

He helps you to your feet and shed the rest of your clothes. Eddie shuffles back towards the pillows, eyes taking in your every movement as you crawl up towards him. When he moves to sit up, you put your hand on his shoulder and push him back down.

“You just lay there,” you coo, lifting one leg to straddle across his thighs. “Rest those old bones and let me take care of you.”

Eddie narrows his eyes, playfully glaring at you and the shit-eating grin on your face.

“Fine,” he challenges. Eddie raises his arms and laces his fingers together behind his head. “Get going.”

He doesn’t need to tell you twice. You line him up with your entrance and slowly lower yourself onto him. The two of you moan in tandem, the feeling of being united insanely pleasurable.

Once you’re fully seated on him, you start to rock your hips back and forth. Eddie squeezes his eyes shut and bites at his bottom lip. His fingers dig at the back of his head, digging into his scalp to keep from caving and grabbing ahold of your body.

Sensing his resolve breaking, you rest your hands on his chest and lean in to speak softly.

“What do you think, Eddie?” you croon. “Want to get me nice and knocked up on your birthday?”

“Shit.”

Your words snap the last bit of restraint he was holding onto and his hands fly to your hips, helping your body move against his.

“Come on, handsome,” you continue through labored breaths, “fill me up with your cum.”

“Jesus Christ.” Eddie huffs a laugh and tilts his head up, staring up at the ceiling. “I’m fucking forty now, I should be able to last longer than this.”

“You forget I know how to push your buttons.”

“Mm?” Eddie looks back down at you, raising an eyebrow as you bounce on his cock. “You mean like this?”

A ringed hand slides between your body and rubs quick circles over your clit.

“Fuck!” You bite down on your lip, attempting to keep your voice low.

“Let’s go, princess. Want you to come with me.”

Unable to respond in any articulate way, you nod your head and hum incoherently. With one hard flick against your clit, the coil in you snaps. Your head falls forward, your jaw hanging open as your high washes over you. The way you clench around Eddie has him following right behind you, the two of you rutting against one another as you ride out your orgasms.

“Holy shit,” Eddie groans as both of your bodies begin to come down.

Suddenly boneless, you flop down against Eddie’s chest and he instinctively wraps an arm around you. He presses a kiss to the top of your head and lets his heavy eyes close.

“I love you so fucking much,” you mumble against his chest, slightly sticky with sweat.

Eddie breathes a chuckle and rubs his hand up and down your back.

“How are you so perfect?” he asks.

Now it’s your turn to laugh.

“I’m going to remind you that you said that next time you get all grumpy over me making fun of your age.”

Before you have time to process his movements, Eddie grips your waist and flips the two of you, smirking down at you as he settles his weight against your body.

“I’ll just have to keep proving how well I can fuck you then,” he says.

You raise your eyebrows at him.

“Is that supposed to discourage me?”

[stevesgother]

Chalkboard Hearts - Pt IV

Pairing - KindergartenTeacher!Steve Harrington x SingleMom!Reader

WC - 5.6k

Summary - A snow day prompts Steve and Abbey to spend a little one on one time together.

AN - sorry this one took a little longer! being creative is hard when the U.S keeps sucking me of all my joy. thanks for the patience, love y’all! ~ emma

Three weeks ago, your daughter’s kindergarten teacher gave you his phone number in a chilly, deserted diner parking lot, and every weekday since that night, Abbey has had to all but drag you from his classroom when you go to pick her up in the afternoons. One topic leads to another and another, and before you realize it, you and Steve have been chatting in his mostly empty classroom for over an hour. But this morning, you’re dialing those digits he gave you on your landlines keypad for the first time with shaky fingers. You’d spent the past hour exhausting all your other options. Your mother? Working. Your sister? Out of town. Your usual babysitter? sick.

Steve was the only person you knew for a fact wouldn’t be working today.

It wasn’t for a lack of wanting to that you hadn’t called yet. Every waking hour since that night, you had been wrestling with yourself about what an appropriate reason would be. Was he flirting with you? Did he genuinely just want you to have access to him in case of an emergency? Both? Your inner dialogue was deafening– like a squawking bird in the back of your brain.

The intrusive volume of your thoughts seemed to quiet now as your leg bounced impatiently– anxiety over the prospect of having to call into work outweighing your trepidation– waiting for him to pick up the call on the other line. 

He finally answered halfway through the fourth ring, “Hello?” Despite the early hour, Steve sounded wide awake. Probably rousing at the same time you did, not expecting to be temporarily blinded by three feet of bright, white snow piled on top of his car. On the kitchen radio, you can hear the newscaster announcing a closure of the local schools.

“Steve, it’s Y/N,” your voice cuts through the static.

He pauses briefly, yours probably being the last voice he expected to hear when he picked up his phone, “Hey, morning–” he clears his throat, “everything alright?”

“Yes– well– I don’t know.” You rub the tips of your fingers restlessly over your closed eyelids, “I don’t have anyone to watch Abbey with the school being closed, I've tried everyone and I really hate to ask but–”

“Of course, I can be there in thirty. Can you give me your address?”

“Are you sure, Steve? I can just call out if–”

“Don’t be ridiculous, just give me your address,” his incredulity and lack of hesitation sends the wings fluttering about in your stomach again, while cementing the reassurance of his words. You gain the courage to repeat your home address for him to write down.

You can hear the sound of pen hastily scratching paper, then after a few beats of silence he speaks again, “It’ll take me a little bit to clear off my car, but I’ll be there as soon as I can,”

“Thank you so much, you have no idea.”

“Don’t mention it,” you can hear the grin in his voice, can picture the flash of perfect white squares, “see you soon,” you breathe a heavy sigh of relief at the click of the receiver being placed back in its cradle. Abbey is bundled up on the couch watching Rugrats, a bowl of cereal in her lap. Normally, you wouldn’t let her eat in the living room, but you needed respite from her usual game of 20 Questions to make some phone calls.

“Hey, Ab,” you say as you approach her, thoroughly engrossed in her cartoons, “Is it okay if Mr. H comes over and watches you today while mommy goes to work?”

The question is more than enough to pull her focus from the television screen. Her face lights up like the Fourth of July as she nearly spills her cereal with the force of her straightening on the sofa, “Really?” She asks hopefully.

“Yes, grandma is working and Julia is sick. Is that okay?” As excited as you know she is, you want her verbal confirmation. Mostly because you’d never put your child in a situation she’s uncomfortable in; but a smaller, more selfish part of you wants to be absolved of the guilt you feel for having to leave her all day.

Your wish is granted almost instantly as she squeals and hops off the couch where she’d been lounging, placing her bowl on the coffee table. Halfway to her room, she calls, “Mommy! Where are my coloring books?”

“They’re on top of your bookshelf,” you call, “don’t make a huge mess, please!”

“I won’t!” She replies, muffled through the drywall separating you.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

You hadn’t had time to tidy the house or make yourself look even remotely presentable before Steve arrived. If it weren’t for the relief that floods your body upon seeing his car pull in the driveway, you might even be a little embarrassed. Booted footsteps shuffle up the porch as you’re shoveling things into your bag at the last minute, followed by three light knocks on the door.

“Coming!” You shout from where you stand in the dining room.

Before you even have the chance to reach the foyer, Abbey is darting from her bedroom in plastic play shoes and throwing the door open with immeasurable enthusiasm.

“Hey–” Steve starts, expecting it to be you before he realizes who’s greeting him, “Oh, hi Ab,” he waves to the little face staring up at him, “Where’s your mom?”

“Mommy!” Abbey calls, “Mr. H is here!”

Steve spots you holding two pieces of notebook paper clad with chicken scratch scribblings. You look frazzled– hair thrown up hastily and scrubs wrinkly. He scours the place where he would normally find an emotion akin to pity for your distressed state, but in its absence, he only feels endearment laced with a little concern.

He doesn’t get a word in before you’re shoving the papers in his hands and spouting off information that he’s praying is already on the sheets you’ve given him.

“I should be home by five, if anything happens, this–” you point to a barely legible number, “--is my work phone. This is her doctor’s phone number and she’s allergic to peanuts. There aren’t any peanuts in the house but–” you sigh, exasperated with yourself, “just in case.”

The rest of the pages are filled with ramblings about which channels Abbey likes to watch and how to work the television. How, in case she needs a bath, you have to pull and then twist the knob for the hot water to run. That she is not, under any circumstances, allowed to put nail polish on by herself and where you keep her Epi Pens.

Steve’s surprised at how many of these sentiments he already has catalogued. He’s required to know Abbey’s emergency contacts and that she has a nut allergy for his job, but he knows that channel thirty-seven has the best cartoons because Abbey once told him that Power Puff Girls was her favorite– and you’d already relayed to him the hilariously tragic tale of what happened the last time Abbey attempted to paint her own nails.

Despite this revelation, he doesn’t dare interrupt you. He indulges your ranting, a grin creeping involuntarily along his face.

“-- sorry, I’m rambling– I’ve just never left her with someone who wasn’t my mom or her sitter before,” you’re a little breathless after two straight minutes of talking.

“Hey, hey– you’re okay,” he wastes no time reassuring you, “you know I’d never let anything happen to her.” You nod your understanding, “Besides,” now he’s speaking to Abbey, “we’re gonna have a super fun time right?”

She shouts, “Yes!”

He looks at you with his brows raised, amused, “See?”

“Okay, alright,” you kneel down, chuckling, “do I get a hug? Or am I chopped liver?”

Giggling, Abbey wraps you in a suffocating embrace, like always. Her excitement for Steve has never quelled her affection for you, and you can tell that she’s still hesitant to see you go. You smack a kiss on her cheek, grabbing your bag from the floor as you rise again.

“Swear you’ll call me if anything happens?” You ask him one more time, already knowing the answer.

“Cross my heart.” He smiles fondly, stoking the flames burning bright around the cage that your heart inhabits.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Your home is cozy, much cozier than anything Steve had growing up. He’s warmed at the idea that Abbey has the privilege of growing up in a house that feels so lived in– stains on the carpet, soft edges and yellow lighting. There’s clutter on the kitchen counter by the microwave and colorful alphabet magnets securing several bright pieces of artwork to the fridge.

“Are these the pictures you drew in art class last week?” He asks Abbey, who has been trailing behind him all through the house, pointing things out to him as they go.

“Uh-huh, Mrs. Morse helped me with that one,” she points to what Steve thinks is probably supposed to be a zebra.

“Well, you’re very talented, I love them,”

“Can we go play outside?” She asks, drawing out the last syllable and completely ignoring Steve’s compliment.

“Sure we can,” he chuckles, “where do you keep your snowsuit?”.

Abbey takes Steve by the wrist and leads him to the coat closet by the front door. Similar to the rest of your house, it’s stuffed to the brim– full of puffy nylon and heavy winter boots. He catches a glimpse of a familiar brown and green jacket– his jacket. You’d promised to wash it and return it to him, but it must’ve slipped your mind. He grins to himself at the reminiscence as he fetches Abbey’s snow gear and shuts the door.

Steve hadn’t dressed appropriately for a morning rolling around in the cold. He had slipped on a pair of your mittens, probably meant more for fashion than practicality, because his fingers were already completely numb. But he can’t seem to deny her when Abbey pleads with him to make snow angels. They’d just spent the past half an hour building two snowmen– one short like Abbey and one tall like Steve, she insisted, as she wrapped her scarf around the snowman that resembled her.

“Please, Mr. H?” She begs when she notices his hesitancy.

“Alright, alright,” he chuckles, “but then we’re gonna go inside and have lunch. Deal?”

That appears to be a good enough covenant for her, “Okay!” Abbey exclaims, falling fairly harshly to the cushioned ground. Steve braces himself for tears, but Abbey only keeps laughing in that contagious way as she begins spreading her arms and legs out beside her in a repetitive motion.

“Are you gonna make one?” She questions from her place on the ground.

He grunts as he reluctantly lowers himself down next to her, anticipating the icy wetness waiting underneath him. The snow seeps uncomfortably through his jeans, but the sound of Abbey’s unbridled joy nearly makes up for his soiled clothing.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

What’d you want to eat, Ab?” Steve calls from the pantry while Abbey changes out of her wet clothes in her bedroom.

“Not hungry!” She calls back.

He sighs, expecting her stubbornness– she was nearly as mulish as you.

“Remember the deal we made earlier?” He asks, “That if I made a snow angel with you, that you’d have to eat something for lunch, right?”

She emerges from her room, pout prominent on her strikingly adorable features, “But I wanna keep playing,” she whines, giving her foot a little stomp on the linoleum for emphasis.

“We can keep playing after, I promise,” he knows he’s not winning this battle without a compromise, “does your mom let you eat in the living room?” He asks with a lilt to his voice that makes him sound conspiratorial.

“Sometimes…”

“How about…” he pauses as if thinking, “I make us some food and we watch a movie while we eat?”

He can tell he’s got her after that– hook, line and sinker. She still pretends to mull over his proposition for a moment before agreeing, “Hmm…I think that sounds good,” she settles, trying and failing to mask her elation.

That’s how Steve ended up, plates of grilled cheese sandwiches in hand, dodging barbies and miscellaneous stuffed animals on his way to the living room a few minutes later.

“Have you found a movie yet?” He asks Abbey as he sets the plates down atop the coffee table.

“Yes but–” she jumps on her tiptoes, “I can’t reach it,”

Steve walks over to the towering shelf of VHS tapes in front of her, “Which one are you trying to reach?”

Abbey points at the tape in question, “Home Alone,”

“Alrighty,” Steve says as he grabs it with ease, “Your foods on the table, go sit while I put it in,”

Abbey, for once, does as he asks– bounding over to the coffee table with the excitement typical of a five-year-old who has an adult's permission to break a house rule.

While Steve eyes your VCR, he catches a glimpse of a photo out of the corner of his eye, causing him to pause. It’s you, no older than twenty, holding a swaddled baby in a sterile hospital room. He doesn’t recognize the picture as one he’s seen before.

Of course you’ve never seen it before, he thinks, you barely know her. Get a grip.

You’re filled with such youthful brilliance in the shot, despite the underlying weariness of having just given birth; your hair tied messily into a bun at the nape of your neck, sweat beading on your brow bone. It’s just you and Abbey, Steve thinks her father must’ve been the photographer.

He can’t help but think of himself at that age and all the stupid shit he was doing. How, if you had handed him a baby then, he wouldn’t have known the first thing about what to do with it– but here you had raised such a bright, healthy daughter and largely alone. He was struck by such a sudden and overwhelming admiration for you that he nearly forgot what he was supposed to be doing.

“Mr. H?” Abbey asked, mouth full, “When are we gonna start the movie?”

Her question sends him hurling back to reality. A reality where he’s your daughter’s kindergarten teacher, and the two of you are friendly with each other at best.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

At some point during the movie, once their lunch was reduced to crumbs on empty plates, Abbey had hauled out her box of coloring books and crayons that she had been looking for this morning.

Steve, the less creative of the two, was coloring in a cartoon illustration of a fairy while Abbey was making her own drawing on a piece of white construction paper. The lack of constant chatter is a welcome reprieve, but he knows that Abbey only becomes quiet when she’s particularly concentrated, so he chances a peek to his right at what she’s working on.

She got a death grip on a brown crayon– shaved almost down to the tip– with her tongue sticking ever so slightly between her lips as she focuses intently on her art.

The picture is of three stick figures– two tall and one significantly smaller in between them. It’s set at what looks to be a playground, a bright yellow sun in the sky and blue scribblings around white clouds. Swings, slides and even a little blue dog adorn the rest of the background.

Pleasantly surprised at her artistry, Steve says, “That looks amazing, Ab!”

She’s snapped out of her stupor, her face split with a wide toothless grin. She doesn’t thank him, only lets out a few bashful giggles at his praise and says, “I like yours too,”

“Is that you?” He points at the littlest figure.

“Mhm, see? I made her hair curly like mine!”

“It looks just like you,” he agrees, then draws her attention to the other figures, “Is this your mom and your dad next to you?”

“This is mommy,” she points, “I put her in the blue clothes she wears at work,” he knows she’s referring to your scrubs, but the phrasing makes him chuckle.

“And this is you!” She circles the figure she’s drawn with the tip of her finger. She’s included his voluminous chestnut hair and his silver wire-framed glasses, even one of the stupid striped polos he wears at school. Looking at it now, it’s obvious who it was supposed to be– but it’s so unexpected that he feels his face heat up at the realization.

“Oh, wow, Ab– That’s–” he grapples to find the words to express the juxtaposition he’s found himself in. He’s honored, truly, to be included in this portrait Abbey’s made of herself and her mother– her family– but there’s a gnawing guilt he can’t seem to shake. The fear that, in some way, he’s replacing her father.

“I love it, Ab, thank you,” he smiles fondly at her work, the proud grin she wears slowly melting the flash freeze of trepidation that encased his conscience.

“Can we hang it on the fridge for mommy to see when she gets home?” She asks after a moment.

“That sounds like a great idea.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Around four o’clock, Abbey begins asking what they’re having for dinner. Steve wonders briefly if you always have to deal with her being so ravenous.

“How about we start cooking now? That way it’ll be ready for your mom when she gets home,”

“Okay,” Abbey concurs. Steve wouldn’t consider himself a Michelin star chef by any means, but he can make a mean chicken parmesan.

A trip to the grocery store was needed to grab some ingredients. After scribbling down the required items on a crumpled receipt, and struggling for ten minutes to get Abbey’s carseat in the back of his BMW, they’re on their way.

He meets her eyes in the rearview mirror, “Do you want me to put on some music?”

“Christmas music?” She asks hopefully.

Steve isn’t the biggest fan of Christmas music– Christmas in general, really– but he obliges her request and turns the dial to their local channel, soft bells and a choir of voices begin to flood through the interior of the car. She really is so harmlessly manipulative with her saucer eyes and round button nose, he can’t seem to refuse her anything.

Steve drives more cautiously than he thinks he ever has, even more so than when he was sixteen and learning how to drive with his family’s Pontiac as his father stared harshly at him from the passenger seat. He comes to a full halt at every stop sign, and he never takes his eyes off the road.

After fighting some early rush hour traffic, they make it. Without a second thought, Abbey grasps Steve’s hand while walking through the parking lot. He tries not to look startled at the sudden contact, recalling how she always seems to have a firm grip on your hand in public spaces too. Steve’s just glad she feels comfortable with him.

“Can I help?” Abbey asks as Steve grabs a cart from the corral.

“Course’,” he smiles, “do you wanna grab the ingredients and put them in the cart for me?”

She bounces excitedly, “Sure!”

Wandering through the aisles, Abbey never strayed from Steve’s side. Every time he read off an item, she would dutifully fetch it and throw it into the cart with a little more force than necessary, but Steve didn’t mind.

“Do you live by yourself?” She asks out of the blue as they peruse the store.

“I do,”

“Then how come you know how to cook?”

He laughs at her inquisitive nature, “Well I have to eat don’t I?”

“Yeah…” she ponders, “I guess so,”

“Alright, the last thing we need is breadcrumbs,” he informs her, scanning the shelves.

Like earlier, Abbey attempts to stand on her tiptoes to try and reach the can in question, “I’m getting it,” she mumbles in determination, very much not getting it.

“Here,” Steve says as he lifts her up by her waist like it was second nature to him.

“Got it!” She exclaims, tossing it in with the rest of the groceries. “Can I ride in the cart now?” She yawns with a polite hand over her mouth. He supposes grocery shopping takes a lot out of you when all the shelves are at least five feet taller than your head.

“Sure,” Steve chuckles as he slots her little legs through the designated holes.

Despite the ride home only being about ten minutes long, Abbey manages to doze off– lulled to sleep by the subtle hum of the car's engine. Steve veered as gently as possible into the driveway, careful not to disturb her even though he was about to wake her up anyway.

“Abbey,” he shakes her softly, “we’re home,”

Abbey rouses, but only slightly. She yawns again and stretches with her arms over her head before extending them out, silently motioning with her eyes still closed for Steve to carry her inside.

“Okay, c’mon lazy bones,” he grunts at the angle but lifts her from her car seat nonetheless. After unlocking the door one-handed, he sets her carefully on the couch and covers her with a plush throw blanket before heading back outside for the rest of the groceries.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The first thing you notice when you approach your front door is the savory smell of something cooking. Inside, the TV is off and your daughter is sleeping soundly on the couch. Quiet clattering noises flood from the kitchen.

The sleeves of Steve’s burgundy sweater are rolled up to his elbows and the kitchen smells of roasting chicken and mahogany as he stirs a simmering pot of homemade pasta sauce. He’s humming some tune softly under his breath– Bob Segar, you think.

“Hey,” you greet with a grin as you set your bag down on the dining table. Steve turns around to meet you as you ask, “What’re you doing?”

“Cooking?” He replies.

“No, really?” You deadpan back, eliciting an amused chuckle from the man standing at your stove.

“Abbey was asking about dinner,” he pauses, “we were gonna do this whole thing– we were gonna make it for you together, have it ready by the time you got home, but,” he gestures with his arm to the living room where Abbey is napping. Steve Harrington is nothing if not expressive– talking with his hands, eyebrows always either furrowed in concentration or raised in amusement. It’s one of the most charming things about him, you think.

“Well, thank you,” you say, “you didn’t have to do that,” you feel a blush heat your cheeks at how domestic this feels– like you come home to Steve cooking dinner for you and your daughter every night. You can picture it as easily as if it were your actual reality and it leaves you feeling briefly vertiginous. You’re not sure Jeremy ever cooked even one meal for you in the entirety of your relationship.

“The chickens almost done and then I'll get out of your hair,” he assumes a teasing lilt to his voice to disguise the fact that he feels like he’s overstepping– overstaying his welcome or crossing some invisible line.

“Are you kidding?” You scoff, “You’ve gotta at least stick around long enough to see how it came out,”

“You don’t mind?” He asks hesitantly.

“Steve, of course I don’t mind,” honestly, you think you’d start a fire and burn your house to the ground if it meant getting him to stay just a little longer to help you put it out, “plus, I’m sure Abbey’ll be stoked.”

“Alright, well,” he smiles warmly, “it’s ready if you wanna go wake the gremlin up,”

At the table, Abbey insists on sitting next to Steve in the chair across from you.

“This is delicious, Steve,” you compliment.

“Best you ever had?” He teases, but his phrasing makes you choke a little on your pasta.

Abbey makes a twisted face, “The sauce tastes funny.” Saved by the bell.

“Abbey!” you scold playfully, poorly concealing a laugh behind the back of your hand, “Sorry– I think she’s just used to eating Prego,”

“That’s okay– I think she’s right, actually,” he assures you, twisting his expression into something sour and causing Abbey to giggle. His eyes are the color of rich soil as he sends you an oh, so familiar look across the table, communicating another silent thought to you. One that says, I don’t mind how blunt she is, I think it’s endearing.

When dinner is finished, Steve insists on doing the dishes for you too. “You cooked, Steve, let me–” you try to barter.

“--You do enough as it is,” he counters simultaneously.

“You watched my child all day!” You laugh at his stubbornness.

“I do that everyday anyway!” He argues, beginning to fill up the porcelain farmhouse sink with hot, sudsy water.

“At least let me help,” you give him that wide eyed look you always seem to be giving him lately. God, you’re no better than Abbey. “You wash, I’ll dry?”

“Fine,” he tries to frown but his smirk betrays him in his act of faux annoyance.

After a few minutes of stuffy silence, you ask, “She wasn’t too much of a pain in the ass today, was she?”

“Not any more than usual,” he jokes and a plate slips through his fingers, causing a small splash of water to coat your face in dishwater. You gasp at the sensation.

“Oh– Sorry!--” he tries to apologize, but you take your dishwater soaked fingers and flick them in the direction of his own face– small soapy bubbles clinging to his lashes and eyebrows.

“I cannot believe you right now,” he says, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

“There, now we’re even,” you smirk.

“I’ll let it slide. This time.”

“Mommy!” Abbey rushes into the kitchen, “Can Mr. H stay to watch a cartoon before bed?”

