#and i refuse to open up a dozen boxes to only put up one or two items fuck the mess THAT would inevitably create in the freezers

[asyourshadowfalls]

got a report yesterday that one of the stores complained that i hadnt been moving stock there all weekend (BS cause I moved 14 cases in that store alone which for a non sale weekend that's a lot ime) but of course it had me paranoid that I would have to field a call from higher up because that store in specific is the one watched closely. just got a message from that higher up, 97% in stock across all stores (even more than the other team mentioned) so FUCK YOU dude. 'm gonna be less salty than i had planned to be if i actually got 'in trouble', but still not gonna be buddy buddy with that fuck anymore

[whereianonymouslypostfics]

Caught 

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x reader

Word count: ~1.7k

Summary: You find out Wanda’s bad habit and put a stop to it. 

A/N: The other reason why Wanda would end up couched. 

Warnings: Angst.

Wanda sighed in annoyance as she looked to the group of men she’d been with for far too long. She wondered how despite being in the business for years, there were some things that she could neither change nor avoid in order to be respected. She was fine with drinking, as long as it wasn’t an excessive amount. A drink or two while discussing business wasn’t that big of a deal to her. As long as she didn’t come home drunk and disorderly you didn’t mind too much either.

Unfortunately, another habit she needed to fit in and talk shop was smoking. She refused to smoke cigars because they smelled and tasted foul, but she hadn’t been able to refuse the occasional cigarette from someone. She hated every second of it and knew you would be pissed, so she tried to keep it from you and limit it to one whenever she felt the pressure to smoke.

She should have known that any attempt to keep things from you would only backfire horribly.

Wanda was already tense from the poor negotiating skills of her employees when she arrives home to see that you’re already there. She panics slightly as she realizes that she didn’t beat you home in time to shower and brush her teeth half a dozen times like she usually does after she smokes. Wanda doesn’t get a lot of time to consider how to sneak upstairs without having to get too close to you when she sees the door to the mudroom open. She watches as Boone runs out first and starts to open her door to get out so she can greet him like she normally would.

“Hi, buddy.”

Wanda scratches the shepherd behind his ears and she tries not to notice how he’s sniffing her a little more than usual. It’s at this time that she remembers that she has the rest of the box that had been gifted to her in her pocket. She couldn’t throw it away in front of them, and she now had almost a full box on her for you to find. She just manages to make her expression neutral as you stick your head out the door with a smile.

“Hey there, I’m making dinner, but you’re home earlier than I thought.”

Wanda just smiles as she waves you off and heads over to you with a sigh. She figures she might as well get this over with. You’re bound to be angry at her, but she knows that being upfront about it usually gets her off easier than trying to hide this would.

“You’re the best. I wanted to--.”

“Oh wait, sorry one second!”

The oven timer goes off signaling that something’s ready, and you run back inside to grab it. Wanda sighs in relief as she follows after Boone who’s already running for the kitchen. You’re pulling the green beans out of the oven that you’ve made to go with one of Wanda’s favorite dishes. She nearly cries when she realizes what you’ve cooked for her, and when she spots what she knows is cheesy bread she’s going to eat way too much of she nearly loses it.

You’re going to be so mad.

“Sorry about that. How was your day?”

You place the baking sheet on the counter before putting the contents in a bowl and covering it so they stay warm. You shoot Wanda a curious look as she just shrugs despite looking tense about something. You figure it’s work related because it usually is, and you frown as you think of how you can cheer her up.

“It was stressful, nothing new unfortunately. How about you, detka?”

You smile as you turn back around from putting the bread in the oven. You groan loudly and dramatically as you check on the chicken that cooking on the stove. It’s not quite done, but luckily you won’t have to wait long. You smile at Boone who’s sitting outside of the kitchen wagging his tail like a good boy. He’s not allowed in the kitchen while you’re cooking. Not since you’d tripped over him and cut yourself.

“It was okay. There was this one client though, he smelled so bad I struggled to get through the appointment.”

Wanda doesn’t even have time to wonder in what way before you’re telling her with a disgusted look. She really wasn’t getting away with this, was she?

“The room reeked of cigarettes for the rest of the day. It was awful.”

You frown when Wanda seems to tense even more and you watch her eyes dart toward the stairs as she offers you a smile that you see through immediately.

“That’s the worst. Is there anything I can help with?”

You watch as your wife only takes a step closer to you to glance over the counter. You shake your head because you’re nearly done, but your smile disappears when your wife nearly flees for the stairs. She can’t seem to get away from you fast enough.

“No, thanks. I’m almost done!”

Wanda nods at this as she takes a step back and tries to retreat as gracefully as possible. She needs to burn her clothes and wash her hair, so there’s no trace of her misdeeds left for you to find.

“Okay, well I’m going to shower really quickly, but I’ll be back soon.”

Now you were really confused because Wanda never showered before dinner. She liked to shower right before going to bed, or right after waking up. The only other time she showered was if something had happened from work that she needed to wash away. This thought makes you suspicious and you decide to test your theory by shooting your wife a questioning look.

“Do I have to wait until after to get my kiss hello?”

Your suspicions grow exponentially when Wanda hesitates as she considers this. She sighs inaudibly before turning back toward you with a smile that doesn’t quite hide her nerves.

“Of course not.”

Wanda walks toward you and around the kitchen counter to meet you for a quick kiss. She watches as you smile in return and she leans in and decides to count to three before breaking away.

Your wife is remarkably tense as she approaches you for a kiss in a way that’s similar to how you’d imagine someone approaches a sentencing. You don’t understand what’s wrong until she’s within reach, and it’s confirmed as soon as she kisses you.

Despite the smell of dinner cooking and the residual smell of smoke you have from work, you notice that the latter grows as Wanda leans in. You realize that she must have been around some people for work who had been smoking. This was annoying, but you weren’t too upset about that. This changed as soon as she kissed you. She tasted like smoke and you’re pulling away before you can stop yourself. You don’t miss Wanda flinch and you know that your suspicions are correct as soon as she takes a step back.

“Have-have you been smoking?”

You don’t really need an answer. You basically have it, and when Wanda refuses to look at you it’s confirmation. You aren’t sure where to start there’s so much you want to say, but the first question you ask is arguably the most important.

“How long has this been going on?”

Wanda hurries to explain herself and reassure you that it’s only been a few months. She hasn’t been hiding this from you for years, not that she could, and she doesn’t even do it that often. This is maybe the fifth time? She doesn’t say this though as she tries to justify her idiotic decision.

“No, no. I just—I had to for work is all, but it’s not that often. I--.”

Wanda doesn’t get to finish her sentence before you’re shooting her a glare and shaking your head at the troubling words. You don’t care why she started smoking, but you sure as hell want her to stop.

“I don’t care how often it is, Wands! It’s horrible for you and you need to stop.”

Wanda’s reaching into her pocket for something as she shoots you a sheepish look that you miss. You’re too focused on the pack of cigarettes she takes out, and you’re grabbing them from her almost immediately.

“They’re filtered…I think that’s better?”

When you grab the box from her and raise your arm she flinches slightly. She thinks you’re going to throw them at her, but as she watches you chuck them into the living room, towards the fire place, she’s only slightly less terrified as she turns back to you.

“That doesn’t fucking matter! They’ll kill you, and unless you want to sleep on the couch indefinitely, you’ll stop now. Are we clear?”

Wanda just nods silently as she meets your glare with an anxious look. She’s really fucked up this time, and she’s tempted to apologize and sleep on the couch tonight just to make you less mad. You don’t let her get away with not speaking, and you cross your arms as you stare her down.

“I’m serious Wanda. I can’t be married to you if you keep doing something this reckless.” 

You knew your reasoning was slightly hypocritical, but to you there was a huge difference between what Wanda did for work and this. Sure, she led a dangerous life, a reckless life on some days, but that was a choice that you’d come to terms with. You just asked her to be careful and not put herself in any more danger than strictly necessary. She agreed to this and you’d put your faith in her that she’d do as you asked. This was not what you asked, and the fact that she voluntarily did something that was arguably more dangerous than getting shot, at least long term, was something that you wouldn’t tolerate.

Wanda just nods again in understanding before she sighs in defeat. She hates that she’s upset you, but she’ll do anything she has to in order to make it up to you.

“Okay, I’ll stop. I promise.”

You smile at this and on instinct, you start to lean in to hug her, but you stop short. You sigh before waving her back towards the stairs, and she catches on quickly.

“Go shower and get rid of the smell. Then come back down here and eat dinner with me.”

Wanda smiles widely before she runs up the stairs to do as you ask. She’s more than happy to clean up and get on your good side. Not to mention she wants to eat dinner.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You roll your eyes as you watch your wife leave before you turn back to the oven. You turn it off but leave the bread in before putting the rest of the food that’s not on the stove back in to keep it warm. You sigh in defeat before you shake your head at your ridiculous wife.

“Smart ass.”

Masterlist

[petrichor-idyllic]

Ok, I have a request based on your new prompt list. The names got me thinking, and I was wondering if you could do just the Gladers x Fem!Reader who joins them and is a total badass, and has a title, like in the books, and she’s “the warrior.” And she’s named Joan after Joan of Arc. Could be a fic or just headcanons, whichever is easiest for you. Thanks!

Ooo this is a really fun idea. I'm gonna do some headcanons simply because that is easier for me to do.

Also, not my normal headcanons with separate sections for each boy - this is about your life in the Glade and relationships with the Gladers.

Also, fem!reader, so no romance with Newt as specified on my masterlist, but y'all are buddies.

And I've decided to use another one of my ideas, so you're even more of a pain in WICKED's ass :).

THE WARRIOR

MASTERLIST | MULTI-CHARACTER MASTERLIST

SUMMARY: See above. Book based fic.

WICKED stole your name and called you Joan - and there's a good reason for that. You were a test Subject and WICKED prodigy that broke into the Maze to help your friends - and WICKED couldn't really do anything about it.

(If you're actually called Joan, congrats, this is for you, I guess.)

WARNINGS: Inappropriate language, actually follows the naming canon so no (Y/N), awkward Glader flirting. I fully don't how I'm gonna write this so prepare for me to butcher this prompt. This is a bit of a different layout so I decided to have some fun with it.

LOADING SUBJECT INFORMATION

SUBJECT NUMBER: A3 "The Warrior"

BIRTH NAME: (Y/N) (L/N).

SUBJECT GIVEN NAME: Joan.

NOTES: Subject A3 shows signs of rebellion and aggression. This is not surprising considering the means she went through to enter the Maze Trails. Though, her efforts may have been beneficial. Due to being the only female Group A Subject for the majority of the Maze Trails, she is volatile and untrusting. However, A3 does display close relationships with several other Subjects.

LOADING GLADER EXPERIENCE

You had an eventful first week in the Glade.

As eventful as a first week can be, really.

Initially, you freaked the fuck out.

You woke up in a dark box with nothing but your name and the smell of burning oil.

And then the Box opened up and you weren't the only one freaking out.

Surrounded by a couple dozen boys - no one knew what to do.

Unbeknownst to you, not only were you the only girl the Gladers had ever seen - but you'd also shown up between Greenie days.

They weren't due another Greenie for another week and a half.

Confusion spread through the Glade like wildfire.

The first person you met was Newt.

He seemed to be one of the few boys that weren't going absolutely savage at your presence.

He offered you a hand, which you refused to take at first.

Until the Box jolted again, and started to move with you still inside it.

"Oi, come on! Jump!"

"What's happening?!"

"I don't shuckin' know! Jump!"

With the help of several other pairs of hands, you decide to jump, and Newt yanks you up.

And you see the the Glade for the first time.

And the opening in the Walls.