“I don’t know, baby, it’s getting late,” you can just barely see the flash of heartbreak in her gaze before Steve interjects, “It’s okay, I don’t mind staying for a little longer,”

You send him a skeptical glance over your shoulder, but he just nods and asks Abbey what she’d like to watch.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The end credits for an episode of The Rugrats flashes across the screen, illuminating Abbey’s sleeping face in muted shades of blue and orange. She snores, slumped against Steve’s chest with her arms wrapped around his torso. You sit propped against the other arm of the couch watching them intently– trying to memorize the sight before you. You’ve never seen Abbey cradled like this before by anyone else except you. It wasn’t something you felt you craved until recently.

Steve turns, catching you staring but not calling attention to it. He can count on several hands the amount of times he’s done the same to you– Steve Harrington is many things, but he is not a hypocrite.

“Did you know the guy from Devo wrote the theme song for this?” He gestures towards the television.

“Really?”

“Mhm,” he replies, “I can’t remember who told me that,”

After a few beats of hushed silence, you say, “Should probably put that one to bed– unless you wanna be here all night,” you try to joke but your voice shakes.

He would if you were sincerely asking. He’d stay right here on this uncomfortably worn sofa, with your daughter whom he has such an affinity for, sleeping against his chest for the next millenia. He’d fossilize here if he could– your presence beside him calm and grounding like an anchor in a storm.

He voices none of this. Instead he says, “Do you want to take her?”

“It’s okay,” you wave him off, “I’ll just come with you.” The three of you slowly make your way to Abbey’s bedroom, Steve carrying her bridal style against his torso and the door creaks on its hinges when Steve pushes it open with his hip. She stirs only a little when he sets her down, but is soothed quickly with a firm palm stroking her back a few times.

The door clicks behind you as Steve leads you both back to the living room.

“I should probably–”

“Do you want–”

You begin to speak at the same time, awkward chuckles leaving both of your nervous lips.

“You first,” he offers, scratching the back of his neck.

“I was– just gonna ask if you wanted some wine, but I know it’s late–”

“Wine sounds great.” His lips form a line across his face as he grins.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Half a bottle of wine split between the two of you, and your hands were tingling from the effort it was taking not to reach out and card your fingers through the hair of the man sitting across from you.

“How come you never called?” He asks suddenly, but not unkindly.

“Hm?”

“You never called– well, not til’ this morning at least,”

“Didn’t know what counted as an emergency, I guess,” you shrug, the alcohol shaking your nerves loose.

He must’ve been feeling in a similar way to you– speaking freely in a way he wouldn’t have before, “Just wanted to talk to you,” he smiles fondly.

“Oh,” you whisper, and when you don’t say anything else, Steve changes the subject.

“I like that photo of you on top of the entertainment center,” he says contemplatively, “you looked really…peaceful,”

“Well, raising a miniature version of yourself tends to age you a bit, I suppose,”

“Can I ask you something?” He asks, testing the waters.

“Always”

“Where was Jeremy in the picture?”

“We always talk about me,” you roll your eyes spiritedly and release a contented sigh, “Tell me why you really came to Maine,”

“Don’t deflect,” he teases.

“C’monnnn,” you draw out the last syllable, “answer,”

“I asked you first,” Steve chuckles.

“Jeremy wasn’t at Abbey’s birth,” you admit, it's immediately like an aching weight removed from the length of your spine– one that's been there consistently for years. “He didn’t even want me to have her,” you scoff humorlessly.

You had told almost no one this before. For the sake of keeping appearances, even after he passed, only your mother and sister knew that Jeremy had pushed for you to terminate your pregnancy when he’d found out; and that only once your daughter was actually born did he want to be involved in her life. The burden felt shockingly easy to lay at Steve’s feet, like someone might confess to a priest. This tender man sitting across from you– whether it was the wine or simply his presence, you aren’t sure– but it felt so effortless to be vulnerable right now. Your soft, white underbelly on display for him to do as he pleases, trusting him to have a gentle touch.

“That fucking sucks,” he knows you well enough by now to understand you’ve never cared for empty platitudes, so he doesn’t bother schooling his bitter, empathetic expression, “M’ sorry,”

Not wanting to dwell on it any longer, you say, “Your turn,”

“My old man was an abusive, drunk asshole,” he says frankly, “I don’t know if I ever saw him sober,” he huffs a laugh but there’s no humor behind it. “I needed to get out– to see what else there was, you know?” He asks, and you nod, “He died in my sophomore year of college. Didn’t even go to the wake.”

“Well, I’m really glad you ended up in this shithole,” he laughs at that, “I think you’re pretty neat, Harrington,”

“Thanks,” he deadpans, “Juries still out on you,” he pokes your side and you giggle like you’re a damn teenager again.

You swat him lightly on his bicep in retaliation, and before you know it, you’ve both succumbed to a fit of contagious laughter. When it begins to die down, you’re closer to him than you’d been before. It steals the breath from your lungs and your heart thrashes inside your ribcage like a wild animal.

You’re gazing at each other now, heads light from the alcohol and dizzy with proximity. His heavy lidded gaze lands on your lips for a second too long, and then he’s pulling your face flush to his own by the sharp edge of your jaw.

It’s a soft kiss, but it’s maddening nonetheless. His lips are plush and smooth– malleable against yours. You huff a surprised breath of air, but don’t pull away. One of his calloused hands is resting firmly on your waist while the other one snakes up tenderly to hold the back of your head. You feel that familiar itch to bury your fingers in his brown tresses, so finally, you do. What realistically only lasts a moment, feels like hours before he’s pulling away, nearly frightened.

When he looks at you, his doe eyes are wide with fear, glassy with the impending fallout of what he’d just done. He stammers, “I’m sorry–that was–” he runs his hands down the length of his guilt twisted face.

“No– Steve, It’s okay, I–”

“I should go–” he says quickly as he slips his shoes and coat on, not even bothering to tie the laces, he grabs his keys, “I’m sorry I’ll– I’ll see you on Monday,”

He’s closing the door behind him before your mind gets the chance to catch up with your mouth. You wished to tell him that it was okay, that you liked it– that you wanted him to stay and never leave again.

But it’s too late. You’re left alone in the stifling air of your living room, half a bottle of wine on the coffee table and your heart on the floor.

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divider cred - @cafekitsune

[scarlet-bee]

[Plain text:

please help a disabled lesbian take care of her infant niece (urgent)

please help me. please. i’m only one person, i can only take so much before i lose it. it's been one thing after another after another and i'm at my wit's end. i can't do this alone

in the last month: my grandma passed away, our family dog passed away, my hydradenditis has flared up under my arms and my chest, and the icing on the cake is my sister is in jail and i’ve been tasked with taking care of my niece until she gets out. i have no clue when that will be, her next court date is the 17th. and this is all on top of the hell i’ve been going through the last year

i can’t even afford to feed myself or buy my medicine or pay my bills, let alone afford to take care of an infant who completely relies on me. i don’t even care if i have food or insulin at this point, please please help me take care of my niece. she’s going to need diapers and wipes very soon and she has food for now but will need more within the next two weeks? i’m not sure, i’m not equipped to deal with this but i’m going to do everything in my power to make sure that she is taken care of

i take art commissions, the turnaround time is obviously going to be slow right now but i’m more than happy to complete any requests, the link can be found below. if you’re not interested in art but still want to help, please consider sending a few dollars my way – every little bit helps more than you even know

Please boost this.

commissions post

p-yp-l

c-sh-pp

k-fi

monthly update:

my sister’s court dates have finally concluded; she’s being held in jail for four and a half months with time served counting towards her time on the shelf, so she’ll be released in late april if everything goes smoothly. 

i’m still the sole caretaker of my niece. she just had her first birthday! she’s crawling like crazy and learning to walk while holding my fingers. she loves mac and cheese, and she hates carrots. she’s been sleeping a little better at night, although she still wakes up crying a couple times a week.

i hope i’m doing a good job of taking care of her, but i’m only one person, and i can’t even afford to take care of myself. my pain levels are never below a six, and i’m still living in this abusive household where i’m expected to play cinderella and be the caretaker for my niece.

i’m a multiply disabled unemployed person with no source of income – i am completely relying on the generosity of others to survive. if anyone wants to help support me, you can find my links below. if you can’t help monetarily, please spread this post to get the word out, i would appreciate it so so much. thank you for reading!

commissions post

p-yp-l

c-sh-pp

k-fi

End plain text.]

please help a disabled lesbian take care of her infant niece (URGENT)

please help me. please. i’m only one person, i can only take so much before i lose it. it's been one thing after another after another and i'm at my wit's end. i can't do this alone

in the last month: my grandma passed away, our family dog passed away, my hydradenditis has flared up under my arms and my chest, and the icing on the cake is my sister is in jail and i’ve been tasked with taking care of my niece until she gets out. i have no clue when that will be, her next court date is the 17th. and this is all on top of the hell i’ve been going through the last year

i can’t even afford to feed myself or buy my medicine or pay my bills, let alone afford to take care of an infant who completely relies on me. i don’t even care if i have food or insulin at this point, please PLEASE help me take care of my niece. she’s going to need diapers and wipes very soon and she has food for now but will need more within the next two weeks? i’m not sure, i’m not equipped to deal with this but i’m going to do everything in my power to make sure that she is taken care of

i take art commissions, the turnaround time is obviously going to be slow right now but i’m more than happy to complete any requests, the link can be found below. if you’re not interested in art but still want to help, please consider sending a few dollars my way – every little bit helps more than you even know

PLEASE BOOST THIS.

commissions post p-yp-l c-sh-pp k-fi

[theweewooshow]

the truth is i can't say goodbye

@bucktommywinterfest prompt: accidental texts | rated: M

God I know I'm a broken fucking record, but I'm baking again so I don’t text him. I’ll bring by some more scones later.

Buck shoots the text off to Eddie because he’s feeling pathetic and lonely and he’s been wallowing and baking all day again instead of doing his laundry like he’s supposed to and everything feels overwhelming even though it shouldn't.

Eddie doesn't text back and his phone doesn't vibrate for a long while so Buck just closes his eyes and grits his teeth.

It really shouldn't be this hard, right?

He’s gotten over people before.

He held onto Abby even when she was gone, but that was so murky and he was still living at her place, thinking they were still going to be together when she got back. But when he realized it was over, he moved on. He left her place and tried to leave most of the baggage and emotion he felt for her there.

And yeah, he didn't get real closure for a while, but he was over her probably before he ever left that note for her in her apartment. He didn't think about her much after he left her place because there wasn't anything to think about. He’d done his mourning of that relationship while he was waiting for her. So when he was out of her place, there wasn't anything left to think about.

That’s the most comparable relationship he has to Tommy so he doesn't know why he can't get his brain to catch up with the facts. It's over. It's done. So he should move on and Tommy should stop taking up so much real estate in his mind.

But it's easier said than done. Because he thinks about Tommy all the time. He wants to talk to him all the time.

There’s so much of him everywhere he looks.

He sees the blanket Tommy used to wrap himself up when he slept on his uncomfortable couch so he could be steps away in case Buck needed him when he dislocated his shoulder.

His ghost is in Buck’s kitchen, puttering around, trying to find a spoon to taste the sauce he cooked the first time he made Buck dinner.

Tommy’s side of the bed is empty when he gets into bed every night. The pillow on that side of the bed has lost the scent of Tommy’s shampoo.

There’s a memory of him in Buck’s shower—on his knees, hands and mouth worshiping him—that Buck can't get out of his head when he showers, his dick stubbornly hard even though he refuses to jerk himself off to the memory of Tommy.

The second coffee mug Buck pulled out before his brain woke up the morning after he was dumped that he hasn't been able to bring himself to put away sits empty on his counter, mocking him, every single morning.

Beyond that, Tommy’s ghost is at Eddie’s house and at the station and in his Jeep and at the fucking grocery store, so everywhere Buck goes, he can’t help but think about him, can't help but want to text him every little thing like he did when they were still together.

And when he thinks about him, he pines, according to Eddie. And when he thinks about texting him or calling him, he bakes just to give himself something to do with his hands that isn't scrolling through their text thread and pouting.

No matter what he does, he can't get him out of his head though.

He unlocks his phone to call Eddie to complain out loud since he won't validate him over text, but when he sees the name at the top of the screen, his heart stops.

Because he didn't send that text about Tommy to Eddie.

He sent it to Tommy, whose text thread he was looking at earlier before he sent off that embarrassing text.

He swallows, but it feels like his heart is stuck in his throat because Tommy’s bubbling him again. Tommy’s seen the text and he’s bubbling him.

Buck looks at the screen in abject horror as he watches the bubble disappear and reappear, wondering what Tommy’s thinking right now, if he’s thinking that Buck is kind of pathetic to still be thinking about him over a month after he broke up with him.

He sets his phone down and drops his head into his hands because he can't believe this is his life.

He’s contemplating how difficult it would be to just mysteriously disappear when his phone pings with a message and his heart stops again.

He already knows whose name he’s going to see when he looks down at his phone, but he still feels oddly taken aback seeing the message notification that says he has a text from Tommy ❤️.

He unlocks his phone and the message reads: I know this text was meant for someone else, but can I still have a scone?

Buck jumps up and rushes over to his fridge to take a picture of the loaves he baked over the weekend. He sends the picture along with the message You can have whatever you want.

Maybe it’s a little on the nose, a little too close to how he feels about everything with him, but it somehow works because Tommy texts him back right away.

I wouldn't say no to banana bread or some scones

Before Buck can even think of responding, the bubble is popping up again, letting him know Tommy’s typing again. He holds his breath as he waits for the text to appear. Tommy doesn't make him wait long.

If you wanted to drop it off at my place, I’d let you in so you can tell me all about what you’ve been wanting to text me.

With his heart pounding in his chest for an entirely different reason from when he first realized he accidentally texted Tommy, Buck’s fingers clumsily type out his message.

When are you free?

drop a kudos or comment on ao3

[psychotic-nonsense]

It's happening again.

With Max, it's attempting new tricks on her skateboard. With Dustin, he takes apart and reassembles basic little trinkets. With Nancy, she rewrites old news articles. With Mike, he reorganizes the D&D dice box he's been carrying everywhere since Will left (and even after he came back). With the Sinclairs, it's spinning something - a basketball or pen or keychain or hair tie.

The loud music isn't uncommon, nor where it's coming from. But where the source is, and what kind of music it is, feels like something reserved for times like this.

Steve wasn't supposed to be out here, technically. He's on his lunch break, and he wanted a change of pace from the Family Video parking lot. He drove out to the edge of town - Keith doesn't give much of a damn how long their breaks are anymore - to find that cliff only he really knows how to get to. Helps that his Beemer is like a second heartbeat.

But on his way out, he hears the music.

How the hell Eddie got his van out this far into the woods, Steve's never gonna figure out. But there's loud ass music coming from it that's different to Eddie's usual type. More replicable, mainly, something that sounds like an actual song yet still has Eddie's whole screamy vibe. As Steve gets closer - having parked by the road just outside the woods - he can hear another voice singing along with their full chest.

That's when he realized what it is.

It's that violent restlessness. The buzzing feeling in, under, becoming every inch of your skin. Paralyzes you from doing anything substantial, yet everything else you try to do doesn't make the feeling fade. So you're stuck in a repetitive motion while stuck in place and it feels like exploding from the inside with nothing bursting out.

Most of The Party gets it bad nowadays, since the Upside Down was sealed away. Years of living on the brink of death to suddenly being plopped back into the mundane. Steve especially got it from the lack of sports, which worsened the Upside Down buzz.

Steve knocks on the van's back door, hoping it drowns out the music to not startle his friend too badly. He tries the door, which opens easily, and floods the woods with guitars and drums and voices.

Eddie doesn't startle, but neither does he move. He's laying down on the floor of the back, the precautionary blankets there all twisted up and scattered about in evidence of motion. One hand is tugging hard at the roots of his hair, the other snapping hard along with the music. One leg is bent up and bouncing, and his chest heaves in an attempt to keep up with Eddie's shout-along singing.

It irks Steve in just the wrong way, seeing Eddie frozen like this. Gets him to leave the door open, walk around to the stereo sitting in the passenger seat, and hit the thing silent.

"What?" Eddie snaps immediately. The van rocks as he sits up.

Steve ignores him, just walking back around to the back to smack the side of the van. Noise will keep Eddie stable in this state. Eddie, who's staring at Steve with that adrenaline-fueled glare, jaw tense, sharp where he doesn't mean to be. Steve makes his words stern, to cut through the buzz no doubt rushing through Eddie's ears. "Up. I'm getting you out of here."

"'M fine," Eddie bites back, flopping straight back down with a bang he doesn't feel. One of his hands goes back to his hair.

Steve just reaches down to grab the end of one of those blankets, tugging hard. Eddie just moves an inch, but he flails like the bat tails are back around his ankle. He sits back up, eyeing Steve with a malice he can't mean. It's Eddie and he never does, not even when he's high on fight or flight.

Steve just nods to the outside world, repeating, "I mean it. Come on."

Eddie's jaw tenses just a bit more, before he rolls his eyes and scoots to hop out. Steve backs up, lets Eddie jump out of the van with too much motion, slam the doors shut and pat them in a goodbye both too hard, lets Eddie grip his leather jacket too tightly as he leads the two of them back to the Beemer. The snapping comes back a few minutes in, but Steve leaves it be.

Doesn't pick on Eddie not wiping his shoes, nor for slamming these doors shut or not buckling. The police has had more to worry about them than some unsafe driving. Steve just turns the radio up a bit too loud, leaves the snapping alone, and drives them along the edge of town.

He stops when they get to the junkyard. Doesn't say anything, just gets out and goes straight to the trunk. He hears Eddie follow him outside as Steve gets the not-nailed bat from the back, then slamming the trunk shut to keep Eddie's attention (no matter how much it and the slam prior hurt his soul).

Steve walks past Eddie into the heart of the junkyard. He spins the bat, scanning the ground, and finding an old can-looking thing. He picks it up, tossing it into the air a few times.

Then he tosses it once more, rears back, and hits the shit out of it.

The loud crinkling of metal and crack of wood creates an echo that slices through the residual buzz forming in Steve. He watches it fly haphazardly in the air, spinning randomly before landing on an old car, another echo to cut the buzz.

Eddie doesn't react verbally, but that's fine. Steve just finds something else - a piece of tire - and hits it too. Does the same to a crumpled sheet of metal, then another can-shaped thing. Feels the buzz get torn to pieces with every satisfying echo and vibration of conflicting action coursing through his veins on each hit.

When Steve finally turns to see Eddie's reaction, it's just the snapping fingers to really get his attention. Everything else about Eddie's body language says confused, curious, hungry.

His body still screams, and here it sees something that will listen.

So Steve holds the bat out by the barrel, handle to Eddie, and waves it at the junkyard around them. "Go ahead," he urges.

Eddie eyes it confused for a moment, but he eventually pushes off the side of the Beemer he was leaning against. Makes it to Steve with steps that still feel too hard, but takes the bat. Stares at it, spins it once to get the feel, but still hesitant.

Steve walks past him to retake that place on the Beemer. Eddie watches him go, still confused.

As Steve settles in, he motions again to the open empty junkyard. "Who's going to hear you?" he says.

'Only who you want to hear you,' goes unsaid.

Eddie blinks at Steve a few times more, then down at the bat. Spins it again, looks around. He spots something, stomps over to it, picks it up. A can. Tosses it up once, nearly doesn't catch it.

He looks around again, goes to a car beside him. Sits the can on the hood, steps back. Gets into a stance that feels at once natural and amateur, but Steve doesn't dare.

Because Eddie hits the can and it goes flying, with a crunch that gets Eddie to laugh a little.

Now he's really moving, looking around for something more. More metal, plastic, rubber, anything he can feasibly hit and some things he can't. It gets heavier, harder, doesn't go as far but that means the impact is in rather than out. Cuts through the buzz like nothing.

Soon Eddie takes off his leather jacket and really gets going. He's looking for glass and throwing it far and hard, feeling every shatter in his own insides. Grabs the bat again, starts hitting the vehicles, smashing the windows in further. Drops the bat again, finding unbreakable things and throwing them on the ground, on cars, against other smaller things. Looks like he's going ballistic but it's just the energy finally finding freedom and release in something.

Steve watches it all with prideful satisfaction.

Eddie digs through a pile of rubble, grabbing something evidently interesting. It's stuck, it's difficult, but that manic energy is nothing but insistent. Eddie eventually pulls it out, a rusted old metal chair far heavier than it seems. But Eddie just laughs at the challenge.

He picks up one end, and starts fucking spinning. One heel barely keeping him balanced, he spins and spins and spins. The chair gets lighter, his arms rise with the momentum. And finally, with a growl as cathartic as the destruction, Eddie throws the chair into a car, watching it shatter the glass and dent the metal in a loud bash of sound and noise and release.

This, it seems, is what finally curbs the buzzing. Eddie slumps over with the action, panting and laughing a little. He stumbles to the side, barely losing his footing in time to catch the side of that infamous bus and flop to the dirt beside it. He's panting and breathless and red in the face, but ultimately... satisfied.

Steve resigns himself to the bucket beside Eddie. Leans back against the rusted metal that saved his kids' lives, handing Eddie a water bottle from the storage in his trunk. Eddie takes it with an especially rough huff. Steve takes it as the thank you he knows it is.

Eddie gulps down a quarter of the bottle, spills another quarter on himself on accident. He leans his head back to stare at the sky, panting in relief.

"How... the hell did you know...?" he eventually gets out, still not looking at Steve.

Steve just stares at the patch of grass in the center of their little courtyard, forever greener from the cutlets that rotted there. Shrugs. "Just a hunch."

[lilylushes]

Luigi x Pregnant Reader Headcanons

-Your sex life with Luigi had always been active, but once you two decided to see what happens in terms of getting pregnant, he got baby fever BAD and it turned into a whole baby making season for him. 

-You had sex almost every day before, but now it was constantly - on the countertop, in the shower, in the pool/ocean, etc. Even when you were tired, he’d happily make love to you with gentle strokes, humming how much he loved you and wanted a baby. He’d also lay on the praise even more during baby making season. “Mmm, going to give you a baby, beautiful.” “So good for me, taking all my cum, my good girl.” 

-He was SO excited when you both found out. The two of you both suspected you might be pregnant, so you took a test and decided to look at it at the same time. When you flipped it over and the two lines were clear as day, he was elated. He hugged you so tightly and even though he’s not an overly emotional guy, he cried tears of joy, and gave you so much praise. “You’re going to be the best mother.” “I love you.” “I can’t wait to do this with you.” Oh, and he’s thinking about how hot you’ll look pregnant.

-He immediately ordered a shit ton of books about pregnancy, fatherhood, babies, and everything.

-He thinks about different names all the time, too. He’d ask, “baby, what do you think of x as a name?”

-He goes to literally every appointment, ultrasound, and signs you up for a birthing class.

-NEEDS to find out the gender because he can’t not know. You’d do a little private thing, just the two of you. I picture one of those ones on the beach with a little cake and the wine glasses. No matter what you’d have, his reaction would be so precious. More hugs and tears, probably.

-He’s also kinda panicking because now he’s gonna be a literal father in charge of keeping another human alive. He is reading the books that he ordered religiously. He worries deep down that he’s not cut out to be a father.

-He proudly assembles all of the nursery furniture and makes sure it’s all safe.

-He takes up crocheting/knitting so that he can make socks, hats, a blanket, etc. for the baby. He goes kinda crazy with it, lol.

-He just wants to be a part of it all in any way that he can. He reads up on what you’re experiencing, is always asking how you’re feeling, wants to make sure you take all the vitamins you need, and takes part in your birthing class to ensure that he’ll be a supportive partner.

-He talks to your baby at night. “You have the best mom. She’s so pretty and so smart, you’ll see. You’re giving her kind of a hard time, though. It’s hard for her to sleep. Just keep still in there for a few hours, hm?”

-He is always encouraging you to try things out to make everything more comfortable for you, especially at the end.

-He talks about what the baby will look like and be like. You both agree on your eyes with his smile. You two take the opportunity to look at your own baby pictures. He’s a bit embarrassed at his, but he can’t get over how cute you were.

-Pregnancy sex, especially towards the end, is wild and constant. “I know you’re uncomfortable, baby. I read how we can induce labour, wanna give it a try?”

-He totally panics when you go into labour. He did pack your hospital bags long ago, but he gets all blushing and flustered.

-While you’re in labour, he gives you distance when you need it and is nearby when you need it.

-When your baby is born, he’d be crying so hard. Between your baby being here and how proud he is of you for going through labour, he’d be extremely emotional.

-He can’t believe how tiny the baby is, being totally in awe of their little hands and feet. He’s just in disbelief that you two made this sweet little baby.

-Afterwards, when you’re holding the baby, he says, “thank you for giving me him/her.”

-Even though he’s running on no sleep, he’d watch you sleep afterwards and come over to kiss your cheeks and forehead.

-He’s so proud to bring your visitors in. He’d by hyping you up to them, like, “she did such a good job, I’m so proud of her. She was so strong the whole time.”

-When you’re leaving the hospital, he’s beaming with pride to be able to look beside him and see you and your baby. 

-When you’re in the car, he’d look in the mirror at you and your baby in the backseat, and say, “There’s nobody else I’d rather do this with, y/n. love you, baby.”

[readychilledwine]

Hi!, here's a Tamlin x reader request. So reader is always so fun and smiley and happy but every night, when everyone is asleep, she goes to the garden and sits there alone crying because of her abusive past. One day, when Tamlin goes to open the window at night, he notices you crying while sitting in the garden. Then he realises you do it every day. So one day, when reader goes to the garden, she notices he's sitting there. He asks her why cries there every night and they have a lil chat, and then tamlin eventually cups her face, looks her in the eyes and tells her "you mean everything to me. There's no one that matters to me more than you" or something like that. And then he just comforts her 🥺. Just make it super fluffy ✨️.

Among The Lilies

Summary - There was always a pro and con to every situation, and being Lady Spring was no different.

Warnings - Mentions of alcohol, overstimulation, feelings of being out of place and not belonging

A/N - This has been sitting in my drafts for a while. I am so sorry to the anon who requested this. I'm still not sure I captured what I was hoping for with this, but fingers crossed.

🌹Tamlin Masterlist🌹Master Masterlist🌹

You sighed as you chugged your second glass of sweet floral wine, watching the fae of your court dance for another night of celebrations. You weren't used to this. You were a forest nymph, a low fae who the Cauldron seemed to think belonged with Tamlin, a High Lord. You were not used to loud parties filled with fae laughing and dancing the way Tamlin was. You were used to silence, to fireside celebrations, small groups among a large crowd. You made the best of his gathering, though. Becoming known for being the life of the party and dancing the night away.

Celebrations like this had started to become a norm. Every accomplishment was met with wine, music, and dancing as Tamlin brought your home back to its former glory. The fae of Spring had been so excited to celebrate the Equinox this year that they had asked you and Tamlin to take it from a night of debauchery and fun to a week of dancing, drinking, and revelry. It would be the first the court had celebrated in 6 years and with the new court voted taxation system, the new faith in their High Lord, and if rumors and whispers were true, the influence of you, it was hard for Tamlin to deny them anything.

So here you were. Wearing the smile that didn't reach your eyes, struggling to breathe in the corset dress you had a love-hate relationship with, and waiting to slip out unnoticed. You had been enjoying yourself, but you were slowly becoming over stimulalated from the countless males and females touching you, thanking you, trying to dance with you. You were exhausted from the late parties that quickly faded into morning duties and after assignments.

You finally saw your chance, sparing one last look to where your husband stood, Lucien by his side, laughing at something Tarquin said. You bolted then, running to the doors and through the halls before slowing to a walk at the private garden Tamlin had planted for you.

The garden had become your safe place. A place for you to cry, to use your magic to recenter yourself, and to find peace. You felt almost guilty, coming here again and bombarding the poor sprites as they danced and enjoyed their little fires and celebration. Such small, kind creatures, but yet some of Springs most important. "Forgive me," you inclined your head before heading to the fountain you knew they'd be nowhere near.

This had become a ritual for you the past few nights, hiding out here with your back and head against the cool marble, breathing in the scent of fresh blooming roses and lilies. You typically stayed here until you relaxed before heading back in, but a sprite had different plans this time.

Small hands touched your cheek, wiping the tears that were falling as you finally collected yourself. A female fluttered her gossamer like wings next to you, her light green skin contrasting her flower petal dress. "Why is my lady sad?"

You smiled, holding a hand out to her and allowing her to land. "Not sad, just tired."

"Lilies are the flowers of sadness. You come here when you're sad. You go to the roses when you're blushing. The daisies for joy." She stood and held your thumb as if to hug and hold you. "Please tell me what's wrong?" Your heart ached, burdening this innocent creature with your frustration. Yet, she only nodded, seeming to understand the feelings you were having. Soon, you two became so engrossed in conversations that you didn't notice green eyes watching from a window and a sharp mind wondering why his wife had closed off their bond.

The next night was more of the same. More fae dragging you to dance. More hands touching your exposed arms. More music. More everything. You were not sly as you escaped this time and all but ran to your beloved fountain. Faltering, you saw Tamlin, a single rose in his hand as he sat watching the sprites.

"I had thought to myself, perhaps my rose just needed fresh air the first night you ran out here," his voice washed over you like rain as you walked over, sitting next to him. "Then it happened again. And again. Then, for the fourth time. And again tonight. You're coming here to cry, and evidently do so frequently, your friends have told me that much," a sprite with a familiar smile disappeared from your view. "But she will not tell me the one thing I want to know." His eyes finally met yours, lingering and studying your expression. "Why," the question was simple, one you should have been able to answer.

You finally found it in your mind, looking at the root of the complicated problem. "I struggle to feel I belong among the high fae still." You took a spot beside him, pulled your knees up and hugged them. "I offer pretty smiles, I give them the positive words they expect, and I play the part of happy wife, but I still struggle."

He hummed, his calloused hand finding yours, "Are you a happy wife? Or do I need to provide more?" His tone had changed, realizing this was more than feeling overcrowded. This was his mate, opening that dark feeling he knew was festering.

You could only smile at him, a real one that did reach your eyes, "I am happy in all aspects of our marriage. I just want a sense of belonging when it comes to other courtly matters." That was where you struggled. You struggled with the weight that came from the jewels you wore, the circlet on your head.

"Oh, you belong," he murmured as he pulled you closer. "You are this court. The very soul that drives it. Being a nymph does nothing to change that." His thumb came up, wiping a tear you had not realized was falling. "There is more. I can feel an ache in your heart wanting to come forward."

Moments of silence passed, "Am I enough?" That question had him cupping your chin, forehead resting against yours as you continued. "I don't want to be High Lady. I don't have the drive and ambition Lady Summer, Lady Night, or Lady Day have. I enjoy my place at your side, but not-"

His free hand came up, holding both sides of your face as he shushed you, thumbs continuing to swipe your cheeks. "You are more than enough. You are everything to me." His forehead stayed touching yours, your noses brushing as he spoke, "I love you as you are, for who you are. It would break me to see you change your drive to match the desires of others instead of your own."

You nodded as you were listening to his words. You could feel the beat of your heart beginning to match his, your body relaxing to match his. "I just want to be everything you've ever asked for," you confessed.

"And you are more," his lips twitched, "Cauldron, you are so much more. You are perfect for me. Perfect for my court. You are-" Tamlin paused trying to find the words. "I could write all the poetry in the world, source from the greatest love stories of legend, yet nothing could compare to what you are to me."

Those tears changed at that, sadness replaced by warmth as he touched his lips to yours in a comforting kiss before pulling back. "You are my sun," he whispered. "You are not just my world. You are the center I orbit. You are the source of light and warmth. You are how I time my day." Your smile was growing as he continued to speak, hands finding his broad chest as your eyes closed to fully process and enjoy the timber of his voice.

"I love you. I just.. I love you." He ended it so easily. Three words that encompassed thousands of emotions he could describe. "Never change and never hide these feelings from me. Let me help shoulder your burdens."

You leaned up, kissing him as you opened the bond, "And I love you." Your arms wrapped around him, head resting on his chest. "We should go back before our guests worry."

"Let them worry," he kissed the top of your head. "Let's enjoy the garden and the sprites."

General Taglist:

@hnyclover @glitterypirateduck @slytherinindisguise @mischiefmanagers @bloodicka @starsinyourseyes @the-sweet-psycho @mariahoedt @rinalouu @sarawritestories @starryhiraeth @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @cumuluscranium @loneliestluvr @eternallyelvish @azrielsmate3 @daughterofthemoons-stuff @meritxellao @aria-chikage @hungryforbatboys @lilah-asteria @fandomrejects @sleepybesson @tayswhp @itsswritten @milswrites @littlest-w01f

[froggiewrites]

Puppeteer

Pairing: Doffy x Reader

SFW

Summary: Your life is perfect. Doflamingo has made it that way. But a small slip of the tongue makes you think maybe your husband had more of a hand in the events that lead you to him that you initially thought. Warnings: Fem!Reader, Angst, Unhealthy Relationship Dynamics, Emotional Manipulation, Gaslighting, Possessive Behavior, Yandere, Doffy is...Doffy Word Count: 7.7k Notes: I've been working on this piece since November, so I'm SO excited to have finally finished it. I hope you all enjoy it!

Your life was perfect. Your husband made sure of it.

You had anything you wanted, when you wanted it, without exception. The life of a queen, even before he had gifted you a crown.

But that wasn’t what mattered to you, really. It was nice, but what you were truly grateful for was how Doflamingo had saved you. From the world, from betrayal, from yourself. You were at risk of falling into a dark place when you met him, and he lifted you up, brought you comfort and protection. To you, his cloak might as well be the wings of an angel.

He insisted that it was nothing. That was simply his job as your lover. He tended to ignore the fact he was not your lover at the time. Destined from the moment you met, you suppose. 

“You might not have known it, but you were always mine. I was simply doing what’s right.”

You had always thought that line was sweet. You thought he meant you were destined, that you were his and he was yours.

For the first time in your life, you were having doubts about that.

It was a small slip up. Almost nothing, really. Baby 5 often goes on long tangents, so it’s a wonder you even noticed what she said, let alone processed it. But while extolling the virtues of her latest obsession, claiming this was true love (as they always are), you couldn’t help but notice an odd phrase in the middle.

“He’s so reliable! He was so worried about me, he said I’m ‘too naive’, and that I need someone to look after me. It reminds me of how Doffy is with you! Isn’t it so sweet that he wants to protect me?” She’s beaming, and you can barely get out your question as she tries to continue her ramble.

“Why does he remind you of Doffy?” Your husband is reliable, of course, and he does his best to look out for everyone in the family, but he would never call you naive. He had never, once, in your decade of marriage implied even for a second he thought you were incapable of looking after yourself.

You had asked him once, very early on in your relationship, why he insisted on doing everything for you, why he waited on you hand and foot when he knew that you would never ask that much of him. He had smiled at you gently, an expression you were sure no other person on the planet had seen, and spoken with such fondness you couldn’t help but melt. “I do this because I love you, little bird. You don’t need to read anything else into it.”

So when Baby 5 smiles again, saying, “He looks at me the way Doffy looks at you,” you can’t help the way your heart drops. You haven’t met this suitor, but you know the way men look at Baby 5. She isn’t a partner to them, she’s a target. A victim. Prey to be lured in and devoured. Your instinct is to say this is simply another delusion on her part, another desperate illusion from her need to be needed. But the way she says it, the look in her eye, it seems far more based in reality than the rest of her spiel. 

But that can’t be right. Your husband loves you, respects you. This is just another part of Baby 5’s incurable lovesickness, her romanticization of any man that gets his claws in her. “The way he looks at me, huh?”

“Yeah! It’s so romantic.” And then she’s off to the races again, completely unaware of the seed she’s planted.

You can’t dig it up, no matter how hard you try. Once a thought is in your head it cannot be unthought. So instead you bury it, as deeply as you can, and you pray that it will not take root, will not be strong enough to break through the soil. You love your husband, your life together. You will not ruin it through unearned paranoia. 

When he comes to bed that night, he finds you lying awake, staring at the ceiling. His voice and hands are gentle, as they always are with you. He has never spoken to you the way he does most people, has always given you the kindness he denies others. He still has a temper, of course, but on the very rare occasions it has turned to you it has been mild, and the apology has been quick. 

“What’s wrong, little bird?” He lays next to you, his arm immediately coming to wrap around you. The weight is comforting, familiar, something that has made you feel safe for as long as you can remember. You try to relax into him, but a voice in you whispers we’re trapped. You feel like you can’t breathe. You want to ignore it, suffer in silence, but your ever observant husband notices immediately, removing his arm with a frown. “Did something happen?”

You sit up, moving toward the window. You need air. “No, it’s nothing. I’m just anxious, is all.”

“Anxious?” His frown deepens. “Darling, you have nothing to worry about. What is it? Let me help.” He follows you, reaching around you to open the window for you, letting the night air in. Your turn to face him. With his arms on either side, his eyes flashing in the moonlight, for a moment you feel like nothing more than an animal in a cage, with a predator bearing down on you.

But then the cold air hits your back, those terrifying eyes are filled with concern, and your husband is back. Of course everything is alright. Of course you have nothing to worry about. You’re happy. Doffy has made sure of it. “It’s just…a horrible feeling I can’t shake. Nothing is actually wrong, I promise.”

He purses his lips a moment, displeased. “If you need something, you’ll have it. You know that, right?” His hand rests on your cheek, cradling you as though you’re the most precious thing in the world. To him, you truly are.

“I know, my love. I promise, it really is nothing.”

He lets out the smallest puff of a sigh. “Alright. I’ll let it go for now. Come back to bed, darling. I won’t be able to sleep without you.” His words start as an order, but his tone turns almost pleading. Doflamingo does not beg, of course, but for you he can at least command politely.

“Of course.” You practically fall into his arms, allowing him to carry you back to your bed. He holds you tightly, as though he’s scared you’ll slip through his fingers the moment he loosens his grip. For a moment you swear you see some tension around his eyes, a slight clench of his jaw, but when you rest your head on his chest it all seems to vanish.

“Goodnight, little bird,” he whispers, pressing the ghost of a kiss to your temple. You fall asleep pressed firmly against his chest, where you’re meant to be.

You bury your doubts. You love him. He loves you. Why is such a small comment enough to throw you? Do you have that little faith in your husband?

Or did it simply uncover concerns you were ignoring? Force them into the light of day when you would much rather have let them rot?

You’re happy. What else could you want or need?

A month passes, then two. You’ve forgotten the conversation. You must have. You don’t lay awake at night, overturning small interactions in your head, desperate to find some hidden meaning in it.

He always calls you little. Is it simple affection, or is it demeaning? Does he see you as less than?

Of course not. Not your Doffy.

“I think I might want to visit home.” You bring it up casually, as you’re tucked against his chest. He’s in his throne, lounging, perfectly relaxed, with you perched on his lap.

He laughs. “Darling, you are home.”

“I know. I mean–I want to visit my home island.”

A miniscule tightening around his eyes. “Why would you want to do that? After everything that they put you through?”

You knew he wouldn’t be keen on the idea. You can’t even figure out why you want to go back, because he’s right: they put you through hell. You were miserable before Doffy got you out of there. Your home had chewed you up and spit you out, and there’s nothing left for you there. It really wasn’t home at all, not anymore. Doffy never liked you referring to it as such.

But a few bad years can’t erase everything it was before the fall. You can remember your childhood, sprinting through the most beautiful flower fields with your friends. Diving into the creek, coming up soaking wet, freezing cold, and feeling freer than you had since. You remember the taste of the pastries at the cafe you used to work at, the same one you met Doflamingo at. In many ways, it was still and would always be home, no matter how long you had been away. No matter what the people there might have done to you.

“I know everything ended terribly, but…”

“But?” A raised brow, a slightly bulging vein on his forehead.

“I still have a lot of good memories from before. Places I miss. People I might be able to forgive, if I saw them again.”

His nostrils flare. His controlled smile finally falls. “Forgive? Darling, they don’t deserve your forgiveness. They don’t even deserve to live in the same world as you, let alone have the privilege of seeing you again. This has been a fun joke and all, but let’s end it here. Going there will only hurt you.” His arm tightens slightly around your waist, hugging you to him protectively.

Possessively, part of your mind whispers.

“It’s been nearly a decade, love. I’ve changed. I’m sure they’ve changed. And…I feel like all of that still hangs over me, sometimes. Even though I’ve tried to let it go. I think going back to see it would help me finally loosen the hold it has over me.”

He doesn’t say no, because you hadn’t been asking for permission. You were simply informing him of your thoughts. He couldn’t make your choices for you. He had never taken away your ability to decide, not once. But somehow his displeasure makes your heart quicken, your stomach churn. When Doffy is displeased, something in you screams that you’ve done something wrong, something you need to fix. You didn’t do anything that he would disagree with, not if you could help it. You always told yourself it was simply because you were partners, that it was natural that you would factor in his opinion.

But how many times had he asked you about his comings and goings? How many times had he told you his plans, instead of just disappearing and reappearing when he decided the time was right?

“You should protect that delicate heart of yours, darling. Who knows what going back would do to it?”

“But I’m different now. Older. Stronger.”

He chuckles, like you’ve told him some silly joke. “But still soft.”

You want to disagree, but there’s something in his tone that makes you feel so horribly small. Weak and vulnerable, some storybook damsel waiting for your prince (or king, in this case) to come sweep you away and fix everything for you. “Do you really think that?”

His eyes narrow slightly at the tone in your voice, the hurt hiding beneath it. His own voice grows softer in turn. “You’re a sensitive soul. It’s one of your best qualities, dear.”

You nod, pushing your face into his neck. You can feel him relax beneath you as you desperately try to stop your thoughts from racing. Are you sensitive, weak, soft? You cannot recall anyone else ever calling you such things. You had been so headstrong when you were young. Perhaps that’s what drove everyone away.

You clutch his shirt tightly, as though tethering yourself to him will simply fix all of this, calm your mind and bring back the peace you used to enjoy. That’s how you got all of this in the first place, really. A strong hand on your back, guiding you away from the burning flames of your old life.

The feeling doesn’t leave. It infuriates you how deeply it’s weaseled its way into you, such a small thing turning over and over and over in your mind. Something so meaningless threatening to pull you apart at the seams. You can feel your edges fraying, feel the way you’re starting to fall apart.

You can still hear Baby 5’s voice whispering in your head. Just like how Doffy looks at you. 

For the first time in your life, you intend to keep a secret from your husband. You scribble the messages quickly, shoving the papers back into your desk when you hear footsteps coming down the hall. You know that you aren’t doing anything wrong, but the idea of disappointing him, disagreeing with him, makes you sick to your stomach.

It’s only once you feel his hand on your shoulder, see his pursed lips as he looms over you where you were lost in your work that you remember that the reason you have never kept a secret from your husband is simply because you couldn’t. He knows everything about you, everything that happens under this room, everything happening within the borders of Dressrosa. You never stood a chance. 

“Darling…” he doesn’t need to continue. His sigh says enough, sets you on the defensive. 

“I never said I wouldn’t send them,” you mutter, a childish anger overtaking you. “And I don’t need your permission.”

His lips set in a thin line. “I never said you did.”

“It’s been nearly a decade. They’ve probably changed. And if they haven’t, then at least I can say I tried.”

His free hand pinches the bridge of his nose as his brow furrows. “Little bird, you’re the only one who ever tried. They never gave you a thing.”

“They gave me plenty.”

“What, then, did they give you? Pain? Suffering? An unending desire to please everyone around you?”

“They gave me plenty, before everything happened.” You can feel your muscles tensing, an unfamiliar anger bubbling up in your chest.

“I can’t recall a single kind thing they ever did for you, my dear.”

“I had a life before you, Doflamingo,” you snap. “Do you really think I’m so helplessly stupid I’d try to reconnect with someone who was nothing but cruel to me? They used to be kind. They used to care about me. Something changed. And if something changes once, it can change again. I’m not some doe-eyed fool begging for a kind touch from a hand that’s only ever bruised me. I’m just going to give them a chance to redeem themselves, or at least explain themselves.” You’re breathing heavily, teeth clenching. You very rarely raise your voice at your husband, but you’re tired of this. Of him looking at you like you’re so defenseless, so pathetic.

There’s a strange look in his eyes when you finish, something you can’t place. He takes his hands off of you, putting them up in surrender. “Of course, dear. I didn’t mean to imply you were incapable. I simply worry about my wife.” There’s an emphasis on his last words, on your title, your role. “But I suppose I shouldn’t presume to know about…your life before me.”

He spits the words like they’re poison in his mouth.

He stares at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before you realize the situation you’re in. You’re the one keeping secrets. You’re the one who snapped. You’re the one who wouldn’t drop the issue. You, you, you. A part of you screams that he’s the one who pushed you, but aren’t you still the one who jumped?

“...I’m sorry, love, for snapping. I know you worry.”

He doesn’t move.

“I understand why you’re concerned, really. I just…this feels like something I have to do.”

Still nothing.

“If they don’t respond, then I’ll drop it. I just want to take a chance.”

He lets out a breath, before he wraps his arms around you. “Of course, dear.” His grip on you grows a little tighter. “I just can’t help but want to protect you. It’s my job, after all. And I take it very seriously.”

“I know. I appreciate the sentiment, I just wish you trusted me a bit more.”

His voice grows softer. “Oh, dear, of course I trust you. It’s everyone else that I don’t trust.” He chuckles quietly. “Well, if it’s really that important to you, I won’t stand in your way. I just don’t want you to get your hopes up.”

You sigh, burying your nose in his neck. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

And so the envelopes are sealed the next day, handed off to a servant to be shipped off.

You keep telling yourself the letters don’t mean anything. Don’t have anything to do with the creeping dread slowly overtaking you. This is simply an act of connection, of potential forgiveness. It has nothing to do with your home life. But you can’t deny the way your eyes keep nervously drifting over each envelope labeled with your name, the disappointment when it never has the return address you were hoping for. Weeks pass, then months. 

Whenever he catches you lingering near the mailbox, Doffy always gives you a sympathetic look, a small click of the tongue. “Don’t you see, darling? You expect too much of them. You give people far more credit than they deserve.”

“It’s all the way in the North Blue. Mail can take a while to get there.” You don’t sound convincing, even to your own ears.

He sighs. “I hate seeing you hurt yourself like this, dear.” He approaches from behind, wrapping his arms around you, tucking you tightly against him, rocking you slightly. “Don’t give your attention to those unworthy of it. You have everyone and everything you need right here.”

He’s right. He’s always right.

You wait anyway.

The letters never come.

You expected this, it stings anyway. Even now, they can’t even spare you a thought. Your life was ripped to shreds, and they can’t even give you this. You don’t even exist in their memories anymore. You’re the only one who carries this pain, and you do it alone.

You try to talk to Doffy about it again, and while he plays the doting husband, you can see the satisfaction in his eyes. The pity in his face as he cradles you, the condescending, “Oh, dear, I knew you’d hurt yourself like this. You don’t need them," just screams I told you so. You can only be thankful he doesn’t say it aloud, his smile all teeth as he chuckles and pets your head like some pampered pet.

But he wouldn’t do that. He loves you.

The restlessness you feel doesn’t subside. You’ve taken to wandering aimlessly through the palace, as though you’ll suddenly find the answers hiding around a dusty corner and you’ll find the peace you so desperately crave. You want normalcy again. You want to lay in your husband’s arms and not wonder how much of his softened gaze and gentle caress is a lie, a carefully constructed act meant to keep you where he wants you. You know it isn’t true, really.

But the gnawing continues all the same.

The answers you wished for come in the form of an overfilled trash can.

You occasionally bring snacks to Doflamingo while he’s working. He doesn’t like you being in his office for long, preferring to keep you separated from the messy goings on of his work life, but you can tell he enjoys these small visits. Sometimes, on days when he isn’t busy, he pulls you onto his lap, allowing you to curl into him and enjoy the feeling of safety in his arms as he fills out miscellaneous paperwork or checks over maps. You used to cherish those moments.

Today’s conversation is brief, Doflamingo’s frustration with some issue or another clear in his every action. His teeth are clenched even as he thanks you, even as his lips brush against your temple before you turn to leave. You can’t help the jitteriness you feel, the way his discomfort sends a buzzing through your body. Once he makes it clear you cannot fix the issue (in as gentle of a tone as he’s capable of), you’re ready to make your escape, to hope the nausea subsides once you’re far enough away. You’re so upset you almost miss the envelope in the trashcan next to the door, no writing visible except for the return address.