You don't even have to think about.

When Newt tries to talk to you, you clock him square in the face and book it towards the exit.

AKA. The Maze.

Which results in a kind of stampede as you rush to escape.

Which, is where you meet Minho.

It's late in the day and Minho has finished his route early so he's coming back to chill out for a bit.

Except that doesn't happen because you come whizzing past him.

"Minho! Stop her!"

"What?"

"Stop the shuckin' girl!"

Admittedly, you are faster than he expected.

But not faster than him.

You manage to get around a corner before he tackles you, rugby style.

He manages to restrain you, and Alby and Newt come to help and wrestle you back to the Glade.

You're put in the Slammer.

Bummer.

The Gladers use the time you're locked up to figure out what to do.

Alby puts a very strong no touching rule in place and threatened to Banish anyone that dare break it.

After that, he goes out of his way to try and calm you down and explain what's happening here.

Eventually you oblige.

And Alby shows you the place.

He introduces you to people of note - Winston, Zart, Gally, Frypan and the other Keepers.

And he reintroduces you to Newt and Minho.

You learn things about yourself over the next following weeks.

You're feisty and forward.

You have a short fuse.

You're somewhat skilled at hand to hand combat and could probably put up a good fight against most of the Gladers.

You're sarcastic and quick witted.

Though, you remain level headed and fast thinking.

You try out all the jobs.

You settle on being a Builder for a while.

Which Gally is thrilled about.

You, surprisingly, actually get along with Gally quite well.

Sure, he's a bit of a dick and has far too many opinions.

But, he's a good boss.

He's strict and hard-working; pushing his men to the bets of their ability, and in your opinion, what they need.

This lands you in Gally's circle, which includes Frypan.

Gally isn't well liked.

Which is fine with you.

It means the boys leave you alone.

And, you get the opportunity to build your own little hut.

You like working as a Builder.

This also leads to the first of the boys developing a crush on you - Gally.

Frypan is quick to second that.

The third is Minho.

It's not like the pair of you are particularly close, but after Newt suggests you be a Runner - that changes.

You're fast and resilient; both of which Minho is looking for in his men.

You decide to try out, which makes Minho your boss.

Gally isn't very pleased, but you work where you're needed.

It's not that difficult, the worst part being not getting lost.

But Minho isn't going to leave you alone until you're ready.

Spending time with you, he learns you have a similar sense of humour.

And you've forgiven him for flooring you.

So, he starts crushing on you too.

As in my other headcanons, Alby really doesn't care about you.

Well, he does.

But just as another Glader.

Though he does appreciate the hard work you do, and the fact you keep the majority of his most problematic men distracted.

Newt is probably the person you're closest to.

Mainly because you never catch him staring at your ass or tits.

He's respectful.

And not attracted to you.

Because he's gay.

You're a fully fledged Runner by the time Thomas shows up.

You don't really think much of him at first.

Because absolutely no one did.

But he admired you.

He thought you were cool and skilled, very much the same way he looked up to Minho.

You were devastated when Thomas, Minho and Alby got stuck out in the Maze.

Gally tried his best to comfort you, but he didn't get very far.

"If anyone can survive the Maze; it's Minho."

"No one survives a night, Gally - we both know that."

Frypan's attempts weren't much better.

Newt was too busy figuring out how the heck he was going to run the Glade without Alby.

Yet, somehow, they both survived.

You don't think you've ever hugged someone as hard as you hugged Minho when you saw him.

Everyone's jealous of Minho for that.

Oh yeah, Teresa.

She showed up the day after Thomas.

You were thrilled to have another girl.

And then she wasn't conscious.

Bummer.

You kinda forgot about her after that.

Until she woke up, and everything went wrong in the Glade.

The sky disappearing, the Doors not closing, Grievers taking someone every night.

Including Alby.

And Gally disappeared.

A devastating blow.

You became one of the faces of the escape.

Cracking the code wasn't easy, but you all managed.

Thomas and Minho's theory about jumping into the void had you skeptical but you didn't have anything better to do than throw rocks off the Cliff for hours.

Thomas then gets stung.

And once awake, tells you how you were never meant to be in this Maze. You broke in, presumably to help your friends.

No wonder Newt and Minho wanted you to become a Runner.

Anyway, you escape.

Gally pops up again.

Kills Chuck.

RIP.

Thomas flips his lid.

And you escape.

Definitely not my best work but I really didn't know how to do this.

I'm stressed and I tried my best lmao.

Hope you're cool with that. Kinda.

:))

[klausinamarink]

The New Highs and Lows of a Ball Boy

rating: G | cw: ankle injury | tags: volleyball, pre-relationship, Jeff is Eddie’s best friend, sweetheart Steve, secret Shakespeare fan Steve, post S1 | wc: 1000

written for @steddieholidaydrabbles | Dec 22: Sports AU

-

This is humiliating. Eddie thought miserably as he stood next to the wheeled box of volleyballs. He wasn’t even allowed to sit down on the bench. The coach couldn’t let him help with the net’s setup 

He glanced again at the gym’s clock. 3:27. God, he should be doing the Hellfire campaign right now.

But nope. Jeff had forced him to postpone the next campaign to Tuesday because the boy’s volleyball team had some extra practice today for some upcoming state tournament Eddie gave little fucks about. Then Jeff had (albeit apologetically) dropped the bomb that he wanted to drag Eddie to the gym as their replacement ball boy.

Eddie did not like that and refused to budge.

Until Jeff had looked Eddie in the eye and said, “Postpone and do this favor for me or I will tell the club about the trash can incident.”

The unwavering confidence Eddie had at the time immediately froze into dread. “You wouldn’t-”

“What’s the trash can incident?” Frankie had asked.

Jeff had opened his mouth to answer but Eddie frantically shut him. “Fine! I’ll postpone Hellfire and be your stupid ball boy!”

He hasn’t stopped regretting this decision.

Across the gym, the jocks were doing some stretches. Of course, one of them was Steve Harrington because god forbid a single sport team be untouched by the King of Hawkins.

He caught Jeff’s eye and gave him the most pissed off stare, conveying the you did this to me message. Jeff just smiled and waved at him cheerfully like a child getting his dad’s attention. A couple jocks noticed and laughed, though Jeff immediately turned around and said something that backed them off.

Well, Eddie couldn’t hate him forever.

Few minutes later, the net was up and the coach whistled for everyone’s attention. He said some things that Eddie zoned out on. Another whistle and the players scrambled to their teams. Some of them took positions on opposite sides of the net and others sat on the bleachers. Eddie tried not to scowl at Jeff and Steve being on the same team.

See, as much as he decries it, Eddie does enjoy watching sports. Preferably baseball on the TV networks Wayne would tune in sometimes after work. Not because he was a fan but because it was much easier to cheer on a team in your room instead of dozens of other students who saw the jocks as untouchable stars instead of assholes.

So while he had not idea how the fuck volleyball works, he kept his eyes on Jeff whenever he had the ball and slammed it over the net. He was much better than Steve, who seemed to be doing nothing at his corner of the gym. 

And then Steve finally made a move. Eddie watched in real time as Steve ran right behind Jeff and another kid, jumped up to hit the ball over the net, and landed back down only his left foot to roll right underneath.

Steve collapsed completely, immediately clutching his ankle. Even Eddie cringed at the sight. For a few minutes, everyone gathered around Steve and watched as the boy tried to put weight on his now-bare foot, only to shut his eyes and vigorously shake his head.

“Sit on the bench next to Munson, Harrington.” The coach ordered. Eddie just stood as Steve hobbled himself over to the bench and sat down. He gasped for breath as he ran for a marathon.

“You were shit anyways.” Eddie blurted out. He almost regretted it when Steve turned his head towards him. Instead of snarling at him to fuck off, Steve laughed, his eyes crinkling.

“Gonna be honest, I’m kinda new to volleyball.” Steve wheezed, rubbing his ankle tenderly. The skin was terribly red and swelling a bit. Jeff appeared and gave him an ice pack, which Steve thanked him for. 

Jeff looked at Eddie and mouthed, “Don’t start anything.”

Eddie just grinned and flipped him off. Jeff rolled his eyes, lightly punched his shoulder, and returned to the court as practice continued.

“Why would the King even try volleyball this late within the spring court?” Eddie asked flourishly. 

Steve squinted at him for a moment before shaking his head, “Hey man, don’t call me the King, ‘kay? I actually hate the name.”

“But it’s your crown, so heavy is it to wear!” Eddie held both hands against his own hands, feigning a scandal. 

Steve snorted, his lips turning up with a smirk, “My crown’s in my heart, not on my head. Not decked with diamonds or stones nor to be seen. It’s just content.”

Eddie felt his jaw drop to the floor. He stared at Steve, taken aback by the words and the slightly mournful tone he’d spoken in. Steve looked back at him, his smirk falling into a small, insecure frown. Wait, since when had Steve Harrington looked insecure? Why did he also look close to crying?

No time to unpack all of that, Eddie shook himself back to reality and cleared his throat. “D-Did- did you just quote Shakespeare?”

The vulnerability was gone and Steve sent him a charming smile that did dangerous things to Eddie’s gut. “It’s paraphrased, but yeah.”

Eddie felt a grin breaking through his face and leaned over Steve. “Never knew you were such a theater kid. What a charmer.”

He saw the way Steve's cheeks turned a shade darker, how his Adam’s apple bobbed with a small swallow, and how his eyes briefly flicked to Eddie’s lips. 

If they weren’t alone, Eddie was certain they would be honest to god grabbing each other’s faces and-

A sharp blow of the whistle jerked Eddie back. The coach was pointing wordlessly at the extra volleyballs. Eddie quickly picked a random ball and threw it to the court. When he looked back at Steve, he was too attentively pressing the ice pack on his ankle.

On the court, Eddie saw Jeff staring back at him with a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows.

[neuroprincess]

Fuck Me! - Rebecca Welton/Reader

Rebecca Welton/Female Reader

Summary: Rebecca knows she is working too much and for the first time in weeks has a free morning with her daughter, Lowie.

Classification: Light Angst, Domestic Fluff

Warnings: None

Word count: +2700

Unrevised

The blonde looked down at her hands, admiring the work done on the rounded nails painted in an impeccable French line, gleaming against the illumination. And then to the little girl in her front staring expectantly at her, among them a dozen colorful children's nail polishes, some with glitter. She raises an eyebrow analyzing the situation, the day before went to the manicure and hoped to keep it for at least a week. The work schedule consumes all her time, including the few free ones, she barely has time to be with family, much less for self-care as she organizes and prepares the club for the next matches of the soccer season. Rebecca sighs and thinks about what words she should use to refuse to let the child paint her nails. 

"How about I paint yours?" she asks hoping that might divert Marlowe's attention. 

" Alrighty then, I'll choose the colours ." the girl quickly runs to the corner of the playroom, reaching for a colorful decorated box with another dozen nail polishes, some fun stickers too "And I want them all." 

"Lowie..." 

"Mummy..." they stare at each other for a few seconds until the woman sighs in defeat, she loves that her daughter has inherited part of her personality but that could be a problem "I want rainbow colours." 

"That's going to be a lot of work, you're the most demanding customer I've ever had." 

"Don't be silly, Mummy." Marlowe cracks a toothless smile and places both hands on the table, opening the little fingers so they can be painted "I am your only customer." 

"Sometimes your Mama is my customer too." the blonde winks and gets a big smile from the little girl. 

"And I'm always her customer, she paints my nails all the time, sometimes Mama puts stickers and all my friends love it." she nods towards the colorful cards with images of cartoons, flowers and small designs "It's okay if it doesn't look right." 