It’s from a little island in the North Blue, known for its beautiful flower fields. 

You can’t help the choked noise that escapes your throat.

“Are you alright?” His eyes glance up from the paper in front of him, the slightest hint of concern behind them.

“What’s this?” Your voice is hardly a whisper. Your hand begins to reach for the trashcan, but you pull it back at the last second. No, it can’t be. And if it is, you don’t want to know.

“What’s what, darling?”

He wouldn’t do this to you. It’s a coincidence. There’s dozens of businesses on the island, many of which might be useful for a king and even more useful for a pirate. He wouldn’t, couldn’t, do this to you.

“This letter.”

Your heart is pounding in your ears, your hands shaking. The only thing that keeps you from exploding is the genuine confusion on his face. “What letter?”

You fish it out of the trashcan, slowly bringing it back to him. It’s covered in spilled ink which has soaked through the paper. It’s clear that the letter inside is ruined, and the only thing you can make out on the front is a street name and the island. “Why was this in the trash?”

He frowns, his brow furrowing. He reaches for it, investigating it so thoroughly you can convince yourself this is the first time he’s seen it. It’s only when his gaze falls to the address that his eyes light up in understanding. “Oh. Oh, dear.”

“Was this for me?”

“I don’t know, dear, but there’s certainly a chance.” His voice is gentle as he reaches for you. “I’m sorry if it was. I don’t know what happened.”

It’s unlike him to apologize. It’s unlike him to admit to not knowing, to not being in absolute control. But god, you want it to be true. You want the comfort he offers. You fall into him, pressing your face into his chest, barely holding back a sob. “What if it was? What if that’s the only response I’ll get, and it’s gone forever? What if my only chance at peace has slipped through my fingers?”

His hands are gentle as they rub circles on your back. “I’ll figure out what happened. I promise whoever did this will be punished, little bird. I’ll never tolerate someone hurting you.” His lips brush against the top of your head, kind and caring and protective, exactly how you’ve always known him to be. “I had others in my office earlier, I’m sure one of them did this. I’ll find out who.”

It takes him nearly an hour to calm you down, but he does it without rushing. All of his work, his empire, set aside for you. How could you doubt him, even for a moment, with your proof of his devotion right here?

He tucks you gently into your shared bed after you calmed down, encouraging you to take a nap to recuperate. A glass of water is left by the bedside for you, and he places an extra blanket on top of you to keep you warm and cozy. 

You don’t know how long your nap is. It certainly isn’t long, considering the sun is still in the sky, but it was enough to ease the pounding in your head from the sobbing. You aren’t thinking as you crawl out of bed and begin to wander in the direction of your husband’s office. You’re still a little upset, a little off kilter, and while it may be selfish to interrupt him twice in a day you want to bask in his care a bit more.

An angry voice stops you in your tracks.

“You threw them out?” He sounds furious, his voice booming down the hall. You know you shouldn’t be eavesdropping, should trust your husband to take care of it, but you linger near the door anyway.

“You said to get rid of them!” You don’t recognize the voice, but you recognize the fear. It’s how everyone sounds in front of Doflamingo, faced with his power and grace. With the knowledge he wouldn’t hesitate to do whatever he needed to them to get what he wanted.

“Yes, and I expected you to do it right! Burn them, rip them up, whatever it takes! To make sure nobody finds them! Not leave them sitting at the top of a trash can, in my office, where anybody can see them! I’m used to being surrounded by fools, but this is beyond comprehension!” You hear the cracking of wood, and somehow you know he’s broken his desk. As much as you want to stay and hear the rest, the bile rising in your throat forces you away, back to your room, where you can hide under the covers and finally break down.

He had been taking your letters. You knew that, really, but you had so badly wanted to convince yourself otherwise. He had made sure you would never want to go back, simply because he didn’t want you to. He took your choice away. Why was he so desperate to keep you here? What harm was there in you finally letting go of everything that happened?

You had been miserable. You had spent years terrified that Doflamingo would abandon you next, just like your family and friends did. You had clutched him so tightly your knuckles turned white, and he had cooed and assured you he would never leave you, not like they did. “I love you, little bird. You’re mine. It’s my job to protect and care for you, and I intend to do that for the rest of my life.”

Is that how he wanted you? Insecure and desperate to remain at his side? Perhaps he loved you because you were easy. So eager to please, to bend yourself to his will until you nearly snap as long as it keeps him around, keeps anybody around. Maybe he was as desperate as you were, in a way, because it didn’t have to be him you latched onto.

You bite your cheek hard enough to draw blood. No more thoughts like that. It had to be Doflamingo. He was your husband, your family, and nothing can take that away. Not even this betrayal. Surely he thought he was doing what was best for you. He may be selfish, but never when it comes to you.

This was controlling, it was wrong, but it wasn’t cruel. And as loathe as you are to admit it, it wasn’t out of character. He’s always been in control, his entire life. It wouldn’t seem wrong to him for that to extend to some of yours.

You should go in and talk to him. You should figure out why he would do this. Some twisted form of protection? Jealousy? Fear? You should do something, anything, to get to the bottom of this.

You crawl back into bed instead.

You accept his embrace when he joins you. You don’t push him away when he rolls on top of you, whispering how much he loves you, how happy he is that you’re his. You fall asleep in his arms, as you’ve always done.

You spent months begging the universe for answers, for some sort of proof, and now that you’ve gotten it, you’re sticking your head in the sand. What a coward. You can’t even bring yourself to be angry with him. Maybe you’re in shock, or maybe he’s just done such a good job at clipping your wings you simply don’t know what to do without him, and you don’t care to find out. You tell yourself you just love him, trust him. You ignore any whisper in your head that says the contrary.

The days pass normally, as quickly as they always do. You almost feel normal, after a while, have almost convinced yourself that everything is fine, as it’s always been.

The bird at your window is a surprise. It taps hurriedly, almost as though it’s afraid to tarry for too long. The letter tied to its leg somehow isn’t.

The script is hurried and messy. You recognize it immediately. It was written by a boy you had once run through the wild with, one you had shared every step of growing up with. It was his betrayal that had hurt the most.

The letter is nearly impossible to decipher. Your friend always did have terrible handwriting. You used to tease him for how nobody else could figure out what he meant, how sometimes even he couldn’t read his own writing. But you were always good at it, somehow always on the same page as him, no matter how small his chicken scratch was.

I didn’t expect to hear from you ever again. I’m glad I did. I’ve missed you, all of these years. I’ve wondered if you were safe, if you were happy.

I’m sorry for my cowardice. I’m sorry for pushing you away. But I was scared. That pirate made himself very clear: get away from you, or he was going to kill me.

No.

No, no, no.

No, that can’t be right.

I don’t know if he meant it. But with everything else that came after, I suspect he did. I don’t know what he said to your landlord, or your boss, or anyone else. But I know he spoke to them, and I know you were gone soon after. I’m sorry I was never brave enough to tell you in person, or to send you this letter until now. I didn’t know where you went, and I was sure you’d never want to speak to me again anyway. 

I’m glad you’re safe, or as safe as you can be. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when you needed me. I would be now, if I could. Not that that means much, really.

You place the paper down, shoving your head in your hands. No. This can’t be true. He may be controlling, he may be overprotective, but he would never hurt you. Not like this. Your husband would never have purposefully made you miserable. He would do a lot, but not that.

But you can’t help but remember how perfect his timing was, every time. How he’d gently encouraged you to open up in the days after you realized your friends were ignoring you. How he found you sobbing outside of the cafe after you’d been fired. How he found you idly wandering the streets after your landlord kicked you out. How he found you every time, right on time, assuring you that you didn’t need to worry anymore, that you could just rely on him now. That he always looked after his family, and he would love for you to be a part of it.

You look back on your life together. Had you ever made the choice to be here, or did he simply lure you in with the right bait every time? How many steps had you taken without realizing he was the one leading you here?

You could excuse a lot, deny even more. You can tell yourself again and again that he loved you, that everything he’s done has been for your own good. But hurting you? Hurting the people you loved? Even you couldn’t justify that.

He doesn’t even look up when you walk into his office. He hums quietly in acknowledgement, his pen scratching softly against the page. It’s only when you furiously slam the letter down on his desk that he finally looks at you.

“What’s this, darling?”

“I finally got a response. An intact one.”

He glances down at it, sneering slightly. “Intact? Dear, that’s illegible.”

“Did you threaten my friends for talking to me?”

He’s an excellent liar, a well practiced one. But you’ve known him for a decade, spent hours staring at him, starry eyed, tracking his every move. You can see the slight stiffening of his shoulders, the slight narrowing of his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“How many people have you done this to, Doflamingo?”

He huffs. “None. What are you talking about? Who said this to you?”

“Why do you want to know? So you can make good on your promise to hurt him?” You begin to pace, fury bubbling beneath your skin. “I can’t believe you would do this.”

“I want to know so I can know who you’re believing over your own husband.” He puts on an air of hurt, one that tugs at your heartstrings, but you won’t fall this time.

“I have tried to believe in you again and again, pushing down my doubt because I was so sure my husband would never do anything like this. But the evidence just keeps coming.”

“What evidence, exactly?” He snaps, annoyance slipping through. “The crazed ranting of some jealous old acquaintance? One who hurt you beyond repair a decade ago?”

“The first goddamn letter you tried to get rid of, first off all.” He opens his mouth, but you cut him off. “Don’t try to deny it, I heard you losing your mind on whoever you told to do it. I tried so hard to tell myself you were doing it out of some misguided attempt to protect me, but this proves you just did it to protect yourself. You just didn’t want me to know what you’d done.”

He sighs. “Dear, you’re working yourself up into a frenzy. You couldn’t have heard something that never happened.”

“Don’t lie to me! God, you must think I’m so stupid. You always have. And why wouldn’t you? I’ve fallen for everything, this entire time! I kept telling myself that this was normal, that you loved me, that this was what I wanted. I was so scared of losing you I let you look me in the eye and lie to me every goddamn day.”

“You want the truth?” He’s standing now, walking around the desk that separated you. “Can you handle that, dear? We can’t take back our words.”

You barely suppress the frustrated sob working its way out of your mouth. “Yes, please, give me the truth. That’s all I want.”

His gaze softens as he looks at you, the way it always does. God, he has to make this so hard. “I’ll always give you what you want.” He reaches out, but you take a step back. He gives you your space, for now. “When we first met, I may have had a few…long talks with some people you knew. Just to make my intentions clear.”

“How many people?”

“I can’t recall exact numbers.”

“Are you why I lost my job at the cafe?”

He doesn’t hesitate for a moment. “Yes.”

“Are you why I got evicted?”

“Yes.”

You curl in on yourself. “God. What the hell? Why would you do this to me?” You can feel your world crashing down as every memory of the last ten years is tainted, rotting from the inside out. It was never real. None of it. “Why would you ruin my life? What did I ever do to you? Why did you pick me up after like some stray dog? Did you feel guilty?”

You expected anger. He was always prone to it, after all. You had expected his tense shoulders and gnashing teeth, a fierce insistence that you were wrong to be upset, to question him. That he was right like always, and that anything he did was simply the best option to some grand end goal you couldn’t see. What you hadn't anticipated was the confusion: the look on his face so lost it was almost childlike. "Ruin your life? You wanted this. I gave you what you wanted."

"You think I wanted–what, to be miserable?”

He has the audacity to look concerned. “Are you miserable? You’re supposed to be happy.”

“Happy? You hurt people! Hurt me!"

He bristles at that. "I never hurt you. You are my wife, my family, my responsibility. I look out for you. I protect you. Those obstacles were–"

"Obstacles? Doflamingo, they were people!” 

“They’re nothing compared to you.”

You feel like you’re slamming your head into the wall. What is he not getting? Why does he not seem to think he’s done anything wrong? Why would he hide it if he thought he was right? “Nothing? I–God. What would ever make you think I wanted any of this?"

"You told me yourself!" He says it with such conviction.

You’re about to scream, to run out of this office and into the night, never to be seen again. He must be insane. More than you ever thought possible. 

But suddenly you remember it. A small conversation, a month or two after you first met. You didn’t even know his name yet, only knew him as the handsome blond who always tipped well. He had been sipping his coffee slowly, an excuse to keep occupying the table and, in turn, you. His question had seemed so innocent then.

"Do you want to leave this place?"

"What?"

"Are you happy here, I mean. Do you really want to stay here, working yourself to the bone, when you could be living in the lap of luxury?"

You laugh. "I don't know what kind of luxury I could get so easily. Things like that don't just come to people like me. I have bills to pay."

He hums quietly. "But if it could come? Would you really still be here if you had someone to take care of you? If you didn't have to worry about all of this?"

You give a sardonic smile as you wipe down his table. "Mister, you say it like it's so easy. I have things to do, people to help. I couldn't leave them behind just because it'd be better for me."

You can't see them through his sunglasses, but somehow you feel his eyes pierce through you anyway. "But if all of that wasn't a concern? Then you'd want to leave?"

"Sure, in that fantasy world, I'd love to see what the world has to offer. But I live here, in reality, and I have another table glaring at me, so I'll be back in a few minutes."

And that was it. Such a small exchange, barely worth noting.

You never thought much of the conversation. You really didn't. But sitting here, now, you're starting to see it for what it was to him: permission. An invitation to do whatever he thought would get you here. Why wouldn't a pirate act on such an opportunity?

You can barely swallow the bile rising in your throat.

“You couldn’t have possibly–” Your voice catches, and through his frustration you see something almost resembling pity peek through for just a moment. Somehow that’s the most infuriating part of all of this.

“Couldn’t have what? Thought you were being honest? I knew you were, darling. I knew you were meant to be here. I knew you would never have taken the first step with everyone in that shithole holding you down. What was I supposed to do? Leave you there?”

“Yes! That’s exactly what you should have fucking done! You don’t ruin lives over a stupid flight of fucking fancy–”

“Don’t call it that.” There’s that oh so familiar rage. His teeth clenched, his nails digging into his fists, his eyes burning so hot from behind his glasses you can feel the room raise a couple degrees. “Don’t you dare demean what we have. Don’t dismiss the last ten years. You are my wife. My partner. Mine.”

He’s stalking toward you, long past worrying about frightening you.

“Don’t you dare treat my devotion like some schoolboy’s crush.”

You think you would laugh if your heart were not beating out of your chest. Before today, you would have sworn your husband would never hurt you. But now, you don’t know if you can trust anything you think. Not anymore. Clearly you’re an idiot, naive and foolish, incapable of sensing danger even when it’s right in front of you. So when he reaches for you, you flinch.

He has the gall to look hurt. His posture relaxes as he reaches for you again, slower this time. His hands reach to delicately cradle your face, but you pull away, curling in on yourself. “Don’t touch me.”

“Darling–”

“Don’t ‘darling’ me. I’m not your darling. I don’t even know who you are. My entire life is a lie.” You barely manage to hold in a sob. He boxes you in, trying to pull you into his arms, wash away your pain as he always does. You fall to the floor, curling into a ball, desperately trying to avoid him. This familiar softness might break you. “Don’t touch me.”

He puts his hands up in surrender, but he doesn’t back away. “Your life isn’t a lie, little bird. Everything that matters is still true: I’m your husband and I love you.”

“Do you?”

The corner of his eye twitches. “Of course I do. Do you think I would do all of this for anyone? Only for you, my dear. Only you’re worth all of this. I’m sorry for frightening you, but I promise everything I have ever done is for you.” His voice is soft and cautious, as though he’s trying to lure in a wounded animal. You suppose in a way he is.

“What did I do to deserve this?” You pull yourself in tighter, your nails digging into your legs, the pain the only thing grounding you.

“You didn’t have to do anything. You were mine from the moment I saw you.” He says it with a dreamy tone, one that could be easily confused for a normal husband, so deeply in love with his wife. But beneath it there’s an obsession, a depravity to it.

“I don’t want to be yours.” The pitiful protest of a child, weak and wavering.

“Oh, darling, you don’t mean that.” He bends down to look you in the eye, put himself on your level. The condescension sets your teeth on edge. “I know you’re upset, dear, but you shouldn’t say things like that. A lesser man would be hurt.”

“A better man would believe me.”

You see the flash of rage that he swallows down before he opens his mouth again. “You’re lucky I’m patient, lover. Who knows what would happen if I took these little provocations seriously.”

“You never take me seriously.” So much of your life spent under the thumb of a man who didn’t even trust you to choose him yourself. Who didn’t trust you to choose a life together.

“You’re clearly overwhelmed. Take a minute to collect yourself.”

He didn’t disagree. So many lies for so many years, but he can’t give you the one you really want to hear.

“I want to go home.” Your voice is so pathetic, so broken.

“You are home.” His voice is gentle, but firm. A statement, a command beneath it. He leaves no room for disagreement.

“No. No, I’m not.” You close your eyes, picturing fields of your childhood. The smell of the flowers, the feeling of the sunlight on your face. The last time you had truly been free.

“You’re home, and you aren’t leaving.”

You feel yourself being pulled forward, your arms moving of their own volition.

No, not their own.

His.

His strings force your arms around him as he engulfs you in a suffocating embrace. His voice is no less sickeningly adoring than it was before. "Do what you want to me, darling. Hate me, fear me, hurt me. Rip me to shreds with your own two hands if you wish. But don't you dare leave me. You can do whatever you want as long as you're home safe."

Your voice trembles as you whisper, "And what if I wanted to leave?"

A chuckle rumbles through his chest, the condescending amusement of someone hearing a child wish for the impossible. "You don't. If you wanted to leave, you wouldn't have come here. Wouldn't have confronted me. Hell, you would have left the moment you found that first letter. Face it, little bird, you chose your cage. You love it here."

"But if I really wanted to?"

He smiles, all teeth. "Then I'd find you and bring you home.”

When he leans down to kiss you, you don’t have the energy to pull away. You can’t even feel afraid anymore as a deep sense of resignation washes over you. Ten years. Ten years of your life, gone if you leave. Your past burned under Doflamingo’s watchful eye, ensuring you have nowhere to return. Where else can you rest except your marriage bed?

It is that same bed he carries you to now, as he whispers sweet nothings in your ear. The same bed where he takes you, as he has all these years. The same bed you’re pinned to, weighed down by an arm thrown across your waist. Despite everything, despite the fear and rage choking you, the feeling is somehow comforting.

Neither of you speak of it the next morning. What is there to say, really?

Your life is perfect. Your husband has made it so.

Tag List: @pandora-writes-one-piece @shy-writer-999 @dreamcastgirl99 @tochillwithamockingjay

[kanansdume]

You started these tags with "oof" and I went back to re-read the second part of this post and... yeah, oof is about how I feel, too. Oh how hopeful I was for something good to come out of that show, BOTH shows actually since I was looking at Mandalorian season 3 as well it seems.

This post is already a little long, so I'll put the rest under a cut, but tl;dr is that I think you're giving the people writing in the Mandoverse SO MUCH more credit than they deserve and they'll likely never do anything good or creative with these characters again.

I don't think that making Sabine a Jedi had anything to do with Sabine at all. A lot of people have pointed out that Sabine is acting like a bratty teenager despite being literally 30 years old and that she feels a lot like an ANAKIN stand-in so that Ahsoka can figure out her feelings about Anakin through her relationship to Sabine. We know that the Rebels Search for Ezra storyline got combined with Ahsoka's show and that they weren't originally intended to be the same story. So it makes sense that Ahsoka likely HAD a padawan-figure originally who was probably a new character and that they just replaced that character with Sabine when things got combined, regardless of what that would mean for Sabine's character.

Sabine doesn't even grow or learn anything by the end of the show. I've see people try to argue that when she left Ezra behind in order to save Ahsoka that it showed she'd grown from when she abandoned everything to save Ezra, except... she's literally just making the same choice for a different person. Thrawn is LEAVING and the whole point of jumping onto his ship is to try to STOP HIM or something, and instead of doing that and helping Ezra, she runs back because one person's life is at stake and now Ezra is alone on that ship and Sabine never has to face the consequences of her own actions. Personally, that doesn't feel like any actual growth to me or like she's learned from the mistake she made by going to get Ezra. The narrative itself doesn't even seem to think that it WAS a mistake she needs to learn from, which leaves her character with literally nowhere to go.

If they were going to bring her back to Mandalore as a leader, they probaby would've been EMPHASIZING her connection to Mandalore rather than basically erasing it. It would've made more sense to leave her family ALIVE, even just ONE of them, to give her more of a connection to that cause. But no, aside from her wearing the armor, there's absolutely no indication she gives a flying shit about Mandalore or its people anymore.

So even if they DID start pushing Sabine in the direction of being a leader again, I wouldn't like it. THIS Sabine should never lead anybody ever. THIS Sabine is a selfish piece of shit who is willing to unleash Thrawn upon the galaxy just to get what she wants. REBELS era Sabine was awesome, and had the makings of a great ruler. REBELS era Sabine had learned mercy and patience and selflessness by the end of the show, while THIS fucking Sabine is impatient, impetuous, irresponsible, and selfish. Nobody should EVER allow the Ahsoka show version of Sabine anywhere NEAR a leadership position, and if they try to do it, it'll just be unbelievably bad writing. Perhaps hilariously bad writing, it could be amusing to see them attempt to make that claim, but it'd still be bad.

And, as you mentioned, they've already put Bo-Katan in as the leader of Mandalore for the THIRD TIME and, ostensibly, destroyed the Dark Saber. There doesn't seem to be any real planning around who gets put in as the leader of Mandalore, to be honest, it just kind-of flip flops and goes to whoever they deem most convenient in the moment. Sabine was being set up for it for a minute until they decided it would be problematic with what they wanted to do with her later in Rebels, so they threw it at Bo-Katan with no good reason. Then they took it away from Bo-Katan in The Mandalorian so that they could set Din up to take on leadership of Mandalore except that then they decided they didn't really like that so they abandoned all of that set-up and tossed it back at Bo-Katan because, hell, she's already there isn't she, might as well just give it back to her because THAT'S satisfying to see! So, sure, MAYBE they'll give it back to Sabine and take it away from Bo-Katan AGAIN later on, maybe Bo-Katan will die fighting Thrawn and so Sabine gets put back in as an option, but I don't have a single ounce of belief that it'll make any sense or feel in any way satisfying.

For all that the Mandoverse is focused on Mandalorians in the extreme, I don't feel like they're writing them all that well or care all that much about giving these characters good strong narratives. Sabine is just the latest in a string of terrible writing choices for their Mando characters.

Sabine Wren is not just the true wielder of the Darksaber, but the only one who should’ve been chosen to rule Mandalore and I will die on that hill.

The entire point of Sabine’s whole arc through the show is that she is learning JEDI VALUES, that she’s learning that the Mandalorian way has its place, but it also has so many flaws and that it’s what has led Mandalore to fight itself into dust. She’s impatient and distrustful and learns to listen with Hera about Fulcrum. She’s more inclined to kill someone out of anger until she learns the value of mercy and second chances from Kanan with Fenn Rau. She tries to pretend her problems don’t exist and won’t truly face them until she learns to wield the Darksaber with Kanan and then goes to make amends with her family. The entire episode with her familiy shows how Sabine brings together everything she’s learned: she waits and listens to her family’s grievances, understanding exactly how her actions impacted them, and then she shows mercy to Gar Saxon rather than killing him after her win like a true Mandalorian would.

Having Bo-Katan claim that the Mandalorian way is a way of MERCY, when we’re intentionally told and shown that Sabine’s willingness to show mercy explicitly goes against her Mandalorian upbringing and teachings and was something she learned from Hera, and from Kanan and his Jedi teachings, is really insulting. The Mandalorian way, as shown through Rebels, is NOT one of mercy, that’s the entire point. Sabine recognizes that, recognizes that that’s what’s caused them so much misery, caused them to turn on each other so much that their planet hasn’t ever had the chance to heal and regrow.

Bo-Katan even says IN THIS EPISODE that Sabine represents the best of what they have been in the past as well as the best of what they could someday become. That Sabine is a true leader.

To have Sabine turn around and say that the Darksaber came to her, after she EARNED IT, for the FIRST time since Tarre Viszla she truly EARNED the Darksaber, just so she could pass it on to Bo-Katan, someone who once gleefully helped set a village on fire after the people she was helping subjugate tried to resist?

I’m sorry, but no.

Sabine Wren is Tarre Viszla’s true successor. Not just as the wielder of the Darksaber, but as Mandalore’s uniter, as its truest ruler. Sabine Wren has the patience and mercy and wisdom of a Jedi with the passion and mettle of a Mandalorian warrior. She has learned to listen as well as she fights, and she has learned how to appreciate different points of view and how to bring them together to create a whole greater than the sum of its parts.

The Darksaber came to her because Sabine Wren always had the capacity to use it to fulfill Tarre Viszla’s vision, to unite Mandalore, to save it from itself, to make it more than it is. The Darksaber came to her specifically because Sabine has the greatest ability to lead Mandalore into a peaceful future.

[muiitoloko]

hey weird request but will you write a story about Frank and his reader wife, hes older than her, and when she starts asking for a baby he turns her down and she withdraws from him gradually, so one morning when she gets up earlier than him and goes and makes breakfast he borrows her vibrator to get off and she catches him while hes cumming, please eventually give the girl a baby though SO SMUTTY i am sorry, but please i am craving some high level dominant watch from the corner vibes

Title: Generals and Generations.

Summary: Haunted by his age and past, Frank Benson resists his wife's dream of having a baby, but their undeniable chemistry and love force him to reconsider.

Pairing: Frank Benson × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Smut

Author's Notes: Thanks for your request; I hope you enjoy it!

Also read on Ao3

Frank kissed your shoulder as he leaned into you, his thick cock driving deep with every slow, deliberate thrust. His body was heavy against yours, his chest pressing into your back as he moved, savoring the way you melted beneath him. His hooked nose brushed against your ear, his breath hot and uneven as he growled, “Christ, love. You feel bloody perfect—so tight, so warm. Like you were made to take me.”

You moaned, arching into him, your fingers curling into the sheets as he thrust harder, his chubby fingers gripping your hips like he owned you. And in this moment, he did.

But even as pleasure consumed you, your mind drifted to something else—something you’d been wanting, asking for, begging for. Between moans, you gasped, “Frank… I want a baby.”

His movements faltered for a split second, barely noticeable, but you caught it. Then, with a deep sigh, he resumed his pace, his thumbs pressing into the small hollow of your lower back. “Not this again,” he muttered, his baritone voice tinged with irritation.

You whined in disappointment, pushing back against him, trying to distract him with your body, hoping that maybe, this time, he’d change his mind. “You gave two children to your ex-wife,” you argued breathlessly, “why won’t you give me one?”

Frank grunted, his grip tightening as he thrust deeper, his dominance unshaken. “Because, love,” he growled, his voice firm, commanding, “I’m too bloody old to be raising another child. By the time they turn ten, I’ll be in a damn nursing home.”

You whimpered, but Frank didn’t stop—didn’t soften. If anything, his frustration fueled him, making him rougher, more relentless. He grabbed your wrists and pinned them against the mattress, his full weight pressing down on you as he drove into you with purpose. “You think a baby will change things?” he growled, his hooked nose nuzzling against the back of your neck. “You think I don’t already own you?”

“I—” Your words dissolved into a moan as he angled his thrusts deeper, his cock hitting that perfect spot inside you that made your vision blur.

“I give you everything, don’t I?” he pressed, his voice dropping into that dangerous, authoritative tone that sent shivers down your spine. “This body. This pleasure. You belong to me, love. And I don’t need a child to prove that.”

You moaned helplessly, lost in the sensation of him claiming you, dominating you completely. But still, you wanted more. “I want a part of you,” you whispered, your voice breaking as he pounded into you. “Something that’s ours.”

Frank let out a dark chuckle, his breath heavy against your skin. “You want something that’s ours?” he murmured, his fingers sliding down to rub your clit, sending jolts of pleasure through your body. “You already have it, love. You have me. My cock, my name, my bloody soul.”

His pace quickened, his thrusts punishing now, each stroke a reminder of who was in control. “You want me to put a baby in you?” he taunted, his voice dripping with dominance. “Want me to fuck you so full of my cum that you’ll be carrying my brat in the morning?”

“Yes,” you gasped, your nails digging into the sheets. “Please, Frank. Give me a baby.”

Frank groaned, his movements faltering for just a moment before he composed himself, shaking his head. “Not happening,” he growled, his baritone voice rough with finality. “But that won’t stop me from filling you up, love.”

You let out a helpless cry as he slammed into you, his cock thick and unrelenting, stretching you to the brink of madness. He was ruthless now, determined to remind you who was in charge, who owned you.

“God, you’re so needy,” he rasped, his lips brushing against your ear as his thrusts grew erratic. “So desperate for me, aren’t you? But I decide what you get, love. And right now, all you’re getting is my cum. Nothing else.”

Your body tensed, your release tearing through you in an overwhelming wave as Frank groaned, his grip bruising as he followed, spilling into you with a deep, guttural growl. His weight pressed into you as he caught his breath, his white hair damp with sweat.

For a moment, there was silence, save for the sound of your ragged breathing. Then, Frank kissed your shoulder again, softer this time, his fingers stroking your waist. “No children,” he murmured, his voice firm but not unkind. “But you have me. Always.”

You sighed, knowing this wasn’t the end of the conversation. But for now, as Frank’s arms wrapped around you, his cock still buried deep inside you, you let it go. You had him—and that was enough.

For now.

The morning sunlight filtered through the kitchen window, casting long shadows over the breakfast table where you and Frank sat in thick silence. Your plate was still untouched, the toast growing cold beside your half-drunk cup of tea. Across from you, Frank methodically cut into his eggs, his movements precise but tight, his white hair slightly disheveled from the morning shower. His hazel eyes were locked onto his plate, but the tension in his jaw betrayed his irritation.

You sighed, arms crossed, before finally speaking. "You haven’t given me an answer, Frank."

Frank’s knife halted mid-cut, his grip tightening around the handle before he exhaled slowly, setting it down with deliberate control. He finally met your gaze, his hooked nose twitching slightly as his hazel eyes darkened with frustration. "I have given you an answer," he said, his baritone voice firm. "Several times, in fact."

You scoffed, pushing your plate aside as you leaned forward. "No, you’ve given me an excuse," you countered, your voice sharper than you intended. "You keep saying you’re too old, that you’ve done this before, but what about me? What about what I want, Frank?"

Frank clenched his jaw, exhaling sharply through his nose. "What you want," he repeated, his voice lower now, measured but no less commanding. "And what about what I want, hmm? You think I haven't thought about this? That I don’t consider your feelings?"

You stood up, your chair scraping against the floor. "No, Frank, I think you’ve made up your mind and expect me to just accept it."

Frank inhaled deeply, rubbing a hand over his face before pushing back his chair abruptly. The sudden movement startled you, but you held your ground, watching as he grabbed his military jacket from the back of his chair, shaking it out before slipping it on. The stiff fabric fell over his broad shoulders, and he began buttoning it with quick, efficient movements, his authority still intact even in the middle of an argument.

"I don’t like leaving for work when we’re fighting," he muttered, his fingers fastening the buttons with practiced precision. "But you’re determined to push this conversation to its breaking point."

You crossed your arms, your lips pressing into a thin line. "You’re determined to ignore what I want."

Frank scoffed, his hooked nose flaring slightly as he adjusted his collar. "Bloody hell, woman," he growled, his baritone voice edged with irritation. "You think this is easy for me? You think I don’t lie awake at night wondering if I’m being selfish, if I’m making the right decision?"

You took a step closer, refusing to let him dismiss you. "Then why won’t you reconsider?" you demanded. "Frank, you gave your ex-wife two children. Why is it so impossible to give me just one?"

Frank stopped buttoning his jacket, his hazel eyes locking onto yours with a sharp intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. "Because I refuse to do it half-heartedly," he said, his voice quieter now, but no less firm. "And I know myself, love. I know my limits. I have spent my life commanding men, making decisions that weigh on me every damn day. I don’t have the energy to raise another child."

You swallowed, your chest tightening at the finality in his tone. "Then what does that mean for us?" you whispered, your voice trembling.

Frank sighed, running a hand through his white hair before gripping the back of his chair tightly. "It means I love you, but I won’t be bullied into this," he said, his voice firm but not unkind. "And if you can’t accept that, then maybe we need to have a much harder conversation."

Your breath hitched, and for the first time in this argument, fear crept into your heart. You had pushed him, but you never thought he’d suggest—no, he wouldn’t. Frank wasn’t the kind of man to walk away. Was he?

Frank watched the flicker of uncertainty cross your face, his hazel eyes softening for a moment before he sighed again, rubbing his forehead. "I don’t want to fight with you," he muttered, his voice rough with frustration and exhaustion. "I don’t want to go to work with this hanging over my head."

"Then don’t go," you blurted before you could stop yourself.

Frank let out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. "You know I don’t have that luxury," he murmured, fastening the last button of his jacket before grabbing his cap. He hesitated for a moment, his expression unreadable, before stepping toward you.

His large, chubby hands cupped your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones as he studied you. His hazel eyes, usually so controlled, held something else now—something troubled, conflicted.

"You are my entire bloody world," he murmured, his baritone voice lower now, softer. "But if this becomes the thing that drives a wedge between us, I don’t know if I can—" He cut himself off, inhaling deeply before shaking his head. "I just don’t know."

Your chest tightened, and you reached up, gripping his wrists as you stared up at him. "I love you, Frank," you whispered. "But this matters to me."

Frank exhaled, pressing a firm kiss to your forehead before pulling back, his hands dropping away. "I know," he muttered, stepping toward the door. "And that’s what scares me."

And with that, he turned and walked out, leaving his half-eaten breakfast on the table and a heavy silence in his wake.

Frank leaned back in his chair, the dim glow of the television illuminating his features in the darkened living room. His hazel eyes were fixed on the screen, but his focus wavered. The football match played on, the commentators’ voices droning in the background, yet his mind was elsewhere.

His grip tightened around the bottle of beer in his hand as he took another slow sip, the cool liquid doing little to ease the frustration coiling in his chest. You had been distant ever since that morning—the morning he had put his foot down. No children. No discussion. That was supposed to be the end of it.

And yet, it wasn’t.

You still went about your days, still smiled and spoke to him, but something had changed. The way you no longer curled up on his lap while he watched the game. The way you no longer idly played with the hem of his shirt when you got bored. The way you no longer clung to him when you fell asleep, like you always did before. It was subtle, but Frank noticed. He noticed everything.

He sighed heavily, rolling the cold glass bottle against his forehead in an attempt to cool his thoughts. This is ridiculous, Benson. You’re a goddamn Lieutenant General. You don’t question your decisions. You make a call and stick with it.

And yet, the image in his mind wouldn’t leave.

You, round and full, your belly stretched with his child. Your body softer, your breasts swollen with milk, preparing to nourish the life you both created. The thought was disturbingly enticing, so much so that he had to force himself to shake it off.

Frank scowled, his military discipline battling against the temptation. He knew the reality of pregnancy—the exhaustion, the swollen feet, the mood swings. He had dealt with it before. He had held his ex-wife’s hair back when she vomited in the mornings, listened to her cry over things that made no damn sense, driven out in the middle of the night to get whatever ridiculous food she suddenly craved. It was chaos. Unpredictable. And Frank despised anything that disrupted order.

But then… there was the other side of it.

The first flutter of tiny kicks against a palm pressed to soft skin. The warmth of a newborn curled against his chest, fragile and helpless but utterly his. The way a child would reach for him instinctively, knowing he was their protector, their safe place. He could still remember the weight of his son in his arms for the first time, the small fingers curling around his own.

Christ.

Frank took another sip of beer, his jaw tightening as he forced himself to think of the negatives. The sleepless nights. The crying. The endless responsibility. He had done his time as a father. He had raised two children already. He wasn’t about to start over again when he was this old.

And yet…

His hazel eyes flickered toward the hallway, where he knew you were, likely in bed, probably curled up alone, thinking about the same damn thing.

Frank exhaled sharply, setting his beer down with a dull thunk. This silence between you had gone on long enough. He was not a man who tolerated insubordination, not in the field, and certainly not in his own home. You had challenged his authority, and while he had made his decision, he hated the distance it had created.

His patience had run out.

Pushing himself up from the chair, he ran a hand through his white hair before striding toward the bedroom, his steps slow and deliberate. His presence was commanding, even in the quiet of the house. When he reached the door, he didn’t knock. He never knocked. Instead, he pushed it open, his broad frame filling the doorway as he looked at you.

You were curled up under the blankets, your back to him. Stubborn.

Frank narrowed his eyes. Enough of this.

Without a word, he walked over to the bed and sat down beside you. The mattress dipped under his weight, but you didn’t move, refusing to acknowledge him. That irritated him more than it should have.

His hand found your hip, his grip firm, possessive. “Are we going to talk about this?” His baritone voice was low, controlled, but there was an edge to it—a warning.

You remained silent for a moment before finally exhaling, your voice barely above a whisper. “There’s nothing to talk about. You made your decision.”

Frank clenched his jaw. He hated that tone. Hated that you sounded defeated. He was used to you pushing back, fighting for what you wanted, not shutting down like this.

He leaned down, his hooked nose brushing against your shoulder as he spoke again, his voice dropping into that dangerously soft register. “That’s not how this works, love. You don’t get to shut me out.”

You swallowed, but still, you didn’t turn to face him.

Frank sighed, his fingers tightening slightly on your hip. “Look at me.” It wasn’t a request.

Slowly, you rolled onto your back, finally meeting his gaze. Your eyes were sad, filled with unspoken words that twisted something inside him.

Frank studied you for a long moment before he exhaled deeply. “You think I don’t want this?” he muttered, more to himself than to you. He shook his head. “Bloody hell, woman. You have no idea how much I’ve thought about it.”

Your eyes widened slightly, and for the first time in days, he saw a flicker of hope there. “Then why won’t you—”

“Because I know what it takes.” His voice was firm, unwavering. “And I don’t know if I have it in me to do it again.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating.

Frank sighed, watching as you softly nodded and turned away from him. He didn’t push you any further. There was nothing left to say tonight. Instead, he exhaled deeply, running a hand through his white hair before pulling back the blankets and sliding in beside you. His body was warm, his presence familiar, but there was a new distance between you—one he wasn’t sure how to bridge.

For a long time, he lay there in silence, staring at the ceiling, listening to the slow rhythm of your breathing. Eventually, sleep took him too.

Frank woke up to the soft sounds of movement downstairs. You were already up. The faint clinking of dishes and the low hum of the kettle told him you were making breakfast. He considered getting up immediately, but the warmth of the bed, the quiet solitude of the early morning, tempted him to linger a little longer.

He shifted under the blankets, stretching slightly—and then he felt it.

His cock was hard. That wasn’t unusual. It happened every damn morning. But what was unusual was the way his body reacted when he thought about you. About the way you’d been avoiding him. About how long it had been since he had touched you.

Frank let out a slow breath, his large hand sliding down to palm himself through his underwear. He squeezed, just for a moment, testing his own sensitivity. Christ. He was aching. He gritted his teeth, fighting the familiar urge to take care of it himself.

He wasn’t the kind of man who begged.

But fuck, it had been too long.

Shaking off the thought, he sighed and pulled his hand away. He wasn’t a desperate teenager. He had control. Always had.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he sat up, rubbing a hand over his face. His white hair was slightly disheveled, his hazel eyes still clouded with sleep. He reached for the drawer beside him, pulling it open in search of a fresh pair of boxers—

And then his hand froze.

Tucked in the back of the drawer, almost hidden beneath a few of your belongings, was something small, discreet… unmistakable.

Your vibrator.

Frank picked it up, turning it over in his fingers, his jaw tightening as something dark and possessive stirred in his gut.

So this was what you’d been doing when he wasn’t around.

A muscle in his jaw twitched. He could picture it too easily. You, alone in bed, your legs spread wide, this little thing buzzing between your thighs, trying to give yourself the pleasure he used to give you.

The image sent a sharp pulse of heat straight to his cock.

Frank exhaled through his nose, rolling the toy between his fingers. His voice, low and gruff in the quiet of the morning, escaped him before he even realized he was speaking aloud.

"That what you’ve been using, love?"

He smirked slightly, despite himself. His baritone voice took on a darker, teasing edge. "Lying here, thinking about me, pressing this between those pretty thighs, hoping it’ll do the job?"

Frank turned the toy on, the soft hum filling the quiet bedroom. He watched it vibrate in his palm, his hazel eyes dark with curiosity. He had never really paid attention to the damn thing before, but now, holding it like this, picturing how you used it—how you spread yourself open, how you must have bitten your lip, muffling your moans as you played with it—made something hot and possessive coil in his gut.

His cock twitched, aching against the fabric of his underwear. Fuck. He was already hard as a rock, and now this?

Frank cast a glance at the door, making sure you were still downstairs. The faint sounds of dishes clinking in the kitchen told him you were occupied.

Good.

His grip tightened around the toy, his breath slow and measured as he pressed the tip of it against his length through the thin fabric of his underwear.

The vibration sent a jolt of pleasure straight through him.

"Christ," Frank muttered under his breath, his baritone voice rough with surprise. His hips twitched instinctively, pushing up into the sensation. He hadn’t expected it to feel this good—not from a damn toy.

His jaw tightened as he teased himself, dragging the buzzing tip along the thick outline of his cock. His hand trembled slightly as he spread his legs wider, giving himself more room to move. The vibrations pulsed against his aching length, sending shivers up his spine.

"That what gets you off, love?" he muttered to himself, smirking darkly. "This little thing buzzing between your legs?"

He shifted, pressing the toy more firmly against the sensitive head of his cock, still trapped in his underwear. A deep, guttural groan escaped him as his hips bucked involuntarily.

"Fuck," he hissed, biting his lip. His breath came in slow, heavy pants, his broad chest rising and falling as he fought the urge to push the fabric down and wrap his fist around himself properly.

His free hand clenched the edge of the bed, his knuckles turning white. The vibrations pulsed through him, teasing him, pushing him to the brink. It was nowhere near as good as your touch, nowhere near as good as sinking into your tight, wet heat—but fuck, it was enough to get him thinking.

Thinking about how he’d find you later.

Thinking about how he’d drag you upstairs, press you down onto the mattress, and show you exactly why this little toy would never be enough.

His breath hitched, his body tense with restraint. His cock twitched against the vibration, thick and needy, so damn close—

The moment the door creaked open, Frank tensed—his breath hitched, his entire body locking up in sheer, unfiltered shock. And then, just as his hazel eyes flicked up to meet yours, his release surged through him. A deep, guttural groan tore from his throat, his baritone voice raw with pleasure as his cock pulsed, thick ropes of cum spilling into his underwear, soaking the fabric beneath the relentless hum of the vibrator still pressed against him.

His broad chest heaved, his white hair damp with sweat as he slumped back onto the mattress, utterly spent.

And you—frozen in the doorway, your eyes wide, your face flushed a deep shade of crimson—stared in stunned silence.

“Bloody hell—” you choked out, turning on your heel so fast you nearly tripped over yourself. “I—I didn’t mean to— I’ll just give you a moment—!”

Frank groaned, still catching his breath, and let out a rough, amused chuckle. “Christ, love,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face before dragging it down his chest. “Don’t run off now.”

Your breath hitched at the sheer command in his voice—low, exhausted, but undeniably firm.

“I—” You swallowed hard, shifting awkwardly. “I just came to wake you for breakfast.”

Frank exhaled a slow, measured breath and propped himself up onto his elbows, his hazel eyes dark with something unreadable. His lips curled into a lazy smirk, but there was an undeniable intensity in the way he watched you. Like a predator who had just been caught in a rare moment of vulnerability but wasn’t the least bit ashamed.

He gestured lazily to himself—the thick stain spreading across the front of his underwear, the still-vibrating toy discarded beside him. “Think you already gave me a proper wake-up call.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, embarrassment scorching your skin. “Frank—”

“Come here,” he interrupted, his baritone voice rough with something between amusement and impatience.

Your stomach flipped. “I—”

“Come. Here.” His tone left no room for argument.

You hesitated but obeyed, stepping hesitantly toward the bed, your gaze flickering down to the evidence of his climax. The dark stain stretched across the fabric of his underwear, and you felt heat rush between your thighs at the sheer sight of him—disheveled, undone, his large frame sprawled across the mattress like he had been wrecked by his own damn hand.

Or rather, your toy.

“Curious, are we?” Frank teased, watching the way your gaze lingered.

You scowled, but your body betrayed you. Your breath was uneven, your fingers twitching at your sides.

Frank smirked. And then, in one swift motion, he grabbed your wrist and yanked you down onto the bed with him.

A startled gasp left your lips as you landed half on top of him, your hands splayed against his bare chest. His skin was warm, slightly damp, and his heartbeat thrummed beneath your fingertips.

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered, flustered beyond belief.

“And you’re bloody adorable when you’re flustered,” Frank shot back, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

You huffed, attempting to push yourself up, but Frank’s arms tightened around you, keeping you exactly where he wanted. His hazel eyes darkened as he took in the sight of you—cheeks flushed, lips parted, your body straddling his, so close yet so frustratingly clothed.

A slow, wicked smirk curled across his lips.

“You’re gonna get the baby you want so much,” he murmured, his baritone voice dripping with certainty.

Your heart nearly stopped.

Your breath hitched, your eyes widening in shock. “Frank—”

“Shh,” he murmured, his hooked nose grazing your jaw as he tilted his head, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I’ve thought about it. Thought about you, round and full with my child. Thought about how you’d look carrying something that belongs to both of us.”

A strangled sound left your throat, half disbelief, half arousal. “I don’t want to force you into this—”

Frank scoffed, his large hands sliding down to grip your hips, pulling you flush against the hard bulge already pressing between your thighs. “You think I don’t want to procreate you?” His voice was thick with heat, his breath hot against your skin. “You think I haven’t pictured you swollen with my child, your body soft and ripe for me?”

Your stomach flipped violently, arousal pooling deep in your belly.

Frank smirked at your stunned silence. His fingers curled under your shirt, sliding up the curve of your waist as he continued, his voice slow and deliberate, each word dripping with sinful intent.

“Think I haven’t imagined watching your belly stretch, watching your tits get heavy and full? Christ, love, the thought of you leaking for me…” He groaned, his grip tightening as he rocked his hips up, his cock straining against his underwear.

You whimpered, heat flooding your core at the sheer filth of his words.

Frank’s lips trailed down your neck, his hooked nose grazing your pulse. “You’ll be so bloody perfect like that,” he murmured. “Made for it. Made to take my cock, made to carry my child.”

Your thighs clenched around him, and Frank chuckled darkly.

“Ah,” he hummed, his fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your pajama shorts, his knuckles brushing against the wet heat between your legs. “So you like that, do you? Like the idea of me filling you up, watching you grow round and full with my seed?”

You whined, arching against him. “Frank—”

“Say it,” he ordered, his baritone voice a deep, authoritative rumble. “Tell me you want it.”

Your breathing was ragged, your body trembling against his.

“I—I want it,” you gasped, nails digging into his chest. “I want you to put a baby in me.”

Frank growled, his eyes flashing with pure, unadulterated hunger. “That’s my good girl.”

And then, without hesitation, he flipped you onto your back, his large frame pressing you into the mattress, his hazel eyes burning with intent.

“Let’s make you a mother, then.”

Frank settled between your thighs with the slow, deliberate ease of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. His strong hands gripped your legs, parting them wider as he pressed his broad chest flush against the mattress, his hooked nose brushing the inside of your thigh.

"Christ," he murmured, his baritone voice thick with reverence as he took in the sight of you. "Already so wet for me, love." He smirked, his breath warm against your slick folds. "Desperate little thing, aren’t you?"

You whimpered, hips twitching toward him, but Frank held you steady, his chubby fingers pressing into your thighs with just enough force to keep you still. He wanted to savor this—to prepare you properly, to recover from his own release before he gave you exactly what you asked for.

"Patience," he murmured, the word edged with amusement. "We've got all morning."

Then, with agonizing slowness, he dipped his head, his lips pressing a chaste kiss against your clit. You gasped, fingers curling into the sheets, but Frank wasn’t in a rush. No, this was a damn fine way to start the day, and he intended to enjoy every second of it.