Rebecca laughs at being reassured about her abilities by a five year old, she can't do wonderful designs or details like her own manicure does, but is sure she must know how to paint in the right spaces. It's something she and Sassy did together as youngsters, having perfect nails...almost all the time. 

"I don't like orange. I want my favorite color." the woman brakes, immediately dropping the bottle in place. She realizes she doesn't know what color it is and a strange feeling makes stomach heavy, maybe guilt "Blue, Mummy. Like your team and Bluey." 

"Oh yes, of course." she looks for the color among the nail polishes, finding it at the bottom of the box, no surprise having glitter, then looks at the tiny hands on the table, it's adorable how chubby they are and the little nails are smudged all around, so knows she overestimated her talent "Stickers?" 

"Please." 

They smile and soon the blonde has all her concentration on not smudging the other nails, making a funny face that unintentionally makes her daughter laugh watching. When finished she smiles happily, proud of herself for not getting it wrong this time. Then picks up the cards, placing them in front of the girl as if they really were at the manicure. All the nails are already painted, this is the final part. 

"I didn't know they existed from Baby Shark." Rebecca comments analyzing the options. 

"It's not sticker, it's tattoo." the surprised and confused expression stamped on her face makes the strawberry blonde laugh again, it's fun for her to see her mom, who knows everything, be lost "Can I do it on you? Please." 

"Mummy has work later, so no, sweetheart." 

"Okay." Marlowe whispers trying to keep a smile, even if she is disappointed. 

Since the Premier League had started a few months ago and AFC Richmond came further than it ever has before, Welton found herself busier than usual, meetings almost every week, there are extensive training sessions and a hundred events she has to attend, many times having to participate in creating them. Sinking more and more into work to the point of hardly seeing the family, leaving too early to say good morning and too late for good night, most of the time finding her wife already asleep, clearly trying to stay awake for her arrival, and her daughter drooling against the pillows. It's a cute and funny image she has when giving Marlowe a goodnight kiss on forehead. And no surprise either because she has been a good sleeper since baby, arms and legs everywhere, good hours of sleep and sometimes even snores. 

"And why are you home today?" she finally asks, when woke up this morning, the only free one in weeks, she thought she was going to spend with her wife, have breakfast and take Lowie to kindergarten together, then something else, instead she was woken up late by the child jumping on the bed and a note from Y/N letting them know she had some appointment. 

"I was sick, I can't go to school until tomorrow. The doctor said it's something with V, but I can't remember what." 

"Virosis?" Rebecca chokes on her own saliva, at breakfast they shared a cup of tea without her having any idea that the girl was sick, which bothers her too, as a mother she is aware that should know about things like that. 

"Yes!" 

"Fuck me!" 

"Yeah! Fuck me!" 

"Marlowe Amelia Welton! Watch your mouth!" she scolds, knowing she would be screwed if Y/N heard that, one of the agreements they made about motherhood is to avoid swearing around her. 

"You said first! It's a good thing, Mummy." the woman widens eyes and sips the glass of water trying to wet dry throat, pure nervousness "That's what you and Mama say when you are in the room and you look happy." and then spits out the whole contents "And the next day I get candy." 

"Oh..." of course, they agreed it would be avoidance around her, but they forgot how loud can be in intimate moments and always counted with the heavy sleep of their daughter sleeping in the next room "It wasn't... but how can that be good now?" she tried to change the subject, it would be too hard to explain. 

"Aren't you happy that I'm sick? That way we can stay home together." Marlowe smiles and blows her nails to dry them faster, a cute little pout "So today I am happy." 

"But you see me at the matches, sweetheart." 

"It's not the same, everyone has you there, sometimes I want to have you all to me, Mummy. When you are home we can watch movies, play and paint, I like when you tell me bedtime stories, sleep by my side and hold me when I am sad. I want you to stay here forever, with me. And with Mama too. Because it's more special." 

The sad and sincere childish words make Rebecca's stomach sink, heart palpitate harder and eyes burn trying to hold back tears, she imagined that Lowie, her little and lovable Lowie, missed her, but hear it from her is something different. It's painful. She realizes how much the little girl appreciates and values the moments they spend together, how much her presence means. 

"And you are sad now?" 

"No, because we are together." Rebecca smiles sadly, trying to hold back the tears and failing, her daughter notices, then faces her worriedly "Mummy, are you sad?" Marlowe doesn't wait for an answer, running out of the chair and around the table to hug her mom, little arms around waist, little face pressed to hip and the blonde's hands caress the little girl's back.  

"It's okay, baby. I'm fine." as she is about to let go the woman holds her against her own body and leaves a kiss in hair, inhaling the sweet smell of shampoo "But I still want your hug. The best hug in the world. I love you, sweetheart."  

"I love you more, Mummy. And I know, Mama says it all the time. I'm all perfect, from the tip of my toe to the last strand of my hair."  

"Cocky, isn't you?!"  

"I don't know what it means."  

"Means you're really perfect." the childish giggle soon takes over as Rebecca takes advantage of the low guard and tickles her armpits, grabbing her on lap to do it on her tummy as well.  

"I... I ... I surrender, Mummy!" she manages to say between giggles, those are the magic words they use every time playing with each other.  

"Oops, your nails got smudged." Rebecca points to the colorful nails, polish all over her fingers, a total mess.  

"It's okay, it was already smudged." is the only response from the little girl who gets off her mother's lap, knowing she would be caught up again, little legs running to the kitchen counter, where she stops remembering something ""Mummy, I have to get ready for the day."  

"You're staying home today."  

"But I like to get ready, come on."   

"Right, sweetheart."  

Marlowe's room, which once was white and in tones of pink, is now totally colorful, the walls are filled with drawings, teddy bears and art materials, she also has a large closet, where besides clothes and shoes a great collection of hair bows is kept. Years ago, when she found out that they were going to have a little girl, Rebecca bought the first bow as if she predicted that their daughter would be in love with the accessory, and almost cried with emotion when she carried her out of the maternity ward wearing it. Then the first tufts of hair appeared, surprising little blonde curls in a reddish hue, and came a hundred bows, hair clips, headbands and ribbons. Now strawberry blonde hair reaches the middle of her back, bangs cut perfectly straight and ends wavy, the woman absolutely loves brushing and styling for events. Like weeks ago at an AFC Richmond home match, she did high pigtails, decorated with blue and red hair ribbons, one color on each side.  

"Thank you, Mummy!" Marlowe appreciates looking at herself in the mirror, loving the multi-colored bow at the end of a braid, so she turns to the accessory box looking for something "For you to look like me." and puts a rainbow clip in her mom's hair, followed by another, unicorn this time "We look beautiful." 

"Yes, we are, sweetheart." the Welton's stare at each other for a second before the woman kisses her daughter's head.  

Rebecca gets up from the floor and grabs her phone from the dresser, without any surprise it's already full of text messages, a missed call, a reminder about the afternoon meeting and a text from her wife.  

"Hi, love! Some unexpected things happened at the meeting, Keeley volunteered to babysit Lowie in the afternoon. Please check her purse when she arrives, last time they almost overdosed on Fini, apparently our daughter inherited your taste for sweet."  

She smiles reading the text, of course the girl has inherited it, she is a small version of her, but almost redhead, bright green eyes, defined lips and nose, not just physically, they share many personality traits and tastes. Marlowe runs across the room and throws herself against her, gripping the long legs tightly and the legs curl together like a baby monkey.  

"Was nice having you with me, Mummy." the blonde faces her in confusion and takes her in lap, noticing the sad expression on the childish face "It's okay to go away."  

"Sweetheart, I don't...'"  

"You're on your phone, whenever you're on your phone you have work to do." Rebecca wastes no time in hugging her, pressing the little body against herself and strokes back, calming the imminent cry "It's okay."  

"Lowie, that was Mama, she's going to be late and..." the child faces her expectantly "We, you and I, are staying together. What do you think about watching that cartoon you like?"  

"Bluey?! And can we have Fini? And there's chocolate pudding in the fridge." Marlowe quickly gets excited, jumping for joy at the idea of them spending more time together.  

"Well, we need to talk about sugar, young lady." Rebecca laughs leaving her on the floor again, giving a gentle pat on the head "But later, now you can grab some treats from the drawer." and winks at her little partner in crime.  

Marlowe nods positively and runs down the hallways disappearing from the woman's field of vision, soon she hears the sound of the drawer. In one phone call and a few text messages all the rest of the day's appointments are cleared, giving her a totally free schedule. She also tells Keeley that she doesn't need to come. The phone is put on silent mode and kept in the pocket of her pants. Nothing will get in the way.  

"Lowie, what do you think about painting Mummy's nails? Any color you want. And I want a tattoo too."  

It's almost 6pm when the sound of keys in the door wakes Rebecca from a nap, she settles down on the couch carefully, not wanting to wake her daughter lying on her lap. The two of them simply fell asleep after about 15 episodes, all chocolate pudding and a few packs of Fini. She tries to pull herself up and out of Marlowe's embrace, failing miserably at that mission as the girl cuddles even tighter into her, snoring lightly against her chest. In less than a minute Y/N appears in the living room, carrying a dozen different bags and a sweet smile on lips as she finds the cute scene. 

"Hi, my love!" she whispers excitedly and crouches down to leave a soft kiss on her wife's lips, then on the child's forehead "I thought you had a super important meeting today."  

"It's been rescheduled, as has the rest of my schedule." Rebecca smiles and pulls the youngest to herself, making her sit on the corner of the couch with them, bags on the floor "And what were you doing?"  

"I had parents meeting for a sporting event at school, in the afternoon, well, I went shopping." she laughs shyly as confesses her activities "Lowie had a growth spurt, so I had to buy new clothes and uniform, she barely fits into pajamas."  

"What did you expect having the baby of a 5 foot 11 woman?! When I was her age the same thing happened. And I noticed there was something different." and indeed she did, a little of her tummy showing when putting on a blouse and the pants bars reached the ankle, plus now Marlowe is at her waist height "I see you went to the hairdresser and manicure too."  

"Damn, I thought you wouldn't notice."  

"You deserve that time to yourself, you are living like a full-time solo mom. I'm sorry I'm not here for you." the blonde says with guilt in her voice and strokes her wife's hair, pulling her into a gentle kiss "And you look fucking gorgeous and sexy." she whispers low as possible, especially after learning that her daughter's sleep doesn't stop her from having good hearing.  

"That's okay, my love. But I confess I can't wait for Premier League to finish soon. Looks like you had some time to yourself too, with Lowie. Pretty nails, Welton." really pretty, painted in various colors, some with fun stickers. Strong arms are covered with temporary tattoos of various cartoons, the girl has convinced her to do more and more with puppy dog eyes. Her usually perfect hair is a mess with those same clips and a few more. Not even her face escaped, colored eyeshadow and blurry pink lipstick befitting childish abilities "We have a girly girl in our home."  

"A persuasive girly, she's so talkative. And a mini me." Rebecca says proudly and the girl seems to sense that they are talking about her, at the same time wakes up "Hello, sleepyhead."  

"Mummy.... Mama!" she practically screams and throws herself into Y/N's arms, not realizing she kneed the taller one, who just hisses in pain and holds up a curse "Oh! Fuck me! Your hair looks beautiful, you're cocky, just like me." Marlowe says excitedly into the hug, squeezing her as hard as she can.  

"What?" she looks at her wife with wide eyes, not believing what had just heard.  

"Oops..."  

"We'll talk about it later, Mrs. Welton."  

And Rebecca knows she's fucked. 

taglist: @dvrkhcld

Join my taglist here ^^ now there is addition of Rebecca

[whoishotteranimepolls]

Poll analysis part 3

Well I haven't done one of these in a while because I've been focusing on the nicknames and funny tags post But we are definitely due for another one because I've definitely noticed a change and behavior. Plus we've had a lot more and fandoms requested so that might be a contributing factor.

Let's start with the unhinged trio. Think we're due for a lineup change there. It used to be JJK, Black Butler and Dorohedoro. However the latter two only go crazy over a certain character.

Jujutsu Kaisen definitely still deserves its spot There's a reason I picked them to be the first fandom to get a Nicknames and funny tags post in fact they need an update Desperately because you guys are still up to your same old unhinged antics. I've just been busy with other fandoms (one piece) that say even more outrageous crap in the comments

Now One Piece I think you guys took that nickname and funny tag post as a challenge to be as unhinged and creative with your tags as possible because every time I think you all can't possibly get any worse. Someone puts a tag that's even crazier and now I have to update that post with more tags and new characters again.

Now the third spot of the unhinged trio should probably go to Trigun because you guys can't stop talking about Wolfwood's slutty Catholic titties and Vash's snatched little slutty waist. Plus someone has sent a match up request of their weapons no less than three times even though the rules plainly state no weapons so I think we definitely qualify for unhedged trio territory.

My Hero Academia You guys only showed up for the bunny girl and I get it. She's hot. Or to crap on endeavor, that's about it.

Attack on Titan. I finally have found proof of life. The fandom might be in a coma, but at least there's a pulse I thought that fandom was dead but someone or group of people is sending in quite a few requests for that fandom.

And now on to Naruto my problem child fandom. I am not kidding You're the fandom that refuses us to send in photos, but will throw a tantrum if it's not the photo from the correct era of the anime even though I have no clue what you're talking about. Normally when people don't like the photo with any other fandom a dozen better photos of the character will randomly appear in my inbox. Not with the Naruto fandom. I get 10 hate messages saying it's from the wrong era of the anime and I should know that. But does anyone send me a better photo from the correct era of the anime? No. Well actually that's not entirely true the a few times this fandom has sent in replacement photos it's from when in the anime I know the characters are still 14 I've done way too much research into when in canon characters turn 16 and what particular character design/outfit marks that in the timeline for this particular show because of how much I feel like I can't trust this particular fandom as a whole to follow rules. So, remember people I can't read your mind and you are the only fandom that wants to throw a fit over photos like this. Plus the few times I have tried to address the issues with the photos and try to fix the problem you guys want to get combative and very aggressive in the comments. Plus I swear you all are allergic to rules because at least 70% to 80% of requests relating to your fandom have some sort of issue. Whether it's trying to bend the rules or just outright breaking them to massive formatting problems. No other fandom causes me this many headaches. So please for the sake of my sanity do better

Sorry about that. I needed to rant about my problem child fandom maybe now they will start behaving.

When it comes to formatting there is a group of about three people that made requests either everyday or every 2 to 3 days and it was the max amount of request/matchups they could do in a single day according to the rules. They did this the entire time the box was open so they had their formatting down to a science. So basically any fandom that these people requested a lot of had really good track records for formatting and not trying to blatantly break the rules. So One Piece, JoJo's, Attack on Titan and Avatar/Korra all have very good track records right now

But with most fandoms they do a pretty good job of following the rules. No one is as bad as Naruto. Now there are some common issues and major incidents I've had so I'll go ahead and list them below

The common issues are just forgetting to put the name of the show or spelling, but Google can normally figure that out so that's not a major problem or people submitting a character that is video game only and not part of the anime adaptation. Persona, pokémon and Tekken are The worst offenders when it comes to this. Other major issues that come up frequently are with character ages? But it's normally with characters that look like they're adults. So I really don't hold that against people. I'm just guessing that people didn't realize they're actually teenagers but hopefully that will not be as much of a problem but since I dropped the age down to 16.

Now recent issues I've had to address were formatting issues where it was bad enough that I couldn't make it out due to dyslexia. Trigun has tried to submit weapons no less than three times even though that is blatantly against the rules. Like I mentioned earlier Naruto likes to submit photos from when the characters are 12 to 14 that doesn't fit the rules especially when photos are available from the correct age range that do follow the rules. So those are the ones I use no matter how many times they throw temper tantrums. Dungeon Meshi has submitted a 14-year-old and Soul Eater submitted a 13-year-old and said they were 16 in the request. So they lied. Luckily someone told me so I was able to delete those polls quite quickly, but now I can't trust anyone. So if you ever wonder why it takes so long for me to empty out the request box this is why

Oh but good news, no one has submitted a request since I've closed the box I basically consider that a miracle because the last two times there have been people that have not cared that the box is closed. So let's keep it that way please. I don't mind questions, just no requests. The box is closed I still have like 150 more individual messages that have multiple poll requests on them to get through before I open it again

Well that's going to be all for this post again. And I hope at least someone found this entertaining or informative or at least something. There will probably be another one of these in the future

[maarriiii]

Cupcakes & Gargoyles | Jason Todd

A/N: I’m so tired yall

Pairing(s): Jason Todd x female!reader, Red Hood x female!reader

Warning(s): None

my masterlist :))

~~

Jason leaned back on his hands, watching the night sky of Gotham city with his favorite companion. The stone gargoyle beside him aged with time since the last time he perched on this particular building. The weather and the lack of maintenance had taken its toll on the statue, proven by the chipped and broken pieces on its legs and wings. Jason put his left hand on its head, patting it like the lifeless statue was actually a living and breathing creature. He leaned back again, lifting a bottle of liquor to his lips, and continue staring at the sky with his best friend in silence. Until a pair of footsteps emerged behind him.

"Starting the party without me, Hood? I'm hurt." y/n stood in the shadows, her all black attire making it feel like she was just a voice floating in the air. She knew she wouldn't be able to surprised him—the only time that y/n did was when they were kids—but she still stayed in the shadows, marveling how his hair moved when a sudden gush of wind breeze through. Jason looked peaceful, even if she can't see the expression on his face. His body language told her enough.

"It's not my fault you're late," Jason replied, still not facing her.

"I'll have you know I had to pick up something before I get here. We can't have a party without a cake now, can't we?"

At the mention of cake, Jason turned around at the same time y/n emerged from the shadow. She had let down her hood, letting her hair flow gently in the wind. Her domino mask was nowhere in sight, showing off her entrancing eyes twinkling with delight. The lower part of her face was also visible and Jason could see her amused smile at the sight of his blank stare. And finally, a small rectangular pink box was on her hands which he was staring daggers at.

"I thought I told you to not get me anything." Jason sighed.

"I know, but I want to anyway." y/n sat beside him, her legs dangling in the air. "You know you can't stop me from doing anything I want."

"Yeah, and if I remember correctly, you got shot because of that stubbornness."

y/n scoffed. "I only got shot because you didn't trust my judgement. I had the situation completely under control."

"Oh, I'm sorry for saving my partner from a lunatic shooting an assault rifle. I promise I won't do it again," he remarked, sarcasm lacing his words.

"God, you're lucky I love you." y/n shook her head. "Where you get the beer?"

Jason pretended to ignore her whisper and turned his attention to the unopened beer bottle next to his half empty one. He told y/n how during his travel to the building where his favorite gargoyle was, he caught sight of a robbery happening at a convenience store. Jason swooped in before the two robbers could do any damage, knock them unconscious and contacted Oracle to send a couple of police officers his way. The owner of said store, an elderly looking man that reminded him of Alfred, expressed his gratitude by asking Jason—or Red Hood to be exact—to take whatever he wanted, free of charge. He refused, of course, but the man was very persistent and in the end, he brought with him two bottles of beer, a pack of cigarettes and a handful of Reese's peanut butter cups.

"That's very nice of him," y/n said, after hearing the story. "You still have some of those peanut butter cups?"

Jason rummaged through his jacket pocket and handed her the candy. "Here. I know you like them, that's why I took it."

"Aww, you're so sweet."

Instead of immediately satisfying her sweet tooth, y/n put the candies on her utility belt and rummaged through the many pouch of the object for something she so desperately needed. Jason heard her mumbling and curses before finally facing him again, a satisfied smile on her lips, and a lighter and one candle on her hand. She opened the pink box between them—that Jason almost forgot was there—and revealed the half a dozen cupcakes with red frosting that matches the color of his helmet. Jason watched as she took one cupcake, stick the candle and use the lighter to light it. The warm glow illuminated both of their features.

"Happy birthday, Jaybird. Make a wish." y/n lift the cupcake closer to him.

"And if I don't want to?" His smile grew wider when she gave him a blank look.

"Then, I'll push you off this damn building."

"Jeez, y/n, that's how you treat the birthday boy?"

"Only if the birthday boy is a red helmet wearing vigilante that's been brought back to life. Now, blow the candle and make a wish."

Jason rolled his eyes before turning his body to fully face her figure. He looked at her for a moment, saving every detail of her face inside his mind as if the wind was going to take her away from him. He looked into her eyes, the eyes that watched him as if he painted the sky and hung the stars. He watched her lips, the same one that whispered sweet nothings to his ears and kissed every inch of his skin with so much love and affection. He watched her. The person that stood by him in every step of the way. The person who always watches his back as they soared through the night. The person who knocks some senses into his head when he was being a stubborn ass. The Batgirl to his Robin. His partner. His best friend. His everything. When Jason finally closed his eyes and blow the candle, he didn't make any wish. All he could ever wish for was sitting right in front of him.

"You didn't have to do this, but thanks."

"It's fine, Jay, really." y/n smiled. "Besides, there's no way in hell I'm gonna miss the opportunity to celebrate your birthday."

"What if I'm out of town?" Jason playfully asked, eating the cupcake.

"You say that like I can't track you down."

"What if I'm off world?"

"Then, I'll ask Kory to help me." She countered. "Face it, Jay. You're stuck with me."

Jason smiled at her. "I think I'll be alright with that."

[somejazzinthemorning]

tightrope. 03

Pairing: Carlos Sainz x Original Female Character Warnings: Language Word Count: 7.241 Previous chapter: 02.

Drowning myself in work is my go-to coping mechanism for more than half of my problems.

I'll either resort to racing or tracing brand strategies in an attempt to avoid having to face whatever problem throws my way and, that night, being 11 pm on a Wednesday, my laptop and the small whiteboard on my desk became my saving grace.

Despite the burning eyes and my aching back, after hours sat at my desk, my mind was still racing, high on whatever feelings the brush of his lips had evoked in my body. I fell asleep to the memory of his eyes and the velvet lips.

There was no way to escape it. We were already falling.

I woke up late, the next day.

My phone had a full wall of notifications ready to present me. A single text in the middle of the dozens of work-related emails, most of them answers to the ones I’d written during the night and scheduled to be sent in the early hours of the work day. I only realised I was smiling, probably high on my own expectations, when I felt my smile drop, after seeing who sent the text. Amanda. Not him.

“those updates on the project at 3 am??? r u okay?”

“sorry! i remembered to schedule the emails, but forgot about the notes on the project.” "got some good work done, tho”

"need to take a moment to reread all of your incoherent notes” "all that rambling is… wow” "BUUUUUT come to the office” "the things from the berlin store just arrived, you will love them”

"can’t make it today” "send pics!”

"come tomorrow, then! ill get churros for breakfast”

My phone went back to the nightstand and I pulled up the comforter, wrapping it around myself in an attempt to find some security and calm of mind. I peered out from under the comforter, staring at the dark room, only lightened by some streaks of light created from a gap in the blinds. I was still tired from the night, and my mind scrambled from everything we had shared.