His tongue flicked out, teasing, tasting, before he latched onto you properly, sucking gently. The deep groan that rumbled in his throat sent vibrations straight through you, and your thighs clenched around his head, back arching off the bed.

"Bloody hell," Frank growled against your skin, his hazel eyes dark as he looked up at you. "So damn sweet."

His chubby fingers joined the assault, spreading you open so he could feast properly. He licked a long, slow stripe up your folds, his hooked nose pressing against you, inhaling your scent like he was a man starved.

Your moan was broken, breathless, and Frank smirked against you, his fingers digging into your hips as he held you down. "That’s it, love," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your entrance before slipping his tongue inside. "Take what I give you."

Your hands flew to his white hair, fingers tangling in the strands as you tried to grind against his face, but Frank chuckled, his grip tightening. "So needy," he mused, voice muffled against your dripping heat. "You want my cock that badly, hmm? Want me to fuck you full first thing in the morning?"

"Yes," you gasped, thighs trembling. "Please, Frank—"

"Mm," he hummed, pleased, his tongue curling inside you before he pulled back just enough to flick your clit with the tip. "Not yet."

You whined in frustration, but Frank only smirked, one thick finger teasing your entrance before sinking inside, curling just right. "I need you open for me, love," he murmured, adding a second finger, stretching you just enough to have you gasping.

He licked you again, slow and thorough, his baritone voice vibrating against your core. "Gonna be a good girl and take all of me, aren’t you?"

You nodded frantically, words failing you as his fingers moved in tandem with his tongue, his pace unrelenting.

"That’s it," Frank praised, his voice rough with hunger. "Gonna fill you up, make sure it takes." His lips wrapped around your clit again, sucking with just the right amount of pressure. "Gonna make you round with my child."

The words alone sent you spiraling, pleasure cresting in a blinding, overwhelming wave as you came apart beneath him, your cries filling the room.

Frank groaned, lapping up everything you gave him before pulling back, his mouth slick, his hazel eyes dark with hunger. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, exhaling a deep, satisfied breath.

Frank sat back on his knees, his broad chest rising and falling with deep, measured breaths. His hazel eyes burned with something raw and insatiable as he reached down, hooking his fingers into the waistband of his soiled underwear. In one slow, deliberate motion, he pushed them down, letting his thick, heavy cock spring free. It was still slick from his earlier release, the flushed tip already leaking again at the mere sight of you beneath him.

You swallowed hard, your pulse racing as you reached for the hem of your pajama top, pulling it over your head and tossing it aside. The cool air sent a shiver through you, but Frank’s gaze—hungry, possessive—made you feel scalding hot.

His breath hitched slightly as he took in the sight of your bare breasts, the soft curves rising and falling with each uneven inhale. His large, chubby hands reached out, cupping them reverently before his fingers tightened, rolling a taut nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

“Christ,” he murmured, his baritone voice thick with something primal. “So bloody perfect.”

You whimpered, arching into his touch as he leaned down, his hooked nose grazing your skin before he captured one of your nipples between his lips. His tongue was hot, wet, swirling around the sensitive peak before he sucked greedily, groaning at the way you gasped beneath him.

His other hand trailed down, his fingers sliding over your thigh before gripping just above your knee. He lifted your leg, adjusting his position, spreading you open wider for him. His cock brushed against your slick heat, the thick head teasing your entrance, and you shuddered at the contact.

Frank released your nipple with a wet pop, his breath coming out in ragged pants as he dragged his cock along your folds, coating himself in your arousal. “Good thing you’re so bloody flexible,” he muttered, smirking as he pushed your leg up further, angling himself just right.

And then, with one slow, deliberate thrust, he pushed inside you.

A sharp gasp tore from your lips as he stretched you, filling you inch by inch. Frank groaned, his head dropping forward, his white hair falling into his face as he sank deeper. “Fuck,” he hissed, his baritone voice shaking slightly. “So bloody tight.”

Your fingers curled around his biceps, nails digging into the firm muscle as he bottomed out, his cock buried to the hilt. His breath was hot against your skin, his broad chest pressing into yours as he let you adjust, savoring the way your walls clenched around him.

“Christ, love,” he growled, pulling back slightly before thrusting in again, slower this time, savoring every inch of you. “You feel—” His jaw clenched as he pushed deeper, angling himself just right. “Like you were made for me.”

You whimpered, your body arching, desperate for more. “Frank—”

He smirked at the way you gasped his name, his grip on your leg tightening as he rolled his hips, hitting that perfect spot that sent white-hot pleasure racing through you.

“There it is,” he murmured, watching the way your eyes fluttered shut, your lips parting in a silent moan. “That’s what I want, love. Want to see you unravel beneath me.”

His thrusts quickened, his cock slamming into you at just the right angle, your leg pressed high against his chest. The stretch was intense, the pleasure overwhelming, and Frank knew exactly what he was doing.

“You wanted a baby, didn’t you?” he growled, his hazel eyes locked onto yours, watching every reaction, every gasp. “Wanted me to fill you up, fuck my brat into you?”

You moaned helplessly, nodding, too lost in the sensation to form words.

And you? You had stopped taking your contraceptives without a second thought.

Frank’s smirk deepened, his dominance unwavering. “Then take it,” he snarled, thrusting harder, deeper. “Take every bloody drop.”

The past month had been a blur of heat, sweat, and whispered promises in the dark. Frank had been insatiable—more than usual. The man already had an insurmountable appetite for you, but ever since he’d muttered those fateful words—"Let’s make you a mother"—he had been relentless.

It hadn't been much of a surprise when the first signs of pregnancy appeared—the exhaustion, the heightened sensitivity, the constant flutter in your lower belly. You had taken the test early that morning, standing in the dim light of the bathroom, your hands trembling slightly as you stared at the little stick.

Positive.

Your heart had clenched, a rush of emotions flooding you all at once. You were pregnant.

With Frank’s baby.

A part of him. A part of you.

You had pressed a hand to your still-flat stomach, a quiet smile tugging at your lips. He didn’t know yet. But you were determined to make sure he found out in the best possible way.

Frank was due home soon, and you had prepared everything meticulously. The dining table was set, bathed in the warm glow of candlelight. A bottle of his favorite whiskey sat next to a glass, waiting for him. And in the center of the table was a small, wrapped box—inside it, the positive pregnancy test, neatly nestled between a tiny onesie that read, Daddy’s Little Soldier.

Your heart pounded as you smoothed down your dress, glancing at the clock. Any moment now.

And then, right on time, the front door creaked open.

Frank stepped inside, shaking off his military jacket as he muttered something about "bloody politics" and "incompetent bureaucrats." His white hair was slightly tousled, his hooked nose flaring as he let out a tired sigh.

Then, his hazel eyes landed on you.

He stopped.

The irritation in his face melted away almost instantly as he took in the scene—the candles, the dinner, the whiskey. His sharp gaze flickered back to you, brows raising slightly. “What’s this?” His baritone voice was low, cautious, amused.

You smiled, stepping forward to take his jacket from his hands. “I thought I’d surprise you,” you murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to his cheek.

Frank hummed, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Now, what have I done to deserve this?” His fingers grazed your waist, his grip firm, possessive, as he pulled you against him. His scent—whiskey, musk, and something distinctly him—washed over you. “Have I been an especially good boy?”

You rolled your eyes at his teasing, but your stomach fluttered all the same. “You’ll see soon enough,” you replied, nudging him toward the table. “Sit.”

Frank gave you a long, assessing look but obeyed, settling into his chair with a heavy sigh. His chubby fingers reached for the whiskey, pouring himself a glass as his hazel eyes flickered toward the small wrapped box in the center of the table.

His gaze sharpened.

You swallowed, nerves creeping up your spine. “Open it.”

Frank set his glass down, his fingers moving with practiced precision as he untied the ribbon and lifted the lid. The moment his eyes landed on the onesie, he stilled.

Silence.

Then, slowly, he picked up the tiny garment, his rough, calloused fingers brushing over the words Daddy’s Little Soldier.

Your heart pounded. “Frank—”

But he wasn’t looking at the onesie anymore. His eyes had drifted to the object beneath it.

The pregnancy test.

Frank’s fingers curled around it, his hazel eyes darkening as he processed what he was seeing. The lines were unmistakable.

Positive.

For the first time since you’d known him, Frank Benson was speechless.

Your chest tightened. “Say something,” you whispered.

Frank exhaled sharply, his grip tightening around the test as he looked up at you. His expression was unreadable—shock, disbelief, something else you couldn’t quite place.

“You’re pregnant?” His voice was rough, almost hesitant.

You nodded. “Yes.”

His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to say something, but nothing came out. He just stared at you, his hazel eyes searching yours, his hooked nose flaring with each deep inhale.

Then, finally, after what felt like an eternity, he let out a deep, shuddering breath.

“Bloody hell,” he murmured.

You bit your lip, your stomach twisting in uncertainty. “Are you—are you happy?”

Frank blinked.

And then, to your absolute shock, he let out a low, breathless laugh.

A real, genuine laugh.

He shook his head, running a hand down his face before looking back at you, his expression somewhere between exasperation and utter, undeniable joy. “Christ, woman,” he muttered, his baritone voice rough. “Of course, I’m happy.”

Before you could even react, he was out of his chair, closing the distance between you in two strides. His large hands cupped your face, his lips crashing against yours in a kiss that was searing, desperate, filled with something you couldn’t quite name.

Possession.

Gratitude.

Love.

When he pulled back, his hooked nose brushed against yours, his breath warm and heavy. “You’re carrying my child,” he murmured, his voice raw with emotion.

You nodded, your throat tight.

Frank let out a slow exhale, his chubby fingers trailing down your body before settling on your stomach. His touch was uncharacteristically gentle, reverent. “My baby,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Our baby.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, your hands covering his. “Yes.”

Frank was quiet for a long moment, just staring at your stomach as if he could already see the life growing inside of you. Then, his grip tightened.

“I’m going to take care of you,” he said, his voice low, commanding, filled with absolute certainty. “Of both of you.”

Your heart clenched.

He lifted his gaze back to yours, his hazel eyes burning with intensity. “No arguments, love. You’re mine. And now, so is this little one.”

A shaky laugh escaped you. “I wouldn’t dream of arguing.”

Frank smirked. “Good girl.”

Then, with a satisfied hum, he pressed another kiss to your lips before dropping to his knees, his broad hands settling on your hips as he nuzzled against your stomach.

And in the dim glow of candlelight, with his baritone voice murmuring soft words against your skin, you realized—this was it.

This was everything.

[merelylillies]

⋆ ﾟ.☁︎｡⋅ ───────────────｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶

Note: ‘‘Starting to get the hang of it...might still be bad. Brace yourself I guess? Also not proofread so fingers crossed.,,

・・・・・​​⟢

Fandom: Hoyoverse's Genshin Impact

Pairing: (Fem.)Reader x Xiao || Alatus >>Mentioned: Malipo Kinich

Content Warnings: (NSFW) Kissing, Needy/Desperate vibes, Jealousy, Praise, Handjob (giving).

✦・・・・・​​・・・・・​​・・・・・​​・・・・・​​✦

The one time you left Paimon behind you felt surprisingly deprived of her usual chatter as you made your way up onto the cobblestone path. Though you supposed it was all well and good, she was with Xiangling, not only safe but with the company of endless food. Surely she won't complain by the time you pick her up tomorrow. Although as of right now, the atmosphere felt empty, the only noise being your heeled boots clacking onto the wooden platform of the open-air elevator. It had been a while since you last visited Wangshu Inn.

With everything that had happened between Fontaine and Natlan, it's fair to say a moment's rest has been few and far between. With the latter, upon meeting some of the tribes' people had you then suddenly grown homesick. The Malipo name bearer having played tricks on your eyes one too many times from behind. His tousled, dark blue strands with sharp cuts flooded nostalgia through your blood countless times, before you were inevitably met with green irises instead of the gold you so cherished. Lost in thought you'd barely registered the platform had reached the terrace with a clunk. Looking around, most of the guests had early turned in for the night, the moon hanging high in the sky and the air perfectly still if not for a small breeze. Walking off the elevator and rounding the entrance to the front desk, Verr Goldet was busying herself petting the inn's cat perched on the counter. She turned at the sound of footsteps with a clear look of surprise that melted into a welcoming smile.

"Welcome back Traveler," she spoke softly. Nodding in greeting you glanced around, eyes landing on the staircase leading to the upper terrace. Upon catching this Verr smiled almost knowingly.

“He's been waiting a long time you know?" she said cryptically.

“Oh." was all you managed to get out.

"Take this on my behalf will you?" she asks with an amused look before handing you a delicate plate with a decorated portion of Almond Tofu.

“Xiangling sent in a letter earlier when you departed from the harbor. I had Yanxiao make it before clocking out.".

“Thank you." you responded almost dumbfounded before taking the plate from her hands.

She nodded before turning back around to scribble away in her log book, leaving you to stare down at the dish before ultimately turning to make your way up the final flight of stairs. As you made it to the top of the stairs, building up your courage to call his name you stopped just short of the archway. To your surprise, the man was already there. Sitting balanced on the railing of the terrace, with one leg bent into his chest, the other dangling down towards the void. The Adeptus' back was to you, allowing you to gaze over the back of his hair, your brain almost warning you it's just another hopeful illusion. As your silence goes on, he turns his head in your direction, glowing yellow peering into you like daggers. Everything stilled for a little while, the two of you just staring at one another without making a move. Gods you had missed him.

“Hi Xiao." you offered, breaking the silence. He continues to look at you, then suddenly shifts, disappearing into thin air before reappearing a couple of steps away from you, standing stiffly. Swallowing your doubt, you walk closer holding the Tofu out to him.

“Yanxiao made this for you-" you suddenly stop at his expression, as he stares at you with a perplexed look, confusion mixed with upset and then switching to weariness.

“Xiao, what's wrong?" you ask concerned, eyes checking over his figure before feeling gloved fingers slide on top of yours holding up the plate.

Looking up at him, his eyes seemed to roam across your face frantically, and then finally settle on your eyes, gazing into them intensely. His other hand comes to your shoulder, gently holding you, before tightening his grip firmly once he knew for a fact you were actually standing before him. He seemed to be physically relieved at your presence. You were actually here. In front of him. Without another second wasted he pulled you into him, plate long forgotten on the floor. The embrace was rigid, but he pulled you in so tightly as if he were scared to even consider letting go.

A few beats pass by before he shifts his arms, his hands that were clutching at your back now trailing down near your waist. He continues to hold you there, pressed up against him, his head hovering above your shoulder, dark strands tickling your ear.

“Where have you been.” It sounded more like a statement than a question, an accusation almost.

Hesitating with your response you swallowed a bit nervous. “I was traveling to the other nations- I’ve been to Fontaine and Nat-”.

“You took so long.” He breathed out, almost a whisper.

“You worried me.” He started. “I started thinking you might’ve been stubborn again and refused to call upon me.” His voice turned stern again, despite the softness of his low volume.

“Xiao..”.

“Traveler..May I be selfish?”, He pulls back enough to look at you, his forehead grazing your own.

Nodding slowly at him, your eyes lock onto his, seeing the underlying passion and yearning and admiration that he hid deep within himself.

Before you could say anything else he closed the distance between you.

The kiss was soft at first but as you kissed him back, reciprocating his movements with practiced ease, he started leaning back, shrinking into himself more. This was experience he continued to lack even with the many times you’d shared kisses. Kissing and any physical intimacy was a foreign concept to him, so he couldn’t help the small noises that escape him as you didn’t let up on his lips.

It was almost embarrassing how worked up he started getting, the harsh persona faltering the more you pressed forward and the longer the kiss continued. He felt breathless. For all his training he suddenly couldn’t calm his racing heart and his shortness of air.

You let up for a few seconds, letting him fill his lungs before diving back in immediately after his first gasp.

“Aah-mm” The hum leaves him involuntarily. Xiao had never wanted to be the vocal type, but novelty to these sensations made it hard for him to surprise himself.

Could you just- Archons above. Give him a second- Suddenly, despite his rare initiation, he feels out of his depth.

Adepti are trained to have endless patience and composure. So dear Seven, what the FUCK. He was feeling things he shouldn’t, thoughts crossing his mind he would berate himself later for. But as you kept moving forward, hands mimicking his own, wrapping onto his own waist, all trace of thought was gone from his mind.

You felt yourself turn light as a feather for a moment before realizing you had changed settings. He had teleported you inside. Now in a beautifully decorated chamber, the furniture adorned with untouched, long-settled dust. This must be the room Verr keeps for him.

As your turned your focus back to Xiao the boy looked beyond unrecognizable. The usual scowl on his face replaced with an unreadable expression. His pale skin blushed over with red. The tips of his hair standing up a little wilder than normal. But most of all, his eyes. Oh his eyes.. They held you with their stare, glossed by the warm, dim light of a bedside lantern.

Xiao’s brain seemed to spontaneously re-wire itself as he shifted his footing. Walking over to him, you started kissing him again, firmly and with so much emotion from you missing him, leaving behind the slow gentle pecks from earlier.

He fell into your rhythm, not once fighting to control the kiss. Walking him backwards until the back of his knees hit the mattress, making him fall down with you straddling him. Almost grinning against his lips you opened your eyes to look at him. His unfocused, widened gaze and his half open mouth, lips turned more vibrant with friction.

As you settled above him your hand moving up to his waist before your hand grazes over the front of his pants, a hitch of his breath escaping in response. Surprised at the sound, your eyes trail down to his trousers only to be met with a more prominent bulge.

Oh. Oh.. oh.

He couldn’t meet your gaze, his forearm moving atop his face shielding his eyes.

“You missed me that much?”

“It’s an uncontrollable aspect of the male human body. Something you should well be aware of. Your own kind’s shortcomings.” He replies with a hoarse voice, trying to keep his tone steady and even.

“Oh I wouldn’t say shortcomings..” You reply smugly before shifting your palm down onto him.

“A-ah-” He cuts himself off with a hiss of a breath.

As your hand continues grinding onto him his breaths pick up again, chest stuttering with his small gasps. Brows visibly furrowing, as the arm shielding his face twitches in place with small trembles.

“You- m-mm-” He attempts.

“I what?” You tease back.

And he’s really trying. Rex Lapis knows he’s trying to hold it in. Not seem so..so.. needy. And he doesn’t want to beg. That’s pathetic and unbecoming of an illuminated beast, an immortal, weapon of war..

“You look so pretty Xiao”, You whisper, caressing his soft hair, fingers trailing down his jawline, “I missed you so.”

Curse Celestial-

“Please.”

You don’t even get to respond to his sudden plea before others pour in.

“Please. I-I desire your- hahatouch. Ah. You. Please.” His arm strongly planted over his eyes.

Smiling down at his shaky form, you dip your hands past his waistband and loosen the sash holding his pants. The fabric dips down his slim hips, his usually cold skin, burning to the touch.

Finally wrapping a hand around him he gasps louder, this time a high pitched moan fully tumbling out of his lips.

“Ha- Aa-ah fuck -mmmmh”

You give him a tentative slow stroke up before reaching the tip, thumbing at it while watching his reaction. His first bawling against his own palm, the less human features of his hands peaking out from their usual concealment. Nails sharpening and veins becoming more visible, running down his arm.

“Yes-ah just like that— AAah-” His fingers twitch as you repeat the motion, dragging your thumb slowly against the slit.

As you speed up your motions his back begins arching slightly, lifting off the mattress as his pitch heightens with breathlessness and an almost whiny undertone. Your hand tightening around him and squeezing him just how he needed and god it feels good.

And he’s basically never done this before, and so he’s already getting embarrassingly close. His heart feels like it’s in his throat with the way he feels unable to utter out anything more than pleasurable moans. Your hand picks up the pace, and he bites his lip, sharp canines almost piercing his already kissed raw, red lips. His arm barely staying still from the stimulation, shudders running their course throughout his body. Finally falling to the side, his arm yanks at the bedding, his eyes scrunched up in pleasure as his eyebrows knit together. His entire face is blushed heavily, not to mention the almost visible pants of hot air escaping his mouth with little to no restraint from him.

“I’m- I..”

“Hm? Does it feel nice Xiao?” You boldly inquired boldly.

“Is this what you desired? What you fantasized while waiting for me? Imagining me so desperately?”

He was so sensitive and he has been wanting you all this time- having to wait so long and he was pent up and you knew that- and-

“Fuck- ah-Aa-hah..Please I’m almost.. Ah-” His voice breaks on his last plea, feeling too out of it to care.

Without much else he comes undone into your hand, letting out a small mewl that resembles a whimper.

You move to hover over him closer to his face and he opens his eyes to look ups t you dazed but with determination in his eyes.

“Ah-a-Again….” He huffs.

“Hah-h please.”

[nabipumpum]

｡𖦹°‧ Coming back to you ᴴᵃⁿⁿⁱ ˣ ᴿᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

Pairing - Pham Hanni X fem!Reader

Genre - slight angst, fluff

Synopsis - Months after you have followed separate paths, the silence between you is as deafening as the words that have never been said. Both try to move on, but there is something that continues to connect them: absence. As time goes by, memories become more alive, and the lives you try to build without the other begin to unfold in unexpected ways.

Warnings! non idol au!, mention of alcoholism, a certain dependence?, not reviewed W.C.: 1.776

Part 1 | Part 2

Newjeans masterlist

Weeks turned into months, but the void left by Hanni didn’t seem to diminish.

You spent your days trying to fill the time, immersing yourself in routines that once seemed insignificant, but were now your only way to maintain your sanity. The support group, the new hobbies, the lonely nights you filled with old movies… Everything was an effort to move on.

But in the silence of the early morning, it was she who filled your mind. Hanni’s smile, the eyes that always seemed to see right through you, and even the way she caught your attention when she knew you were closing yourself off.

You knew you no longer had the right to text, but that didn’t stop your hand from hovering over your phone, your fingers itching to type a simple: “I miss you.”

And on the other side, Hanni wasn’t so different.

Although she had gone back to her routine and kept up appearances, the sound of her name still echoed in the corridors of your mind.

Sometimes, when conversations with her friends lost their meaning or when the silence became too heavy, Hanni found herself looking at her cell phone, going through old messages she never had the courage to delete.

She told herself it was better this way. But on especially lonely nights, Hanni felt the weight of what she had lost, and the longing was like a slow blade.

It was on a rainy afternoon that you found yourself walking aimlessly through the city. The fine drops soaked your jacket while your footsteps echoed on the wet sidewalk.

Everything seemed heavy, but at the same time, there was something comforting in the melancholy of the moment.

Without realizing it, you arrived at the park. The same park where everything began and ended. The memories came like a blow: Hanni on the swing, the way she looked at you when you said something that seemed to break her heart.

You sat on a bench, letting the rain mix with the tears that you didn't even realize were falling.

Meanwhile, on the other side of town, Hanni was at a café with some friends, but the conversation seemed distant. Something was off, and she knew exactly what it was: you.

“Are you okay?” Danielle asked, interrupting Hanni’s thoughts.

“Yeah, just… I’m distracted.” She replied, forcing a smile.

But when she looked out the window and saw the rain falling, Hanni felt her chest tighten again. The same tightness she felt whenever she thought about you.

A few weeks later, you finally crossed paths again. It wasn’t planned, but it seemed inevitable.

You were leaving a supermarket, holding a bag with fruit and bread, when you saw her. Hanni was on the other side of the street, walking quickly, a backpack slung over her shoulder.

Your heart stopped for a moment. You didn’t know if you called out to her or if you simply pretended not to see her.

But Hanni saw you. And, for a moment, your eyes met.

She hesitated, and you noticed the small, sad smile she gave before turning to continue walking.

Before you could think, you called out to her.

“Hanni!”

She stopped, turning around slowly. Her face was serene, but her eyes gave everything away: longing, hurt, and something else you couldn’t quite identify.

“Hi…” she said softly, as if the word was hard to say.

You hurried across the street, the words tumbling over each other in your mind. “I… I didn’t know I’d see you here.”

“I didn’t expect it either.” She replied, looking down at the ground for a moment.

The silence between you was heavy. It was the kind of silence that only existed between two people who had been everything to each other and were now just… strangers with a shared past.

“Are you okay?” you asked, finally.