Eventually, I left the bed. My mom was downstairs, and a copy of Shadow of the Wind rested on the kitchen counter while she cooked lunch. Frank Sinatra played on the old record player in the living room and the music continued to stretch around the house as we ate together. Luckily, her birthday party was keeping her busy; busy enough that she didn't remember to ask me about the dinner from last night.

Truth be told: I'm a terrible liar. I would never be able to escape her questions.

At the end of the day, I met Rocco for a workout, in a nearby gym. He was waiting for me, leaning against the reception counter, teal Puma t-shirt paired with an amused smirk; I knew he was more than ready to put me through my paces. And I was right. It only took me a couple of exercises to lay on the floor, panting and sweating."Have you thought about what you're doing next season?" I looked up, in the direction of the voice. Rocco was standing in front of me, holding my water bottle.

I sat up straight and extended my hand to grab it. "Not yet," the water was cold and refreshing. Just what I needed. "Maybe a third year in the Challenge and," I paused to breathe. "You know, the reserve seat. Not ideal, but yeah."

He frowned, sitting down on one of the plyo boxes near me. "But yeah?"

"Yeah. Works." I answered, laying back down on the green turf. The small fake grass ticklish on my legs and arms. "Not much, but it's racing."

"I think I'll pretend you didn't say that."

"Why? It's just how it is."

He cleared his throat, the deep sound making me open my eyes and stare at him again. "Up," he commanded, refusing to help me get up. I brought the hand I'd just held up to the floor, to help me get up.

"I thought we were done," I said. He didn't even need to say anything to make me understand that we were, in fact, not done. "Are you mad?"

“Annoyed,” he turned back to me. “What the heck was that answer? Of course, a third year in the Challenge and a reserve seat in WEC are not ideal. I was hoping for a real answer, not some… whatever that was.”

“It’s the reality,” I shrugged. Instead of turning back and going back to do whatever he was about to do, he just kept looking at me. Not the conversation I was hoping for today.

“You had a plan. What happened?” He asked.

“Nothing happened. I had a plan. And it’s going as it’s possible.”

"Excuses, Eva," Rocco exclaimed. He stepped forward and looked me in the eye. "You have a plan. You know what you want. And you have the talent."

“Congrats, you just solved gender inequality.” I gave him an ironic thumbs up, my mind still scrambled from the efforts of the workout and the encounter from last night. This kind of conversation was not what I wanted.

“You’re more than capable of getting a decent seat next year.”

“As we know,” I wiggled my finger between both of us, “It’s a tough path. Being capable won’t get me a seat. ”

“Locking yourself in an office keeping track of TikTok trends will?” I sent him a look. He held up his hands in defence. “You’re making excuses. There are other drivers fighting for the same things as you are and they are not taking no for an answer.”

“Neither am I.”

"Come on," he chortled, eying me carefully. I could tell that he wanted the best for me, but I was not really in the mood to discuss this at the moment. "When was the last time you actually planned something for yourself, and not just some new fashion designer or boujie vegan chef?"

I felt a little bit of annoyance creeping its way up my spine. I had been pushing myself so hard for the last few months, and I was starting to feel a bit overwhelmed with all the pressure.

“Can we focus on the races I have left to win?” I asked, my voice taking on an exasperated tone. “We can talk about this after I win this championship?”

“Sure.” He bent down to grab a 15 kg power bag from the floor and dropped it off at my feet. "This wasn't planned, but that self-pity is annoying me."

“A punishment?" I took my hands to my hips, a light chortle abandoning my lips. "Burpees and never-ending lounges? That's what you think I need right now?"

"No, no burpees," he said, his grin widening. "But maybe a few extra lounges wouldn't hurt." He was clearly enjoying this. I rolled my eyes and glanced down at the power bag in front of me.

“It was not—”

He cleared his throat, cutting me off, and I went silent. Then, looking at him, I saw that he was grinning at me once again, content. Yeah, it was self-pity. Yeah, the future is scary, especially when you’re a 25-year-old woman in motorsports and your career seems to be stuck.

I took a deep breath and bent over to pick up the bag, the cold weight of it dragging my body down to the ground. Rocco took a few steps back and then motioned me with his head to start.

"Andiamo," he said. “20 steps back and forth. Three series.”

So I did. I started lounging with the bag, back and forth across the green patch of turf on that side of the gym, trying to keep a steady pace. With each step, the pressure of the bag weighed me down. I kept going, pushing forward and gritting my teeth against the pain. When I finally reached the twentieth step, I dropped the bag and breathed out, my body aching from the effort.

By the end of the third series, I had pushed my body to its very limits and back. I sunk down onto the cool grass beneath me, feeling the relief of the softness beneath me—my muscles aching and my body dripping with sweat, my hair matted to my neck and temples.

Rocco sat near me, guiding me through a couple of moves, helping me to loosen my tight muscles and stretch out my body. Despite the big (and somewhat threatening) muscles he had a gentle touch.

“What’s on your mind?”

"Hm?" I frowned, my eyebrows furrowing together as I closed my eyes, feeling his hand pressing down on my thigh, pushing it firmly against the hard floor. I could feel the pain radiating through my body, but I tried to focus on the sensation of his grip.

“You always complain this hurts,” he said. I opened one eye. Now, I could feel the pressure from his grip. Probably something shifted on my face because he instantly asked, “Now it hurts?”

"It hurt before, I was just distracted." I shook my head, closing my eyes again and focusing on the sensation of his grip. “I’m free to feel like shit when things go badly." I let out.

“Things are not going badly,” he sighed, leaving my leg and switching to the other. “You’re simply letting yourself fall behind.”

I took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly, my head falling back against the floor. I stayed there for a few moments, my heart pounding against my chest and my thoughts racing a million miles per hour. When I finally opened my eyes again, I looked up at Rocco, this time because I felt my thigh burning with discomfort, he was still looking at me, waiting for an answer.

"Too much." I glanced below while patting his arm. He raised an eyebrow, implying more pressure. "Ei!" I scrunched my nose. He just arched a brow. Sadistic fucker. “What? Are you going to hurt me until I hold someone at gunpoint and ask for a seat?”

“You talk like you don’t have good offers, Eva.”

“What is a good offer? Driving against 19-year-old boys in Formula 3? It’s humiliating.”

“W Series?” He suggested.

“I want to race with men and show people I can win against them.” I sat down. Rocco took his hands from my legs. My muscles tingled with the same intensity my thoughts did. “I like the Challenge because I’m showing them I can do it. But the team does not have a budget to race in other series. And I can’t be a reserve forever. So I can do another year and hope things change.”

“See? You’re choosing to fall behind.” He took a deep breath, understanding my frustration. "You can always look for sponsorship," he said, his eyes focused on the floor. "You have the talent, the connections—"

“I spent my teenage years sending letters and desperately trying to talk to people. You saw how that went.”

“You have results to show them, now. In two weeks you’ll have a championship.” I dragged my hands over my face. Instant regret. Both my hands and face were tingling with the same intensity my thoughts did. “W Series will give you exposure. Will give you points. You need points..”

“Why are you so interested now?” I arched an eyebrow, feeling a bit suspicious. “The year is long. Anything can happen. A lot can change.”

“I just don’t see you planning ahead.” He deadpanned, his expression unreadable. “What if you can’t do another season of the Challenge? Will you be content with just being a reserve in WEC?”

“Why so many ifs?” I asked, still feeling a bit apprehensive.

“Motorsports are unpredictable,” he replied, his voice steady and sure. “I’ve been around long enough to know that. And I’m your coach, not just a trainer. It’s kinda my responsibility to do this.”

“Nah, I’m not having it.” I paused, still not entirely convinced. “Do you know something I don’t?”

Rocco just shook his head. The dark strands of his hair moved in unison. “Eva—” He shrugged. I could see the wheels turning in his mind. Whatever he was about to say, it seemed like it wasn't completely true. "One," he continued; his tone shifting. "I don't want to be left without a job when you get bored of racing." I threw my towel at him, though I knew he was only joking. Unfortunately, he dodged it. "Two," he continued, "you're racing like a pro. You should race with the pros."

At least, in one thing he was right. I was racing like a pro.

On the other hand, I was not acting like one.

My team and my dad, the main sponsor, were the only support I had. Despite having other offers, none met our expectations. I had been a third, fourth, or fifth driver for too long. I had spent too much time in the garage, running simulations, and taking part in test sessions. Years of it. Each of these experiences had demoralized me.

Racing in the Challenge, learning with my team, taking time to understand the car and driving it to a podium made sense to me. Standing in the garage and hoping for someone to get food poisoning or COVID was not only morally wrong but also quite dull.

“Did you make this whole drama when Rio told you he wanted to stop racing and just go to college and become an engineer?” I asked, getting up from the floor and picking up my towel, still lying on the ground.

“It was worse actually,” my trainer said, following me. “I think I almost killed him when he told me.”

“We make quite the pair, don’t we?”

He smiled and nodded. “Yes, you do. Your poor father has his hands full with you two.” We stopped walking when we reached the locker room. “Go have a shower and get some rest.”

The second I reached my locker and opened the wooden door, I reached for my phone, looking for a message that hadn't arrived. Pathetic. A part of me considered taking the initiative and being the one to call or text him but, to be honest, what was left for me to say?

I had already told him everything by asking him not to kiss me and I might have told him even more by refusing to let go of him.

The office smelled of churros, so I knew Amanda was around. Either that or someone else had the same idea as her.

Familiar faces smiled back at me as I crossed the corridors and the work areas until I finally reached the common area and took one of the available seats. Since I had chosen to work remotely, and only visited the office casually for occasional meetings or when I needed a place where I could focus, I wasn't given an office.

The room was filled with the buzz of people chatting and the occasional laughter, making me feel a bit out of place. I knew most of them (read: I knew their names and which projects were under their purview), but rarely talked to any of them. Amanda, one of my friends from college, and the one who had introduced me to this agency was the only one I regularly talked with.

I sat down in my chair and pulled my laptop out of my bag. After talking with Rocco yesterday, I decided to take action on my career and spent last night looking at emails and reading my dad's notes on the sides of those he considered important enough to print. So, when I opened my laptop, my screen showed me my Notion board, which honestly felt like a showcase of my own failures. Not the first thing I wanted to see that morning.

A knock on the glass divider of the office made me lift my head up and find Amanda on the other side of it. A beautiful purple jumper highlighted her beautiful curves; her hair was pulled up in a ponytail. In her hands, a white box.

I waved at her.

“Vamos,” she motioned with her head. “Before anyone tries to steal these from me.”

I smiled and grabbed my laptop, zipping it up before getting up and walking towards her. “You know I have an important weekend ahead, right?”

She laughed, opening the box. “A churro won't weigh you down, don't worry.”

I took one of them and walked near her to the cafeteria. The morning light was soft, and the day was not too warm. Ideal to sit on the balcony and talk for a while. So, that's what we did. I grabbed coffee for both, while she walked outside.

The sunshine on my skin was just a slight warmth as I leaned on my chair, and the smooth breeze of the morning cooled off my skin. Traffic sounds in the background, the ruffle of chairs and the occasional bark of one of the dogs playing on the balcony of the start-up that shares the building with us.

While having a sip of her coffee, I noticed Amanda's eyes widening, and I could practically see the bell ringing in her mind. Instantly, my brows were drawn together. Brace yourself, Eva.

"So, I heard on Twitter dot com…" I rolled my eyes at the last part, and despite provoking a small chuckle from her, she didn't stop talking and her gaze still remained twinkling mischievously. "Carlos was in Mugello last weekend."

Oh, for fucks sake.

"If that's what Twitter says, it must be true."

"Yes. So," she paused. Her head tilted slightly, honestly looking like a pup who saw a threat in the distance. "Did you two talk?"

I shook my head; my fingers busy on the handle of my mug, desperately trying to seem unbothered by the question. "Nah, we didn't talk."

"You sure?" She asked, her eyebrows raised in suspicion.

"Yes, I'm sure," I said, my voice steady. "It's not like we're friends or anything."

"That's too bad," she murmured, a hint of disbelief in her voice. "It's not like Carlos and your brother are still like, the best of friends and maybe— maybe he went there to visit him and you end up talking?"

I sighed. "Stop it."“You're a terrible liar, Eva.” Amanda said bluntly, her gaze intense.

“Amanda,” I said, my voice stern and my eyes piercing. "Stop it."

“So, you talked.” Amanda gave me a knowing look. "I knew it. I saw those tweets and I realised we had barely talked this week, and that only happens when you're too busy overthinking. And then boom, I woke up to dozens of notes made at 2 am? You always go to bed early." She crossed her arms, her gaze still intense. "Come on, just tell me what happened. If it’s not him, it’s anything else. That worries me too. I'm here for you, no judgement."

I sighed. "Fine," I said, setting my mug down and leaning back on the chair. "We talked. A lot. We actually had dinner."

Amanda's gaze softened, but then she frowned again. “Dinner? The three of you?”

“The two of us.”

"Just the two of you?" Amanda's eyes widened in surprise, lips smiling brightly. I nodded to her question. "What did you talk about?"

A part of me wanted to end it there. The other part of me needed some guidance. And Amanda was a friend, she always had good advice. On the downside, she loved to gossip. But we were friends. Guidance. But gossip.

I shrugged. “Just normal things. Racing.”

“Okaaaay, that’s good.” At this point, her lips were curving up like she was the one having dinner with him. I couldn’t decide if her reaction annoyed me or made me happy. "So, what now? Are you going to keep in contact with him?"

I shook my head. "I don't think the dinner changed anything.” Liar.

“Eva,” she propped her elbows on the table. “You’re a terrible liar. Spit it out. What happened? If you don’t want to talk about it, tell me that. Just don’t lie.”

Talking about it would make a big deal. A bigger deal, actually. I dragged my hands over my face, tired and confused. Thinking about it was challenging enough and I truly didn't want to transform all my confusion and emotions into words. Amanda, on the other hand, couldn't hide the fact that she wanted the truth, her gaze so strong it almost made me melt over the iron (and obnoxiously red) chair I was sitting on.

So I told her. Every single detail. From the glorious vision of him under the bright lights of my garage, which for a second made me feel like I was living in an alternate world, through the call at dawn, to his gauze under the beautiful sunset glow. His warm, velvety lips brushing against mine. I told her about the “I think I might have loved you, too”, and the way that even in my dreams I couldn’t seem to forget his scent when he hugged me goodbye.

I felt so exposed, so vulnerable, as I spilled my heart out onto that small table, and when I finished all I could hear was the sound of her sigh. A ridiculous rom-com kind of sigh.

“I just feel like we messed it up because of pure desperation,” I said, crossing one leg over the other and looking around. “He messed it up. I think we just missed each other so much we… I don’t know. Got confused on the feelings?”

“He messed up?”

“I didn’t kiss him back. I just asked him to please, don’t.” It was more ridiculous saying it out loud now than when I recalled the moment in my mind.

“You’re even stupider than I thought,” was her answer. I arched my brow. “The guy cooked for you, at his place, told you he “thinks he loved you too” and tries to kiss you and now you’re mad because he didn’t text you?” She paused. “What the hell will he say? Of course, he won’t text you. What would you say to someone after being denied a kiss? Text him yourself.”

“No.”

“Why not?” Why not? I asked myself the same question. Because I can’t trust him to stay. Better, because I can’t trust him to not leave. “Don’t be stubborn, come on. Just by looking at you, I know you’re dying to get that kiss.”

“Can’t we go back inside and talk about work?”

“Oh, no, missy.” She shook her head. “Those AB tests can wait. I want to talk about you and how you’re so dumb you might lose the chance of your life.”

“You’re exaggerating. As always.”

“Eva.” She was stern, her eyes burning on me. “He was your best friend. At least try to mend that friendship. Even if you don’t want anything else. Whatever the reason.”

I sighed, bowing my head in defeat. Amanda had a way of making me see sense, even when I didn't want to. "And if I can’t see him as a friend but still can’t give a step in the other direction?”

“Then, you give it time. Just don’t give it too much space.” She got up from her chair. Mug on one hand. The empty white box on the other. “Remember how that worked up last time.”

Fact one about Amanda: she was probably the most curious person I knew. Any arguments in the office, celebrity rumours or gossip of literally any kind she knew by heart, down to the last detail. And while that was remotely irritating, especially at exhausting times, like during Amber and Johnny’s trial, or when (especially when) the news broke about Pique and Shakira's divorce, it could also be a blessing. At least from my point of view. Perhaps all the stories contributed to her having a broader view of relationships and, as a result, being so good at giving advice. Fact two: there was no one more insistent than her, so, evidently, she couldn’t leave the office without reminding me to text him.

It was 5 pm, and I was utterly absorbed in the presentation for the new restaurant. I was head down, consumed by the details of culinary and marketing analytics, and, to tell the truth, my mind was so focused on this project that I couldn't really think of anything else.

Amanda was getting ready to leave. Jacquemus purse over her shoulder and a strong pink lipstick on the place where a less saturated one had been during the day.

“You stay?” She asked me.

“Aham,” I briefly made my eyes leave the screen to look at her. “I need to finish this. Next week I’ll be too busy.”

“You leaving for Italy on Monday?”

“Tuesday,” I corrected her, my eyes going back down to the laptop. “Don’t want to leave this to the last minute.”

“Okay. I’ll try to have a look at it before you leave. Also,” my eyes went up again. “Send the man a good luck text.”

I sighed, rolling my eyes at her. "He doesn't need my luck text.”

Amanda nodded, her eyes still twinkling mischievously. "Okay, send him a whatever text, then. An emoji. Like his Instagram story.”

“I’m afraid liking his story won’t work.” I leaned back on her office chair, which I had taken in the middle of the day when she needed to leave for a meeting and left me to use her small office.

“Text him, then. Anything. I wouldn’t let Carlos Sainz escape, but you do you, babes,” she shrugged, turning her back to me to walk to the door.“Enjoy the weekend. Besos!”

“Bye!”

I didn’t text him. Of course. In the same way, she was insistent, I was stubborn.

Actually, let me rephrase it.

I didn’t text him then.

Mid-afternoon, Rio had called inviting me to dinner, and when I asked about the kids, he told me he had booked a nanny, so they would stay home. It was either business or pleasure. I didn't need to ask; as soon as he mentioned my dad was invited, I knew we'd be discussing business. And after Rocco's worries last night, I knew it was partly my business, too.

My nerves were on edge as I prepared to leave the office. They only worsened as I neared the restaurant - a way too fancy place for a Friday dinner with the family.

Crossing the sidewalk, my heels clacking on the cement, my head spinning from the long hours in front of my laptop, and the anxiety building in my chest, I looked inside. My dad was seated at the end of the table, with an empty seat to his right - the seat I was supposed to take. Marjorie was already waving at me. Smiling politely to the man standing at the door, I said, "They're waiting for me." He nodded and let me enter.

My eyes drifted to their table, and I allowed myself a few seconds to study the mood. They were laughing, but my palms were still sweating as I settled in for what would surely be an uncomfortable conversation.

"Sorry, traffic," I said, punctuating my apology with a kiss on each of my parents' cheeks. "Am I too late?"

"No, no," my dad said, his voice warm and comforting. "Your brother was about to tell me something, but you just distracted him. Go ahead, Fabrizio."

I turned to him, curious.

"I'm sure we can wait a bit more. Just... after the food," he said.

"Why are you so nervous?" Marjorie asked, her violet fingernails softly laying over his arm in a gentle caress. "It's something good," she said to me. "Don't worry."

"Are you pregnant again?" my mom asked.

"No! No, no!" my sister-in-law responded quickly, her voice almost echoing in the room. Even Rio seemed surprised by her rapid response. "It's Rio's news. Not mine."

“After the food, then,” my father said.

“I hate it when I do that,” I muttered to my brother, grabbing the menu from the table and letting my eyes drift through the print. “You haven’t ordered yet, right?”

My dad shook his head. "We were waiting for you.”

I glanced at the menu one last time before setting it back down. My dad's hand called for a waiter and, after the young man left, the conversation resumed. As usual before any Grand Prix, the race weekend was the matter on the table and, that night specifically, Carlos' penalty was the urgent matter. Ferrari had the pace and Carlos had the skill, but as I sat there, hearing my brother and dad's input on how wise the choice had or hadn't been, my attention diverged to the DNF he had suffered in Austria, less than two weeks ago. Vivid images of the flames engulfing the car, the heartbreaking words on the radio, and the cheers that echoed through the crowd as his teammate stepped onto the top step filled my mind.

One feeling the glory, the other one consumed in ruin.

“Good luck out there this weekend.” "Don’t pull another Austria. That one was scary.”

Done. I’d texted him. For better or for worse, it was done. And I didn’t have time to put the phone back in the purse before it vibrated again in my hand.

“Thank you. I really need it.”

I checked the time.

“Shouldn’t you be resting?”

“I’m resting." "Listening to my teammate rant about food, but resting.”

“Why? Did you tell him about the cheese-less pasta you tried to feed me?” “If I expect Leclerc to teach you something is how to cook pasta."

"He’s a terrible cooker.” “I’m better learning it from you.”

"I’ll be sure to give you a lesson someday."

"I'll hold you to that."

  "What are you smiling about?" Marjorie asked, my attention immediately being grabbed from my screen to the table.

"Nothing, sorry," I said quickly, tucking my phone back into my purse. "Amanda just texted me about the work I was finishing.”

"Ah, Eva, if you put that effort into racing…" he said, as the waiter came back with our food. I tried to ignore him, especially because there was no use fighting back his comment.

Even with the food on the table and the anticipation to find out about Rio’s news tugging on my chest, the conversation didn’t go further from Formula 1. My dad, a lifelong Italian Ferrari fan and a very biased Carlos supporter was ranting over the lack of professionalism he was sensing from the team and how the choices they repeatedly made ruined not only the drivers but the prestige of the team. Nothing new. Rio and I have been listening to the same tirade for a long couple of years and nothing seemed to change, even after the amazing start to the season the team had.

“I had my reservations at first, but you could be a nice fit for the team, actually”, my dad said, pointing at Rio, with the knife he was using to cut his steak. Rio looked confused at him, and then, at me. “Have they given you an answer?”

What?

For a moment, I felt like I’d fallen on a different table, a completely different conversation. My gaze shifted from one to the other, confused by my father’s question.

“Who’s they?” I asked. Marjorie was biting her lip; her violet fingertips on my brother’s arm, once again.

“Ferrari,” my father responded, clearly stepping over my brother’s feet. Rio seemed bothered; clenched jaw, restless fingers that Marjorie tried to calm by positioning hers over. “Are those the news?” He asked him.

Rio nodded, his jaw unclenching and his lips transforming to a slight grin. "Yep. They offered me a job." He looked around the table, his gaze caught mine for a second but quickly left again. “I need to let them know my decision until Monza.”

“You applied for a job at Ferrari?” I asked. Honestly, I was so confused I couldn’t piece all the things together. “We’re doing so good at the Challenge, you could have waited for just one m—”

“Eva.” My dad interrupted me. The strong stern voice pulled my attention. The authority value of his words over the sweet comforting voice of the beginning of the dinner. The mood had definitely shifted “Wait? You’re the one that’s always urging the team to aim for higher heights.”