Hanni nodded, but there was something in her manner that told you it was an automatic response. “And you?”

“I’m trying,” you answered honestly. “Some days are better than others.”

She looked at you, and for a moment, you thought she was going to say something important. But instead, she just smiled slightly. “I’m happy for you.” she said, before tightening her grip on her backpack and taking a step back. “I… I have to go.”

“Sure.” you answered quickly, feeling the familiar tightness in your chest. When she turned to leave, you stood there, watching as Hanni disappeared into the crowd.

And on the other side, Hanni couldn’t help but look back one last time, her face carrying a mix of longing and regret.

The days that followed were filled with the shadow of that encounter.

To you, the sight of Hanni seemed clearer than anything around you.

The way she looked at you, as if she was holding herself back from saying something else, haunted you.

Hanni, on the other hand, began to question her own choices. She knew she had done the right thing by walking away, but the sight of you trying to change, trying to move on, affected her in a way she couldn't explain.

They both went about their daily lives, pretending that time was healing them the wounds. But at night, when the world went silent, the emptiness left by the other seemed louder than ever.

Hanni thought of you. And you thought of Hanni.

But neither of you found the courage to fill the silence.

It was a cloudy afternoon when you saw her again. This time, it wasn’t by chance. After days of dwelling on the brief encounter at the supermarket, you decided you had to act.

You knew where to find her. A small café near Hanni’s college was the place where she usually studied. And there she was, sitting alone with her headphones on, a notebook open and a pen twirling between her fingers.

Your heart was beating fast as you approached her, hesitant. For a moment, you thought about going back, but then she looked up and your eyes met.

“You.” she said, surprised.

“Hi…” you replied, feeling your voice crack.

She took off her headphones, putting them aside. “What are you doing here?”

“I… wanted to talk to you.” you said, nervous. “If you have time.”

Hanni hesitated, but then closed her notebook and gestured to the seat across from her. “Okay. Tell me.”

You sat down, your hands sweating as you tried to find the right words. “I know we saw each other at the grocery store, and I didn’t say everything I wanted to. But… I needed to see you again.”

“Why?” she asked, her tone cautious.

“Because I wanted to show you that I’ve changed.” you said, taking a deep breath. “That everything you said to me that day in the park, and later at the café… I heard it, Hanni. And I took it to heart.”

She frowned, as if trying to understand where you were going with this.

“I’ve been sober for six months.” you continued, your voice shaking. “It wasn’t easy. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I did it. For me. Because I realized I couldn’t keep living the way I was.”

Hanni was silent, her eyes fixed on yours.

“And part of it was because I realized how much I hurt you,” you added, feeling the tears well up. “I don’t want to use you as an outlet ever again. I want to love you the way you deserve to be loved.”

She looked away for a moment, biting her lip. You didn’t know what to expect, but then she spoke:

“I’m happy for you.” she said softly. “I really am. You’re trying, and that’s… amazing. But I don’t know what that means for us.”

“It means that if you still have feelings for me, I want to try again.” you said, your voice thick with emotion. “But only if you want me to. Because I don’t expect you to trust me right away. I just want a chance to prove that I can be different.”

The silence that followed felt like an eternity, but then Hanni sighed and looked you in the eyes. “I’m not going to lie. I missed you. More than I’d like to admit.” But… I’m scared.”

“Scared of what?” you asked.

“Of getting hurt again.” she admitted. “Of letting myself believe that things will be different and ending up in the same place.”

“I understand.” you answered sincerely. “And I’m not going to ask you to trust me now. I just want to show you, over time, that you don’t need to be scared.”

Hanni looked at you for a moment longer, as if trying to see the truth behind your words. Finally, she gave a small smile.

“Okay…” she said softly. “Let’s see where this goes.”

Your heart skipped a beat, but you held it in. You knew this chance was just the beginning.

In the months that followed, you began to rebuild what you had lost. Hanni was cautious, but little by little, she began to relax around you. You shared laughs and long conversations again, but this time, there was something different: transparency.

You made a point of being present in every moment, not just the bad ones. You would invite Hanni to go for walks, to watch movies, to study. And she, in turn, began to trust you again.

One afternoon, while you were at the park — the same one where so many good and bad memories were made — Hanni held your hand.

“I think for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel afraid.” She said, smiling slightly.

You squeezed her hand, feeling your heart warm. “I promise you’ll never have to feel that way with me again.”

One night, while you were lying on the couch, watching a random movie, Hanni looked at you with a smile that was pure relief.

“You know I’m proud of you, right?” she said, her voice soft.

You smiled, feeling your eyes sting with the tears that were coming. “Thank you for giving me a chance. For believing in me, even after everything.”

Hanni leaned in to kiss your forehead. “I believe in you. I always have. I just needed you to believe in yourself too.”

In that moment, you knew that despite all the hardships, you had found your way back to each other.

And this time, it would be different.

[swtt4hk]

Meeting Sang-woo’s mom for the first time… || Cho Sang-woo x fem!Reader (Oneshot)

requested by: @sensationallysangwoo

you and Cho Sang-woo have been dating for a while. You guys met through a mutual friend who introduced you to each other and you both fell in love on first sight.

Sang-woo is a successful business man , who grew up in Ssangmun-dong as the smartest boy and the pride of his neighbourhood. His standards for women were always pretty high and that’s why he took a while to find the right woman. But when he first looked at you , he knew you were the one. The love of his life.

Your relationship with Sang-woo is all that you’ve dreamed of. He buys you gifts , you go on trips together and on his days off , he makes sure to give you all his attention. You couldn’t ask for something more and neither could he.

The fact that he wanted you to meet his mom , was a big deal for both of you. It meant that the relationship was getting more serious. You couldn’t lie , you were nervous about meeting his mom , even though he reassured you that everything will be okay and that his mom will absolutely adore you.

—are you sure she’ll like me? What if she thinks I’m not good enough for you?

you keep asking those kind of questions until you arrive at Sang-woo’s hometown , Ssangmun-dong. He helps you get out of the car and he can sense how nervous you feel and totally understands it. He’s a successful businessman while you’re just a secretary at a , not so very successful, company.

you’re just a few steps away from Sang-woo’s mother shop. She runs a fish shop , which you found ridiculous at first because with the money that Sang-woo has , his mom wouldn’t have to work for the rest of her life , but his mom actually enjoys working , even if it’s just a fish shop.

Sang-woo holds your hand tightly and gives you a reassuring smile.

—everything’s gonna be okay , hm? Just be yourself and don’t be nervous. You know that everytime you get nervous , it doesn’t help you with anything and it only makes things worse.

You take a deep breath before giving him a nod to walk towards him mom. When you stand in front of the store , Sang-woo’s mother looks at both of you with surprise.

—ah! Son what a nice surprise!

she says and hugs him

—it’s nice to see you again mom…

Sang-woo gestures you to stand beside him

—who is that son? Is she your co-worker?

Sang-woo chuckles

—no mom she….she is my girlfriend. And I brought here to introduce you to her.

his mom takes a look at you

—ahhh it’s so nice to meet you! What’s your name sweetheart?

—my name is Y/N…it’s so nice to family meet you mrs Hye-jin , Sang-woo has told me a lot about you.

—ohh I hope he has said good things about me!

she jokes and you all laugh.

She gets you to sit at a table , behind the store and you all start talking. As the conversation keeps going, your anxiety goes away and you start getting more comfortable with Sang-woo’s mom. She’s actually a really nice woman and she’s not too nosy or annoying like any other mom would be towards her son’s girlfriend.

At some point , Sang-woo excuses himself to go answer a call and leaves you too alone and your anxiety comes back. Sang-woo was helping the conversation to keep going but now you don’t know what to say. His mom looks at you with a serious expression on her face and sighs before speaking to you.

—Y/N…do you love my son?

the question catches you off guard but you look at her with a reassuring smile and respond

—of course I do , mrs Hye-jin.

—do you promise you’ll keep being a good girlfriend to him? He has told me a lot about you and I’m truly happy that he’s found the love of his life but…as his mom , I’m still worried.

—of course! I promise I’ll keep being nice to him , take care of him and maybe , in the future…take good care of our kids.

Sang-woo’s mom smiles and holds your hand

—I’m so happy to hear that you see your relationship with Sang-woo as a serious one. He’s been through a lot and I’m so thankful that he’s finally happy and in a serious relationship. You’ve changed him a lot…in a good way of course. But please focus on your job and responsibilities too because if you give him too much attention he becomes a brat.

She jokes and you both chuckle

—thank you for accepting me into your family mrs Hye-jin…I promise I’ll focus on both my job and Sang-woo and…I’ll keep an eye on him so he doesn’t become a brat.

You say and you both laugh again. Then Sang-woo comes back and sits on the table.

—What did I miss?

His mom looks at him with a strict attitude

—ya! How dare you start dating a girl like her and not introduce her to me earlier, huh?

His mom shouts at him and you try to hold your laugh back.

—hey mommm! I just wanted to see if things actually got serious! I’m sorry!

he says in a whiney tone

—make sure to take care of her properly! She’s a diamond , we can’t lose her , understood?

Sang-woo rolls his eyes

—understood…

You all have a good laugh , make more jokes and talk about many many things. Meeting Sang-woo’s mom wasn’t that bad after all…

———————————————————————

Thank you soooo much @sensationallysangwoo for requesting this ff! It really was a great idea and I enjoyed writing it! More fics coming soon!

[clonerightsagenda]

To celebrate space archives getting published I might as well post an abandoned short story from 3 years ago that deals with a lot of the same themes in a more concentrated way. This is my toxic yuri for 2025. Enjoy and see if you can remember the post I made about it back in 2022.

This Story Was Made Possible By Viewers Like You

I never liked confession cams.

You know, someone sits in a soundproof room with just the cameras and talks all teary-eyed about how they’ve struggled, and how they really feel, now that no one can hear. But of course someone can hear. You can. You’re there, in the room with them, a few months in the future and a hundred miles away. It’s all a performance. Everything is.  

I’m not doing that, ok? This is for me.

They came to the house with bags full of clothing and artificial smiles. They came with extra toothbrushes and half-constructed plans. They came with high hopes and already dented dreams.

I came with nothing. I was already there.

It started the same as always. They jumped when I greeted them and then stole glances at each other’s reactions. No one said anything back. I didn’t expect them to. I’d been getting everything ready. Twenty bedrooms, names on the doors. Lights on, temperature tweaked up there, down here, never quite comfortable. I’m very good at that part of my job.

That first arrival scene goes through a lot of editing. Cut out the boring bits, highlight the quirks that make contestants stand out. The details we highlight set the audience’s perception of each player. Create heroes, villains, characters. No one on these shows presents themselves as they really are. You get the construct.

Me? I get a little bit more.

Let’s skip the boring parts. They milled around for a while before finding their rooms. Most unpacked their clothes. One placed a photograph on her dressing table, angling it so it would be in easy view of the camera. A bid for sympathy, I figured, but my opinion wasn’t the one that mattered.

The files would have told me that her name was Gloria Martina Sosa, contestant ID seventeen, age twenty-nine, pronouns she/her. Employed in finance and competing because her mother needed to pay for a medical procedure. The files would tell me that, but I already knew.

This time, there was a container of chocolates on the table when Gloria inched down the hallway to the dining area. She was good at finding her way around the floorplan already, even though it was designed to send them circling in the wrong direction and bumping into each other. I wondered if they noticed.

She approached the chocolates cautiously. She knew it had to be a test. I knew she liked chocolate.

“Can –” She paused before old-fashioned manners asserted themselves. “May I have one?”

“Yes,” I said.

She slid her hand in. Then she hesitated again, fingers still reaching. “Would you like one?”

I checked to see if someone else had entered the room. Nothing on the visuals from any of the dining room cameras. She was the only one there.

She was talking to me.

“No,” I said, after an obvious pause. Then, because of the manners, “No thank you.”

Her fingers curled around a chocolate. “That was stupid of me.”

I didn’t need to answer that, so instead I thought about her motives. I couldn’t show favoritism; she should know that. Did she want to look empathetic for the audience? She wouldn’t win any points cozying up to me.

Maybe she meant it as a genuine kindness. It was early enough that she might not know better.

“Do you ever wish you could eat?” she asked. The chocolate was in her mouth, but her fingers folded and refolded the square of foil.

Why was she still talking to me? I couldn’t tell her it was against the rules – it wasn’t, officially. So I said, “This won’t make good television.”

Her eyes widened. She was thinking of all the time she’d wasted here, the time her competitors might have been using to build alliances or look for clues. She yanked the container of chocolates off the table and ran back toward the hallway. She’d use them as an offering, maybe, or a bargaining chip. She didn’t say thank you, or goodbye.

Why would she? I’m not a player. I’m the host.

#

I know how this sounds, so let me set the record straight. I’m not an artificial intelligence. People love to claim they’ve invented a thinking machine, but when you drill down to the bones of one you’ll always find an algorithm. Sure, this place runs on all sorts of automation, but at the end of the day, you need a human to come up with a wicked twist or make sure the tracking software doesn’t mix up Mateo and Benjamin because there was a mishap in the laundry room and they’re wearing each other’s clothes. AI doesn’t have the flexibility a project like this demands. I don’t think it ever will. Or maybe that’s wishful thinking, since if it happens, I’ll be out of a job. It’s not a great job (I’m making minimum wage here) but I don’t have to pay rent or buy groceries, so the money adds up.

There used to be a whole team – six-hour shifts, front-end and back-end crews – but budget cuts hit everywhere. It gets quiet sometimes, but at least I don’t have to make a big production of hiding when I’m going to the bathroom with a tampon. I do the best I can, drink a lot of coffee, and chalk any delays or mistakes up to a buggy operating system. There are surgeries you can get to keep you sharper – some employers insist on them – but I wouldn’t let anyone stick neurotech in my brain even if I could afford it. Too many horror stories. It’s easy to keep them thinking I’m a machine. I slap a voice filter on, and my disinterest in everyone’s drama means I don’t have to fake sounding inhumanly bored.

But enough about the woman behind the curtain. That’s not what anyone tunes in for.

#

About half the guests roamed the halls after dark the first night, which meant prowlers skulking around corners and smacking into each other. I downed two energy drinks and kept an eye out for the most entertaining close calls so I could cut them together later. On other nights I’d feel safe sneaking some sleep, but the first was always busy.

Gloria stayed in her room. Instead of climbing into bed right away, she knelt and whispered something in Spanish. The translation software would handle that for anyone who wanted to know what she was praying for. I could guess.

When she finished, she looked up. They’re never sure where to focus when they talk to me. I’ve learned to read that lost expression as a sign I’m about to be on call. “If I need something, do I just ask?”

“That’s correct.” When she didn’t say anything else, I continued, “Did you need something?”

“Not right now.” Not from me.

#

The next few weeks passed the usual way. Dean found an immunity stone hidden behind the false back of the pantry. Three different groups swore ill-fated alliances while pretending to be preoccupied with their laundry. The first contestants were voted off, mostly because of dismal challenge performances and in one case because Heather kept stealing other people’s toothpaste. (Luckily for me, I didn’t have to listen to them moping about being eliminated. The losers’ quarters had cameras, of course – everywhere does – but none of those feeds went to my workstation.)

Most of the time the participants treated me as so much background, but there are always exceptions. One afternoon Haruto and Farah were arguing about an inane piece of early twenty-first century pop culture trivia and wanted me to tell them who was right, and Anna was asking about the latest sports scores, and one of the microphones in the dining room wouldn’t connect right even though I’d run troubleshooting, and –

“Is Corey busy?”

I pressed the intercom button for Gloria’s room and said, “One moment, please.” Then I switched channels (click). “The home team won their last game 4 to 1.” Click. “Yes, it was the same actor; they used CGI to make him look younger.” Click. “Sorry for the delay.” I punched in Corey’s ID to pull up the last place the cameras had seen him. “A lot of guests are requesting my services right now.”

I don’t know what did it. Maybe a hint of exasperation crept into my tone, or the keystrokes filtered through the speakers, or a real sentient computer program wouldn’t apologize. Whatever tipped her off, Gloria’s eyebrows pulled down. It wasn’t an expression of surprise as much as it said, ‘I knew it’.  

“You’re not an AI,” she said. “Are you.”

Damn. I could have lied. The producers would’ve wanted me to, but they left me there to play the game however I chose. Besides, I’d already paused too long. A machine wouldn’t have to think about it.

“A lot of the answers are. There’s a library of canned responses for the most predictable questions. I’m here for the more complicated problems.”

“Here?” She spun her eyes around the room like I might pop out of a closet.

“On site. Behind the scenes.”

“But you can see and hear me?” She hunched in on herself. “I don’t like that.”

“You signed up to be on a TV show.”

“That’s different.”

Because I wasn’t an adoring fan. “Did you want an answer to your question?”

“You can see him too?” She was hung up on that considering the position she put herself in. The contracts they signed asked them to give away all sorts of control.

“I can see everyone. I’m not watching all the time, though. That’s part of the automation. I get notified when there’s activity that might be interesting.” I checked the relevant screen, which showed me the feed from camera 251. “He’s brushing his teeth.”

“Is that interesting?”

“Not according to the system.” Showering would be, because the system’s a pervert. So are the folks back home, although the editors make sure to frame things just right so that we can deny we’re showing anything explicit.

She sighed. She kept her head angled toward the floor, like denying the cameras eye contact preserved some sliver of her privacy. “I guess I can’t opt out.”

“Not until you go home. You could try to be less interesting, but it’ll cost you.” That strayed dangerously close to advice. “I’ll delete this conversation, though. Have to preserve my image.”

That got her head to pop up. “You can do that?”

I wiggled my fingers over the keyboard, a pointless gesture since she couldn’t see me. “As long as you’re in this building, I’m basically God.”

“God.” Her lip curled. I’d seen her praying earlier. Maybe my boast sounded like blasphemy. “What’s your name?”

“I can’t tell you. I’ve got rules. Sorry,” I added, repeating that human touch that betrayed me.

“I don’t know why I asked.” She looked away from the camera again. “Don’t watch me sleep.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” She was pretty. But watching a pretty woman over the cameras isn’t automatically creepy. If it is, what does that say about you?

I tried to keep my word. Gloria wanted to believe she still had boundaries, and unlike our loyal viewers, I don’t get my kicks spying on people. Every so often, though, my eyes crept back to her square on my monitor. I knew so much about these people, and she was the only one who knew I existed. That knowledge was like a blinking notification that never went away.

#

I didn’t expect Gloria to talk to me again, and for a few days she didn’t. She sat in silence while I announced the day’s events or when other participants asked me questions, a frown mostly smoothed off her face. I saw it, though. That’s what she was frowning about.

Four days after our conversation, she was tearing her room apart looking for something. It’d been twenty minutes, and she wasn’t going to find it. I was waiting for her to figure that out. She groaned, tilted her head up, and asked, “Do you know where my charger is?”

“Under the sofa in the living room.”

She jumped. “That was fast.”

“Pretty good AI impression, right?” I hadn’t been watching her sleep, but I’d been paying attention. So sue me. If she decided to spill my secret, I’d have to… well, I didn’t know. It had never happened before.

“Is anyone else there right now?”

“Haruto and Farah.” Still arguing, somehow. Getting worked up about each other’s vintage cinema opinions was their version of entertainment.

She sighed and sat on the side of her bed. “I don’t want to get sucked into whether we need any more live action remakes. Can you tell me when they leave?”

“Sure.” Informal. I was slipping.

She drummed her ankles against the floor and then, with a huff, hopped up again and began straightening the mess she made. She wasn’t a woman who liked to be still. I wasn’t surprised when she broke the silence. “Does anyone else know?”

“If they’ve guessed, they haven’t said anything. This isn’t a test, or one of the puzzles you’re supposed to solve. You weren’t supposed to notice.”

She slammed a drawer. “Do you like spying on people?”

“That’s not what I’m doing.” She snorted. “It’s a job. A boring one, most of the time. Alerts tell me when any of you do something relevant, and then I cut the best footage together and send it back to the real editors. I’m not watching you every second. Who would want to?”

That got her to stop folding a shirt and look up at camera 387 so I’d be sure to see the disgusted expression on her face. “The fans?”

Fair point. “I forget about them sometimes.”

“I doubt your bosses would be happy to hear that.” She moved on to stuffing toiletries back into her bag, but her movements were less ferocious. “How did you end up working here?”

“I worked as set crew on a few smaller projects. I didn’t get training for it, but I’m good at picking up just enough to make myself useful.” That’s what kept me around through round after round of layoffs. I learned the bare bones of other people’s jobs, and upper management decided bare bones was enough. That kind of approach doesn’t make friends in the workplace, but neither does getting fired. And hey, it worked out that I’m not a team player. The only one on my team now is me.

“Do you like reality TV?”

“Hell no.” I couldn’t believe anyone would put up with the genre without getting paid for it. “But a job’s a job. Did you always dream about starring in something like this?”

She paused, clutching a bottle of perfume. “Not like this.” She took a bracing whiff – the label said orange vanilla, but smell is one thing I can’t piggyback on. “You’ll delete this?”

The start of our conversation was already flagged. “Speak freely.”

“I liked the romantic ones when I was younger. The fairy tale element; I read a lot of fairy tales growing up. Later I realized how artificial they were, but you keep hoping.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe I told you that.”

Neither could I. Then again, they were encouraged to bare their souls for the cameras. It must be a hard habit to break. “Given the data I’ve collected, I think Anna is your one true love.”

Instead of laughing, she shoved the perfume into her bag. “I’m not here for that.”

“I know.”

She zipped up the bag, stood, and looked right at the camera, hands on hips. It was the closest I’d come to eye contact with someone in months. “How much do you know about me?”

“Mostly what’s in your files.” I reread them after she caught me. I had her entire application packet, every official scrap of information the network collected.

“And I don’t know anything about you.”

“You know I don’t like reality TV.”

“What’s your favorite color?”

She shot the question at me, and I responded reflexively. “Blue. At least it is now. I don’t see the sky much on this job.”

“Blue.” She digested that and looked past the cameras, up to the ceiling and the sky beyond that she’d only see through windows until the game was over. “I miss it too.”

“Now you know one thing about me. Happy?”

“Can I ask more, later?” She sucked her lower lip between her teeth; I think the question surprised her as much as it did me. “I don’t like being watched by a stranger. I can’t stop you watching, but I can stop you from being such a stranger.” A crafty spark entered her eyes. “You are here to answer our questions. That’s what they told us in orientation.”

They did tell them that. “I’ll do what I can,” I said. “But be careful. I don’t want everyone in the house asking me for my biography.”

#

Gloria was the one on camera, but she was the one who forgot herself. She was standing in the kitchen running a plate under the water when she looked toward a camera and asked, “What do you eat?”

“Uh,” said Benjamin, waiting for his turn at the sink. “Are you talking to me?”

“Based on existing data, Benjamin enjoys soy-based products and fresh fruit,” I said in my best automaton voice.

At least she caught on quick. “Thank you,” she said, and went back to rinsing pasta sauce off her dishes.

After she retreated to her room, she said, “I’m guessing I’m not supposed to socialize with you.”

“There aren’t any rules against it,” I said, which wasn’t a no, and then followed it up with, “It’s not the most strategic use of your time,” which wasn’t a yes.

“I need a break from everything out there sometimes. At least I know what you’re lying about.”

Safer not to comment on that one. Besides, she was still going.

“Mateo is always trying to make sure the cameras get his good side; you know he’s here to make a name for himself. And Anna keeps talking about how she wants to buy her own automated mansion, like she can’t imagine going back to having to manually turn on the lights. They’re so trivial. It makes me want to toss them out a window and tell them to come back when they have something serious to compete for.”

I didn’t comment on that either, but I could’ve. The truth was, at least half the participants needed the money for reasons beyond popularity contests or tech upgrades. It didn’t matter. If I told her, she wouldn’t think they deserved it as much as she did. Even without the files, I could have read her life story in her unblemished skin and name brand outfits. She’d never sweated through record-breaking summers because during surge periods companies always cut off the poorest neighborhoods first. She wrinkled her nose at the cricket flour crackers in the pantry like someone who had the luxury to leave food on her plate. She had no idea how many people watched her and wished they could take her place – not for a chance at a cash prize or fifteen minutes of fame, but just to have a safe place to sleep and enough to eat. When people watch shows like this, it’s not about rooting for an individual, not really. It’s about constructing elaborate narratives about themselves. Wanting participants, wanting to be them: there’s not much of a difference in the end. They’re all different flavors of consumption. Some players catch on faster and embrace being the product.