"Exactly. The team won't do that without Rio."

"But your brother will. And so will you." I tried to interject but with no success. He continued before I even had the chance to talk. "You can't possibly think your brother would stay with the team knowing he could have this huge opportunity."

"I didn't know about any opportunity." I was replying to my father, but my eyes were directed to Rio. "What about the team? And the Challenge?" I inquired.

"In less than two weeks, the championship will be over. I have no doubts you will win it. You're just losing time there," my father's tone was bothering me, but the fact that he was still cutting his steak as he talked was really aggravating my temper.

Rio, on the other hand, didn't react. His expression didn't even shift. He remained silent, eyes shifting between mine and dad's face. In his silence, though, he was telling me much more than he thought.

"This is not a formality," I said to my father. "Can you please look at me while you talk about our future?"

Finally, he put down his cutlery and remained silent for a few seconds. Deep blue eyes looked up at me, cold and serious.

"There's no future for you if you're afraid to take a serious step," he said finally. "I won't let your brother get stuck in the Challenge when I know he can do so much more. I won't let you make him fall behind because of you."

"Because of me?"

"Why else would he stay at the Challenge?" I stayed silent, feeling my fake sense of confidence being stripped away with the weight of my dad's question. The answer that my conscience gave me was selfish and I refused to say it out loud. I was afraid of staying alone, rather, I was afraid to see Rio flying solo in the higher aims I ambitioned for me and not being able to carry along. Only if he waited, we could jump up together. "Why would he choose anything less than Formula One?"

"So, you have it decided, then?" I asked Rio. "How did that even happen?"

His tongue crept in between his lips, eyes wandering on my face, afraid to reach my eyes. It was making me nervous. Not just because he was about to leave me, but because he didn't tell me about it, prior. My dad knew about it. He even thought that I knew about it. And like a lightning bulb lighting up on my head: Rocco knew it, too.

"It was proposed to me. The job. At Silverstone, a few weeks ago." Even though Rio was stuttering, and his words barely constructed a sentence, piece by piece it all fell together. "Apparently, Carlos talked to someone about you. About the Challenge. And he mentioned me, my results..." he explained. "Carlos invited me there for the Grand Prix and surprised me with an interview."

Why didn't it surprise me? Carlos. The “right time”, of course.

"Your results? Why hide this from me?” I asked, looking around the table. “Clearly, everyone else knows.”

“I wanted to tell you, but didn’t get the chance to do it.”

“But what?” I asked, half defeated, half annoyed. Angry, even. There was so much going on inside me, I couldn’t think straight. “You just said you had the interview in Silverstone. Weeks ago. You had plenty of opportunities.”

“I knew you would snap and react like this,” Rio tried to justify himself.

“Snap? I’m not—” I paused and took a deep breath. At this point, I was seething with anger. “I’m asking questions. I’m not… snapping.”

“You should be happy for me,” I would if I didn’t feel betrayed. “I know you well enough to know that you would react… badly to the news. Especially if you knew Carlos was involved**.**”

Even though his name was blinking on my head, in bold red letters, I tried to set apart his involvement in this story. So, I carried on,

“And you’re just going to do it? Leave the team, the whole project and ditch us? Without even consulting me?”

He shrugged. “I’m consulting you now.”

“This is not a consultation, Rio. Please.” A pause. “This is you telling me what you’re going to do, without even considering my opinion or the team that’s behind your great results.”

“Go ahead.” He made a gesture with his hand. “What’s your opinion, then? You are the one that’s always telling me to aim higher. This is my dream. Always has been.”

“What? Formula One? I thought your dream was to drive in Formula One. Or was that before you noticed you’re a shitty driver? Enlighten me.”

“Eva, enough,” the deep voice cut me off.

I felt like I was going to burst. I wanted to scream, to cry, to express my anger somehow. But my dad's stern gaze kept me in my place. I felt completely helpless and unheard.

“You’re being ridiculous,” said Rio, cutting through the silence. “Childish, even. Ungrateful.”

“Ungrateful? I’m not the one leaving.”

“Why does leaving need to be bad?” The question settled in for a second. “Grow a bit, and maybe you’ll get some good opportunities too.”

“Sure, maybe then my friends will get me jobs, too. Is that what you mean?”

“Enough.” My dad's fist hit the table, loud enough to silence us, but not to the point of attracting too much attention.

My gaze lingered on his clenched fist on the table. I nodded, forcing myself not to say anything else. I placed my napkin on the table and got up, making sure my chair wouldn’t make any noise when pushed back. Before turning around, I paused briefly, my gaze now resting on my brother. “Good luck with your new job.”

  *

  It didn't surprise me when I saw Carlos fly through the track the next day, setting amazing times in the qualifying session, despite the penalty waiting for him for the race. He was dancing with the car, tracing beautiful lines within the colourful ones Paul Ricard was known for. Carlos would start P19 the next day, only ahead of Magnussen, who also had a back-of-the-grid penalty.

I traded the interviews for a dip in the pool and lingered there for the remainder of the afternoon. Perhaps because I was not the best person to have around that day, my parents had left just before lunch and didn't get back until after dinner. Alone, with music echoing throughout the house and the crippling anxiety the events that week had provoked, I felt myself get lost in the doubts and uncertainties.

My phone rang when I was already getting ready for bed. On my nightstand, the name Carlos appeared over an old photo of both of us. Like I couldn't control it, I walked to the phone and sat on the bed. I let it ring a few times before picking it up.

“Hi,” he said. I just looked through the window, to the dark backyard. “No good luck text today?”

“Guess not.”

“And why's that?”

“Did you know Rio had an interview to work at Ferrari?”

“Yes...?” He paused. “Is that a problem?”

“Did you know he got a job offer?”

We both fell into a moment of silence. A long sigh stretched through the line. I closed my eyes, not sure what to expect from the conversation. The next time his voice was heard, it was more serious.

"Can we stop asking questions instead of answering them?"

"The timing is funny," I said. "Just that."

"What do you mean?"

"You coming to Mugello? Was that a coincidence?"

"Eva, what?" Carlos was silent for a few seconds. "Don't make this into a drama," he said. "Rio is talented and if he got a job offer it's because he earned it. The things are not remotely related."

"I'm not complaining about him getting the job."

"Then what are you complaining about?" Carlos asked.

"That it took you years to finally come back and talk to me and it happened just when he got a job in your team. Did you really want to talk to me or did he make you do that?"

"I didn't do it for him," Carlos said. "I did it because I wanted to see you."

"I wish I could believe you."

"And why don't you?"

"It's been three years. Coincidences don't just happen."

I could hear him breathe. Silence weighed down my chest. He wasn't denying it. He wasn't telling me why he was there, that night. "Can I see you this week?" He asked me, before a long sigh.

"No."

"I'll be in Maranello for a few days." I bit my lip, shaking my head to the void. "You'll be in Imola, right? I can go there—"

"I don't want to see you." I talked over him and then paused for a brief second. "Don't show up there, please. It's an important week and I don't really need more distractions."

“Eva, por favor.”

“Good luck tomorrow.”

I put my phone away and let myself sink into the bed, feeling nothing but the warmth of the comforters on my skin and the instant sense of security that came over me. I allowed my eyes to close and my mind to drift away, and before I knew it, a prayer for Carlos came into my thoughts.

I prayed for strength for both him and me, for us. I knew that, whether we were on or off the track, we would need to find a way to get through whatever was to come.

Next Chapter: 04.

Thank you for your support in the previous chapter! Carlos will become a more present character in the future. Pinky promise. Don't abandon me until that happens, please! <3

[randomnameless]

Random AU :

While helping to clean what's left of the Monastery in FE16, Gilbert finds Cyril pretty pissed because he found the "box with important things" Lady Rhea kept in her room empty, so he wants to recover what was inside ("i'm sure those imperials soldiers stole it!") but, well, he never asked what was inside.

Gilbert only notices a weird thing next to the box on the floor, but promises to help Cyril later on.

Still, he picks up the thing and while he's curious about it, given all the events happening, he puts it in the back of his mind.

One night though, he studies it more attentively (or actually wanted to make space in his inventory) and notices it's a broken toy!

(but missing two wheels)

Cursing the Imperials under his breath for not even having spared children, he imagines it might have belonged to a kid who couldn't escape the assault and tried to hide in the Archbishop's room, only to be found out and, well, neither kid nor toy survived.

However, he notices this toy seems to be old as fuck, and while he only paid regular (for Gilbert!) attention to the monastery's inhabitants, he never saw any child in the monastery play with a similar toy. What was it doing in Lady Rhea's room?

Later asking Cyril if he found the missing wheels ("the what? who designs a horse with wheels?"), Gilbert, again, refocused on the war and his duty and left that mystery aside.

After the Bridge of Myrddin and it's high number of casualties, he felt like he had to "help at least" this "maimed" toy standing on his desk - he made wood wheels himself and managed to find a branch to make everything sort of stand and roll.

When Annette learns about it, she cries to his great dismay, it's nothing - but she tells him it's everything, this war only takes lives, but the sheer act of repairing this toy means so much - there will be hope later on, and children will be able to play again. Her dad might suck at white magic, he can still "heal" things, like toys. Can he imagine the joy on its owner's face when they will finally be able to play with it again?

(even if she thinks it's a bit weird to have a toy designed as a horse with wheels)

Seteth overheard Cyril's quest about looking for Rhea's "important stuff" even if he doesn't know what it is, together they find a slab of wax and a weird golem stuffed thing with a :) face.

Cyril ignore those things, but Seteth guesses those were the "treasures" Rhea stored in that box - under Cyril's disbelief, those are junk, not important treasure!

"Well, I am sure if you gave her something, she would have stored it in this box."

After retaking Firdhiad, everyone is happily, well, taking a rest at GM before going to Enbarr and Gilbert is assaulted by dozens of orphans who are sheltered in the monastery who ask him to "heal their toys". Gilbert only says he is a knight and will help as best as he can, which prompts Dimitri to wonder if he too, can help, before remembering that he still has difficulties to control his crest activation and would most likely break the toys.

Dedue tries to cheer him up, and one of Alois' jokes leads Dimtiri to vow to open a "toy hospital" in the castle when he returns - after all, he can help in his own way, right?

After hearing the story from Cyril about the contents of Rhea's box, Gilbert returns the toy immediately - to a kid's chagrin since they found that horse very neat ("it can roll on the walls!").

Rhea ultimately returns, and, after much consideration, accepts to give the contents of the box away since it's "time to accept the past and move on".

She gives the golem :) stuffie to Billy, saying it was one of their mother's favorite toys and how she refused to sleep without it when she was a child, because Rhea made it for her 5th birthday.

Rhea nearly cries at seeing Lycaon's horse on wheels repaired and thanks Gilbert, before returning it to the kid who was playing with it, telling them the precedent child who played with it told her that horse could fly, and was actually a "dragon-horse".

The kid looked at the archbishop weirdly, before nodding and calling their new toy a "draco-horse".

However, his sigillaria wasn't as popular, an Adrestian orphan managed to recognise a duck on it (this orphan was one of the survivors of the various "weeded lines" over the decades) but still called that thing weird (tfw he didn't inherit the Hresvelg artistic skills) and prefered to play with cats instead.

Little does Rhea know, Archbishop Billy roped Cyril in their plan to give her a new present, a herborium.

They filled it with the hundreds of flowers Billy gave her during their time at the monastery, before the war, and Cyril added the small flowers and lilies he helped grow during her absence.

Rhea's so overjoyed that she cries and hugs them both.