But Gloria was used to being on the other side of the equation. She’d been comfortable her whole life, and this medical bill was the first time she hadn’t had enough to make the world work the way she wanted. So she came running here for a fairy tale ending, because of course she was entitled to that along with everything else.

You’d think people like me who’ve been struggling their whole lives would fight hardest, but people like that? They get vicious.

Instead I said, “So you’re saying it’s nice to talk to me.”

“It’s a change.”

I minimized camera 16’s window where Richard and Destiny are gearing up to either start a fight or swap spit. Hard to tell with those two. “What do you want to talk about?”

“What do you think of us? You watch us all day.”

“Not all day, I told you. Honestly it’s – did you ever work customer service?” Her eyebrows jumped. I could’ve guessed that too. “Well, in that kind of job, you don’t pay much attention to individuals. You’re all one big crowd. Of course, you’re also my only live entertainment. Could you do anything more interesting?”

“Any suggestions?”

“Steal Corey’s watch.”  

She laughed. Corey told everyone who would listen how expensive his custom-made timepiece was. His audience hung on to every word, although they were mostly hanging on to his cheekbones. “That won’t get me any votes.”

“I’d vote for you.”

“You mean you’re not charmed by him?”

“Not my type.”

“Not mine either.”

I know, I thought, but I didn’t say it. She didn’t like to be reminded.

#

Gloria didn’t steal Corey’s watch. The next time he made a production of giving someone the time she looked right at the nearest camera, and I almost choked on my protein bar laughing.

After she left that conversation, she slipped into her room and leaned against the door. “You always delete the video when I’m talking to you, right?”

“It wouldn’t do me any good to send it on.”

Her shoulders loosened. It was surprising, and a little gratifying, that my presence now made her relax. “In the real world, you’re pressured to be doing something useful with every second of your life. In here, every second you’re performing for the cameras. It’s nice to be able to stop.”

I covered a yawn with one hand and reached for my coffee. “At least you get regular rest periods. I can’t give you details, but some people were keeping me up last night.”

She frowned. “Would you rather I let you go?”

The frown was also gratifying. “No, there’s enough I need to monitor right now anyway. Just keep your activities within regular business hours. That’ll make you a model participant in my book.”

“I’ll try.” She settled onto her bed and stretched her arms over her head, bending back the wrists. Then she asked, abruptly, “Do you have a favorite guest?”

“I’m not supposed to pick favorites. I won’t name names, but my least favorite is someone who starts whistling when they’re trying to concentrate. I always get the tune stuck in my head.”

“I’d hate that too.” She dropped her arms down and rested her hands in her lap. “It doesn’t seem fair. You get to see all of us, and I don’t get to see you.”

“It’s for the best that you can’t.” I shifted in my chair where I was sitting cross-legged in sweatpants I’d been wearing for three days straight. “I don’t have to be presentable to anyone back here. My hair’s a mess.”

She shrugged. “It would be nice to see any new face. Can you tell me what you look like?”

“Better not.” There weren’t any rules against that either – no one would’ve thought we needed them. But I wasn’t there to be looked at. “Just… imagine me. Whatever you’d like.”

She thought for a moment and then said, “You look nice.”

“Thank you.”

#

For the next month, I watched from my hundreds of cameras and listened through my hundreds of microphones. I scoured test banks for trivia questions and rearranged the responsive floor plan to build obstacle courses. I beamed everything back to our viewers, and the network compiled data to send back. Their demands were predictable. So-and-so is popular; be sure to get close-ups. Contestants X and Y don’t get along. Trap them in a room together with a malfunctioning door. Sometimes the instructions were specific, but often they just told me what the audience wanted. By now, I knew how to get it.

While I did that, I watched Gloria. She was average, as these things go. She lasted longer than half the participants in a challenge where I cranked the temperature lower and lower. Then she flopped when asked to identify the fake headline in a social media feed. She nodded to cameras with a half-smile, and although she could be doing it for the viewers, I couldn’t help but wonder if she was doing it for me.

She stayed kinder than I expected, even as everyone dropped the niceties and the game turned into a bloodbath of votes and eliminations. I’m not usually wrong reading people. I have so much to go on.

She kept talking to me late at night. Participants are promised some privacy in their bunks. (If they read their contracts line by line they know better. Viewers get very interested whenever a player invites someone else in. That was happening in two locations, so it was easy to cover up my own indiscretions.)

“Do you know what’s happening back home?

“Only what the network sends me.” I didn’t miss it. Participants signed up for fame or money, but escape would work as well. At least locked in this house, the problems weren’t real. You knew the challenges were fake, and everyone went to bed with a full stomach at the end of the day. It’s not a bad gig, really.

“I don’t know how my mother’s doing.” She was staring at the ceiling instead of making virtual eye contact with me. “Sometimes I’m afraid I won’t get back in time. It feels like it’s been longer than a few weeks.”

She didn’t seem to be waiting for a response. They were encouraged to think out loud for the cameras.

#

Nine weeks into this round of the game, she was in trouble. We didn’t talk about it. I was supposed to be her refuge from all that. Ridiculous, if you think about it, but we all have our illusions. She didn’t have access to viewer opinion polls or other players’ confessions, but I could tell from the way she held herself that she knew. If she didn’t win this week’s challenge, she was gone.

That shouldn’t have bothered me. I don’t pick favorites. Players come and go and nothing changes. Except…

I used to talk to my coworkers’ empty chairs to hear my own voice. I erased crosswords and started them again. The job without Gloria would be… boring. I didn’t want to look across all my monitors and not see her there.

I’ve never related to the viewers who root for their favorite contestant. This was different. They’re behind a screen watching the edited version of a woman from miles away, a woman who doesn’t even know they exist. I knew her. She knew me.

She didn’t ask for my help. I’d like to imagine she respected my integrity or didn’t want to risk my job, but I saw the way she threw herself into trying to shore up shaky alliances, too little too late. She’d rather rely on herself. I might be the all-seeing eye and the voice in her ear when she went to sleep, but when it comes to playing the game, no one pays attention to the help.

My inbox dinged. The network was responding to my latest batch of video. I skimmed through it: suggestions for contrived scenarios to start people fighting, instructions to let the showers break down, standard stuff. Then, at the end: We need new topics for this week’s trivia challenge. Any ideas?

The challenges got repetitive after a while. Production was always looking for suggestions. I opened a reply, started typing, and then paused.

I could help. No one would know. Gloria would be here, with me, for another week.

It wouldn’t be my first case of workplace dishonesty. I’d fibbed on timesheets and extended my breaks like everyone has. I’d kept my mouth shut and let coworkers take the fall for my mistakes. This was interference with the outcome of the show, though. I could get fired.

Who was going to catch me? Me?

I typed, What about fairy tales?

#

Gloria was exultant. She won the trivia challenge, securing her place for the week and spurring a nasty double cross in an alliance that had been planning on forcing her out. She paced back and forth in her room, rehashing her triumph. I responded with customer service hmms. It didn’t occur to her that I might be behind the convenient choice of topics. Which was fine. If she realized, she might let it slip, or expect more favors, and I’d risked enough already. It was fine that I was everywhere controlling everything and she still acted like she had no idea. People like her are the same everywhere. They assume the world runs itself.

“If I win next week’s challenge and Richard and Destiny stay on bad terms, I have a chance,” she said. “I could win.”

I didn’t say much in response. Maybe she thought I was being careful not to spill any show secrets, or maybe to her I was just another audience member witnessing her triumph. I’d had so much time to watch and still had trouble reading her.

I’m not omniscient, is the point. I never had the power to read her mind or control her or even save her in the end. I was only ever buying time.

I’d built a habit of letting emails pile up and answering them when I felt like it, but now I never closed my inbox. I took my phone with me on bathroom breaks or rare trips outside. Of course, if the network found out what I’d done, they might not bother with professional communication. They might send a crew in with no notice to throw me out on my ass.

That dampened my enthusiasm as Gloria dreamed of making the final three. Household malfunctions rose. I got jumpy. Anna asked me a question, and I froze, because for a moment I thought I’d been caught. A spam email snuck through my filter, and I spilled my energy drink all over the keyboard when I heard the notification. I wanted to scream through the intercoms, Don’t you know what I can do? What I’ve already done? You don’t even know that I’m here.

Instead I turned the heat up two degrees and reassured Anna that she’d buttoned up her dress correctly.  

#

In the end, I didn’t get caught. The shutdown order came for different reasons. Mateo, a fan favorite, had settled into a committed relationship. The move wasn’t popular with viewers. They liked him as a heartbreaker with someone else in his bunk every night. I don’t get the appeal, but ratings are ratings.

End the game, wipe their memories, and start over, the message said, with a list of new parameters to try. Just like the last four times I got this email. Neurotech sure has expanded the boundaries of reality programming.

Like I said, I’ve got horror stories.

I flicked through the changes. The bulk were new living arrangements and challenges tailored to different participants’ skills. The true appeal was more pathos for viewers to sigh over, as former lovers betrayed each other and friends met again as strangers. They eat it up so much I wonder if the game will ever end.

Maybe I should be happy about that. It’s job security.

I could see Gloria out of camera 43. She was selecting a meal packet and humming to herself. I wanted to warn her, to say that every time before this she’d become someone shut off or brittle or cruel, and that I liked her better this way. I wanted to tell her it’d been thirteen months since she saw her mother, not two. I wanted to ask if she had any idea. But I signed a contract too.

Instead I waited until after lights out and said, “Let me show you something.”

Gloria trusted me enough by now that she waited until I’d directed her to a blank stretch of wall to ask, “Why did you bring me here?”

“If you compare the interior to the outside of the house, this can’t be an exterior wall. There’s too much space. You didn’t notice?”

“I didn’t.”

She did in three of the other versions. Gloria had rarely been a model participant. She’d explored more, discovered more, when she wasn’t talking to me. “When people do, I tell them it’s not part of the game. It’s where we keep some of the machinery used to run the facilities.”

“What’s really on the other side?”

“Me.”

She started at that, looking from the camera to the wall and back again, like she assumed I lived in the fiber optics. “You’re there?”

“In my own set of apartments. It’s roomy now that I’m the only one. There’s a side door, so I even get a little sun sometimes. There’s a lot of machinery back here with me, though. We try not to lie when we can tell part of the truth. Makes it easier to keep track of everything.”

She reached out and presses her hand to the chipped paint of the wall. “You were always right here.”

“Hang on, I’m at a different terminal.” I hopped out of my chair and squeezed myself between my desk and the one that used to belong to Paulo before the last round of cutbacks. “Now I’m right there.” I was simplifying things, of course. There was at least a foot of wires and paneling between us, but it was still the closest we’d ever been. I reached out to press my hand to the wall and imagined the touch of another human’s skin against my own.

This was my last chance to tell the truth. I could reveal everything, lead her to the emergency exit only I knew about, and invite her to run away with me to… what? We were both there because we needed something, and the world won’t give you anything for free. In this house, blasphemy or not, I was basically God. I could steer her away from danger. I could construct a narrative. Outside, I couldn’t create a happy ending for either of us.

From what I knew of Gloria Martina Sosa, the many possible Gloria Martina Sosas who had walked under this roof, she would hate me for keeping this from her.

It was a good thing she didn’t know me at all.

“Why did you decide to tell me now?” she asked.

There were a lot of things I could have said. Because this version of you dies tomorrow. Because there are bigger rules I won’t break, and I want to believe I’m a person who would break some of them, for you. Because I’m saying goodbye, and you don’t even know it.

“Because we’re getting close to the end now,” I said. “You’ll be too busy soon to think about me.”

“It’s hard to not think about you when you’re watching all the time. Especially now that I know exactly where you are.” She ran her fingers across the paint before pulling away. “Maybe when this is over I’ll be able to see you face to face.”

I couldn’t hesitate. If I hesitated, she might guess something is wrong, and my entire job relied on returning polished answers with mechanical precision. “That would be nice.” I was using my work voice, all business. “You should get back to bed before anyone wonders why you’re up.”

She smiled – at the wall rather than the camera. She might have been looking toward me, but that means she didn’t meet my eyes. “Are you worried about my beauty sleep?”

“Rest is important,” I said. “I’m not supposed to have favorites, but I’m rooting for you.”

Thanks to my instructions, she made it back without running into anyone, turning corners and ducking into rooms without a word of protest. Once I delivered her to her room, she dimmed the lights and slipped into bed to while away the last few hours this version of her would ever see.

I watched her fall asleep, and I didn’t say a word.

Maybe next time.

#

They were called in for a medical check-up the next morning. “Is this a challenge?” Gloria asked while getting dressed.

“No,” I said. “It’s perfectly normal.” The producers would be pleased. I’d never sounded less human.

#

Teardown procedure between rounds was always the same. I filled out the standard paperwork and finished packaging the last days of footage to be shipped back to the editors. My email inbox could be thinned out. I’d gotten practiced, and none of the tasks took long. Then it was just me, the empty house, and Gloria’s ghost roaming the silent halls.

If you look at it right, I’m doing her a favor. Outside the house, the monsters are so much worse than me. People want to be you, or have you, and they’ll eat you alive. People who grew up like me would understand. They might even ask me to do the same for them.

I don’t know why I’m bothering to justify myself. My job is to watch and record, not to editorialize. There’s no reason for me to sit down in front of the camera and say, My name is Cal, and there’s nothing I could have done. But I guess I’ve caught the narrative bug after watching everyone else spin out their stories, because here I am making my recording. Wishing there was someone on the other side of the screen to turn me into someone new.

I have no illusions that I would be an audience favorite. That’s never been my role.

An email with the finalized set-up for round six arrived in my inbox, and I scanned it so I’d be prepared. There will be no chocolates next time. Every round, the producers try something different. But I will say hello, and maybe this time she will say it back.

#

They come to the house with bags full of clothing and artificial smiles. They come with extra toothbrushes and half-constructed plans. They come with high hopes and already dented dreams.

I come with nothing. I was already here.

[rvp32]

Which idols would fit the following gloryhole scenarios:

1) Free willingly goes to a gloryhole to have fun

2) Get's convinced to go and started really shy but ends up emptying everyone

3) Goes just for the voyeurism and while watching her friend, gets kinky and kisses her after someone gives a massive load in her friends mouth (also, who is the friend?)

4) Gets too excited and ends up letting someone fuck and creampie her pussy through the hole

5) During her time there keeps collecting all the loads in a glass just to drink everything at once by the end

Nayeon- Free willingly goes to a Gloryhole to have fun

Tzuyu- Gets convinced to go and starts really shy but ends up emptying everyone

Karina- Goes just for the voyeurism and while watching her friend, gets kinky and kisses her after someone gives a massive load in her friend's mouth (also, who is the friend?)

Yunjin- Gets too excited and ends up letting someone fuck and creampie her pussy through the hole

Jennie- During her time she keeps collecting all the loads in a glass just to drink everything at once by the end

[tokiro07]

Ichi the Witch ch.19 thoughts

[I'll Get You Next Time, Magik! Next time!!!]

(Topics: narrative analysis - arc progression/world-building, character analysis - World Hater/Ichi, speculation)

Aww, the ceiling battle's over already? Maaan...

It makes sense, though. You gotta save something for later, otherwise you can't escalate and everything is either stagnant at best or a deheightening at worst. Zoro vs. Mihawk didn't explain what Haki was, it just showed how vast the gap in power and skill was between the early-game Straw Hats and the One Piece world's strongest fighters

Looking at it through that lens, Desscaras vs. World Hater accomplished its goal quite well. Like I said last week, what took everything out of Ichi was a casual attack for Desscaras, World Hater still comes off as a viable threat because they were able to harm Desscaras despite her overwhelming power, and both still have room to impress and surprise us because we only got a small sample of their capabilities

It also establishes that brute force isn't enough to contend with World Hater. We already knew that since they're a Magik and can only be defeated through their trial, but at least now we know that their trial isn't related to hitting them in any one target spot. As they say, "merely being the strongest isn't nearly enough to effect me"

What this means is that, while being strong may turn out to be a prerequisite to pass, another element will be vital for defeating World Hater. I think it goes without saying that Ichi will be the key to determining what that element is, since his entire role in the narrative so far has been to defy conventional wisdom and tradition, but whether that means that only Ichi can acquire World Hater or will simply facilitate someone else doing so (personally I'd bet on Kumugi) remains to be seen

The odd thing about this, though, is that if Desscaras couldn't hope to beat World Hater, why did World Hater leave?

This Calls for a Tactical Retreat

Theoretically, World Hater's strength should be inexhaustible, while clearly Desscaras was starting to run out of steam. Sooner or later, no matter what Desscaras threw out at them, World Hater should have been able to overtake her and eliminate her as a threat

Perhaps it was because Togeice showed up? Togeice is more analytical than Desscaras, so perhaps World Hater assumed she might be capable of figuring out their trial?

That doesn't seem very likely, since I don't think World Hater has any way of knowing who Togeice even is. If they aren't familiar with her or her abilities, they shouldn't be able to assess her threat level so easily, and given how nonchalant they've been against their other opponents so far, it's not like they're a generally cautious fighter in the first place

In fact, it wasn't Togeice's appearance that prompted World Hater to retreat - it was the disappearance of their target, the villagers. It was only upon noticing the villages leaving the barrier that World Hater decided there wasn't a point to combat any longer, even if it would have meant, again, eliminating major threats

I have two guesses as to why that might be the case:

World Hater can only exist in the world for so long consecutively, and didn't have time to chase down his targets after they'd escaped his barrier

Facilitating the escape of World Hater's targets is related to their trial

The first is supported by the fact that World Hater isn't just constantly warping towns day after day, but instead only appears once in a blue moon to target one or two at once. However, as far as we can tell, it's been years since their last appearance, but we know they're going to come back much faster this time simply by virtue of the story requiring it to advance, so a consistent hard limit on their presence seems somewhat unlikely

The second would definitely explain why he'd be in such a hurry to go, as even if there were another step to take to actually pass the trial, it would certainly be much easier to do once the first hurdle was cleared. However, nothing about World Hater's demeanor seemed to indicate that they were actually worried about that possibility, but this might be a matter of World Hater's character acting and lack of strong emotions

Either way, the incongruence of World Hater's decision to leave seems to carry some interesting implications about them that I hope will bear fruit later, but that really isn't the main draw of this chapter

No, the much more important element of this chapter is the new piece of world-building: the Magic Circle, or a Witch's inner world

Domain Expansion Lite

When we enter Ichi's inner world, we learn two things:

That it resembles Ichi's ideal form of a mountain forest

That all of Ichi's acquired Magiks currently reside there

I'm ecstatic that Inazuri and Uruwashi are both still around and not just completely dormant in their magic stones, as this means that there is still a method for both of them to still function as characters without necessitating that every acquired Magik be everpresent and crowding the narrative. It allows Nishi to use them on an as-needed basis rather than needing Usazaki to have them constantly and uselessly taking up panel space

I am curious how Nishi is going to use this concept, though. Ichi only ended up in his Magic Circle because he was knocked out fighting World Hater, but this is his third time passing out from using Uroro, and yet he didn't end up here before? That's a little odd. I assume he'll be able to come and go as he pleases once he has a bit more training and familiarity with magic, but to what end?

Does time move differently in one's inner world like it does in Bleach? Will he be able to train with his Magiks in there? Will he be able to manifest his inner world like a Jujutsu Sorcerer? Or is it just a way to let Witches commune with their Magiks and reflect on their characterization?

That last one is certainly the case if nothing else, as Ichi's is, again, based on his ideal scenario. It's his world, and it's shaped accordingly - crisp, clean air that's easy to breathe, rich soil that supports bountiful flora, and presumably any creature that Ichi could dream of hunting. It's everything Ichi could ever want

But will that be the case for every Witch?

Is the inner world always one's personal paradise, or does it depend on the circumstances? Ichi certainly didn't always consider mountain life to be his ideal, so perhaps does the inner world reflect one's state of mind?

What would we see in Desscaras' Magic Circle? If it's based on one's self-image, we might see a lavish palace surrounded by adoring fans, the way Desscaras seems to think people view her

If it's based on one's mental state, we might see the warped remains of her old life, informed by her drive to take revenge on the World Hater

Or, if it really is based on one's ideal, we might see what once was. A mundane little house in a mundane little town, and a mundane little family living their mundane little life. Would this be the only way that Desscaras could see them again? The only way she could talk to them and hold them as she once did? Or would it just be a mirage, a video on playback that she can't interact with in any meaningful way, merely a cruel reminder of all she's lost?

Depending on how Nishi chooses to play it, this might even be how Witches get their titles. Monegold's may be lined with gold, Togeice's may be a glittering tundra, and Desscaras'...well, I think you can imagine

I also have to wonder if perhaps this will play some role in the fight against World Hater. Perhaps retreating into one's inner world is a way to evade them? Or they'll be able to enter other people's inner worlds with their portals? They were the same design as the one Uroro pushed Ichi into to send him back to the real world, so maybe World Hater spends their time in their own inner world?

I don't want to read into this too much since...we literally haven't seen anything of it yet, but it provides such an interesting narrative opportunity that I can't help but look forward to how it develops further

And it seems that the same can be said of Ichi

You Haven't Seen the Last of Me

Ichi accepts his loss with shocking grace, believing himself to be the hunted rather than the hunter in this case. I suppose the fact that he doesn't have any grand ambitions helps, as he doesn't have anything to regret, but the fact that he doesn't even seem frustrated is a very interesting angle for his character

Instead, he seems more determined than ever. I know that's pretty standard shonen fare, but the transition is just so...seamless. Like it never occurred to him to be even the slightest bit downtrodden about the loss, he just calmly analyzed it and moved on to thinking about his next steps

Knowing that he's lucky to have lived to fight another day, Ichi presses his hands to the screen that he's watching the World Hater through and vows to gain the strength to one day hunt them down. World Hater, sensing Ichi's bloodlust just as Ichi could sense theirs at the beginning of their battle, turns to his unconscious body...

And smiles

Fellas, is it still yaoi if one of you uses "they/them?"

A few chapters ago I suggested that World Hater may see something in Ichi that they've been looking for, the missing puzzle piece in their life that would make them whole. This doesn't necessarily confirm that, but the World Hater is clearly pleased that Ichi is coming away from his near-death with the resolve to come back better than ever. Possibly for the first time in his life, World Hater has something to look forward to, a way to spend his time other than going through the motions of his usual raison d'etre of mindless destruction

And by the looks of it, I'm not the only one who noticed that

Lamb to the Slaughter

As the World Hater vanishes through their portal, Uroro offers Ichi a warning: "you're gonna end up a sacrifice," and then refuses to elaborate further, passing the buck onto Desscaras

Now, I won't say for sure that this is related to World Hater smiling, but my guess is that everyone has reached the same conclusion: whatever World Hater's trial is, Ichi is their best bet at figuring it out

As Desscaras pointed out last week, World Hater took unique measures when dealing with Ichi, as if they were scared of him, and in comparison were surprisingly casual in how they dealt with Desscaras. This suggests that Ichi has something that Desscaras doesn't, something that makes the World Hater actually consider the possibility that he might be in danger of being acquired

And so, just as Ichi is going to be willing to learn more about being a Witch, Mantinel is certainly going to be willing to teach him, but for completely different reasons: whereas he wants to get stronger, they want to fatten him up and use him as bait for the World Hater

Or at least, that's the impression that Uroro is giving. His word certainly can't be taken at face value, as he's already tried to get Ichi to turn against Mantinel a number of times, but if Mantinel is going to dangle a carrot in front of Ichi that Uroro thinks is actually a stick, then pointing out the stick to Ichi is a win for Uroro whether it's really there or not

Personally I think it would be interesting if Mantinel has a double motive, both trying to bolster Ichi as one of their own and raise him up as a scapegoat to take out one of their biggest threats at the cost of his own life rather than any of theirs. Putting a little bit of political drama like that might be a fun way to up the complexity of the narrative and potentially create a schism within the Witches Association as a whole, but again, I may be getting ahead of myself

Until next time, let's enjoy life!