[onetimetwotimesthreetimess]

magnus culmination of bad decision making came when he watching alec grinding against some dude in a club (i cant crack anymore)

Part I

Part II

Part IV

The second he steps inside the club, he is surrounded by a dozen of bodies around him—touching and grinding from every direction.

There’s not a single part of his body that isn’t being touched by someone right now and Magnus from a year ago would’ve thrives under this, but this Magnus, this version of him abso-fucking-lately hates it.

On any other day, Magnus loves being appreciated and gazed by the world but not right now. Not since that night.

Not since Alec Lightwood.

Because there’s only one person Magnus wants to be touched and appreciated and loved by.

But he knows he’s been fucking up constantly for reasons which are beyond his own understanding, so in order to feel even a minuscule percentage better, he comes to the club that Catarina has been asking him to.

So he’s here.

Magnus tries to lose himself in the music, the debauchery, pushes his heart inside a box and wants to let his body feel something when his eyes land onto something and he freezes.

His eyes widen as he notices the scene in the middle of the club.

It sets fire inside his chest and a pain so insurmountable that it shakes his core.

Magnus powers through his pain and sadness but this is something unexpected because never in his years he’s ever thought that he’d ever have to witness Alec with someone else.

And it’s not just Alec standing or holding hands with someone, albeit he knows that watching Alec hold hands with someone is going to hurt more but this is excruciatingly horrible too.

Watching Alec’s arms wrapped around someone else, his head tilted sideways as the green-haired seelie kisses his neck, hand wounded in Alec’s unruly hair.

Magnus blinks a few times to check if he’s really witnessing this or if it’s his messed up brain conjuring something so evil but when he opens his eyes, Alec is still there, his hand inside the back of the seelie’s shirt.

Alec throws his head back and chuckles, but Magnus knows that it’s not his real laugh.

He’s seen when Alec laughs and making Alec Lightwood laugh feels better than whatever shadowhunters imagine must feel in the presence of Raziel.

Raziel’s powers have got nothing on Alec Lightwood’s smile.

So he knows it’s not a real laugh but that doesn’t matter when someone else has got their hands inside Alec’s pants because suddenly everything hurts so fucking much—and Magnus can’t do anything about it.

Anything logical that is.

He knows about Alec’s string of one night stands but the shadowhunter has never been cruel and throwing that in his face, has always find men that Magnus doesn’t know, at places that Magnus doesn’t go to. He has never tried to intentionally hurt Magnus.

Which makes what he’s going to do next worse.

Magnus snaps his fingers and within the span of five seconds, the seelie starts sweating profusely, his entire body itching and he witnesses and feels a sense of relief.

And so much self loathing for his actions.

It takes another thirty seconds before the Seelie separates himself from Alec and creates sone distance. The green haired man says something that Magnus can’t quite put but then the man starts walking towards the bar.

“Hello,” Magnus says warmly as he hovers over the guy behind the counter.

The man frowns before turning and then his eyes widen. “You’re Magnus Bane?”

“I am.”

“Is there something you want?”

Magnus’s smile widens, “Yes. I would like you to leave the club right this second. And never see that man again.”

The seelie turns and realises he’s talking about Alec and then gets a defiant look.

“Why?”

He knows it won’t be easy. Seelies are a tough crowd.

But this one seems young and inexperienced so Magnus snaps his finger and they’re almost dark blue.

His voice is chilled and deep with the next words. “Because I said so. You would do well with not refusing the Son of Asmodeus,” and the words leave an ugly taste in his mouth.

The seelie blinks before a wicked smile is on his face.

“So that’s the shadowhunter.”

“The shadowhunter?”

“The shadowhunter. The one who has Magnus Bane on his knees,” he adds. “I get it. He would have me on my knees in another five minutes too.”

The words sends a spike of anger and his magic turn almost black and he rages, “Leave.”

The Seelie puts up his hand in mock surrender.

“I will leave. I just need to say goodbye to him once. Or do you want me to leave him without a word?”

Magnus wants to say yes but he can’t be this cruel to Alec, doesn’t want him to feel more used and terrible lets the man walk back to Alec and watches their conversation from afar.

He sees confusion on his place before understanding dawns and Alec nods.

“You’re an asshole, you know that?” Magnus turns to find Catarina with a disappointed face.

He sighs and looks down. “I know.”

“Will you stop with this idiocy?”

I wish I could.

“He will find out someday, Magnus. And there would be no damage control after that.”

Cat berates him for another few minutes and then Magnus hears a glass break behind him, he turned to see what it was but there seems to be no one in particular except a hundred unfamiliar body and he frowns.

“What?”

“Nothing. I thought there was someone.”

[pennamesmith]

Saturday Mornings Sold Separately

This was my entry for the Summer 2023 Entrapdak Zine hosted by @maireadralph! The theme was “nostalgia” :) 

Summer, 1983

Hordak held his head in his hands and thought about toys and cartoons. 

Mixing the two was all the rage these days. Blame Star Wars, they said. He’d read countless newspaper stories about studios trying to strike it rich by partnering with some plastic peddler and slapping a syndicated story onto what was essentially a twenty-minute commercial, with extra commercials in the middle of it. 

It was genius. He wanted in. Why, rumor had it the folks over at Filmation were going to — 

His reverie was interrupted by a buzz from his desk intercom. “Your one o’clock is here, Mr. Hordak,” Shadow Weaver droned through the speaker. 

All right. This was it. “Send her in,” Hordak replied. 

The door swung open. A tiny woman with enormous hair clomped through it, lugging a hinged case that seemed almost as big as she was. 

“Entrapta Vesselak?” Hordak asked, glancing at his notes as she approached. He stood to shake her hand, but she merely stepped on top of the provided chair, hauling the case up after her and noisily dropping it on his desk. The cheap plywood groaned under its weight. 

“Hi,” the woman began with a massive grin. Her eyes sparkled. She was still standing up on the chair. “Yes, that’s me. Hello. Listen. Do you like gadgets? Do you enjoy space opera and/or barbarian fantasy epics? Do you love money?” 

Hordak suddenly felt himself at a loss for words. Stunned, he took a seat. “Go on,” he managed.  

Entrapta flipped open the latches on her case, and a universe spilled out of it. 

“Well then, have I got a cross-media franchise for you!”

The case unfolded into a diorama that filled the entire desk. An imposing castle sat amid craggy mountains beneath an alien sky. Over a dozen action figures, wearing colorful costumes and twisted into powerful battle positions, faced each other on a cosmic battlefield. Weapons, vehicles, and accessories to fit them all gleamed as only molded plastic could. 

Entrapta swept her hands across the display. “Behold, the future of children’s entertainment! Feast your senses on… Princess Emily and the Blasters of the Universe!”

Hordak picked up one of the toys and examined it. It held a purple sword, and a button on the back made its eyes light up with two tiny red bulbs. 

“That’s Bone-Head,” Entrapta explained. “He’s Emily’s arch-enemy. You see, at the center of the universe, on the planet U-Turnia…”

Entrapta proceeded to talk for an hour, uninterrupted, about the intricacies of Princess Emily lore: each character’s name, their powers, and how they all connected in an epic battle for the fate of the universe. To his own surprise, Hordak found himself utterly engrossed. He leaned forward. He was taking notes. 

“All right. Hold on,” Hordak spoke up, finally interrupting. Both arms were full of toys at this point. “It’s obvious that Princess Emily and Bone-Head are enemies. But how are kids supposed to know that he’s also her long-lost uncle, secretly plotting to steal the throne from his brother the king, just by looking at the box art?” 

“Oh, I put in these tiny comic books that explain it all,” Entrapta said blithely. She held out an example. It was printed in four-color and smaller than a greeting card. Revenge of the Space Bats!!! declared the cover in huge block letters, over an illustration of Princess Emily locked in battle with a fearsome cybernetic enemy. 

Hordak flipped through it with interest. “I see! How very amusing.” 

Monsters, robots, and colorful sound effects filled the pages inside. Alien overlords in fur loincloths and mad scientists with thigh-high boots lunged across each panel. To Hordak’s astonished delight, he found that he loved it. Something intangible and gestalt captured his imagination and refused to let go. 

“And now you want to try a more animated approach,” he deduced. 

“You got it!” Entrapta finally plopped down into her chair and spun idly. “Listen, I know Crypto Castle Toys isn’t exactly the biggest operation in town. We’re no Mattel, that’s for sure. But hey, you guys aren’t exactly Disney, either.”

Hordak raised an eyebrow. 

“Sorry, was that rude? I meant to say that Fright Zone Animation is a very small company, financially speaking.” Entrapta completed another rotation and looked Hordak in the eye. “However, I’m thinking that if our two small forces join together, and we work really hard… we just might be able to make something big.”

There was a pregnant pause. 

“You, ah, make a most impressive pitch, Ms. Vesselak,” Hordak said, fastidiously fumbling with his tie. 

“Call me Entrapta.” She folded her display back up and winked. “So, do we have a deal, Mr. Hordak?” 

Hordak smiled and offered his huge hand to shake. 

“Call me Hector. We’ll be in touch.” 

~*~

Autumn, 1983

“…And through here we have the art department. Catra heads up character design and storyboards, and Scorpia is our lead animator.” 

Hordak fidgeted in place as Entrapta enthusiastically greeted the other two women and started pawing through the contents of their desks. It was only an informal studio tour; the legal side of their new partnership was already taken care of, and early production on the Princess Emily cartoon had begun. Logically speaking, showing Entrapta around the building should have been the least stressful part. 

So why did Hordak feel so nervous? 

“Wow, this is great!” Entrapta exclaimed, flipping through page after page of artwork. “We’re gonna make a great team! Do you guys use the standard frames per second or lower? Any backlighting or moiré effects? I’ve only just started researching the topic, but it’s fascinating!” 

Hordak couldn’t help but smile as Entrapta talked. Her enthusiasm was infectious. His anxiety faded. For the first time in years, he found that he was actually having fun at work. With more than a hint of pride, he ushered her into the next room. 

“Now then. In here’s the recording studio. Octavia composes all the music — we’ve got one of those old IMP synthesizers — and Lonnie and Rogelio do the voices.”  

Entrapta tilted her head at the hulking man and dreadlocked woman who waved from behind their microphones. “Just the two of them? I mean, no offense, I’m sure they’re very talented, it’s only…” 

“No, you’re right. It is a bit of a skeleton cast.” Hordak rubbed his neck sheepishly. “Actually, I fill in sometimes for the extra voices. As does my daughter.” 

He gestured to the control booth, where a chipper-looking blonde woman smiled through the glass. “Hi! I’m Adora!” she called. “Dad’s been talking all about you. Blah, blah, genius, our only hope, that sort of thing.” 

“Oh! A real family business, then.” Entrapta’s expression was unreadable. “Does her mother work here too?” 

“Uh, no.” Hordak stammered. “She’s not — I mean, I’m not — ”

Adora leaned out of the booth. “I’m adopted and he’s never been married. It’s a long story. You should have him tell it to you over dinner or something.” 

Hordak blushed furiously. “Adora, you and I have already discussed my feelings about workplace fraternization and its associated risks. Extensively.” 

“I said dinner.” Adora shrugged. “You wouldn’t be at work. Duh.” 

“I think that’s enough of this stop on the tour,” Hordak said quickly, though Entrapta had her mouth open and her finger poised. He shooed her out into the hallway while Adora waved enthusiastically behind them. 

“Oh, and this is the writer’s room,” Hordak mentioned as they trotted past. “It’s not super important.” He knocked on the open door and peered in perfunctorily. “You need anything in there, Kyle?” 

A haggard-looking young man glanced up from a sea of crumpled notes. “Um, actually…” 

“That’s great, Kyle,” Hordak said. “Keep up the good work!” He flashed a thumbs-up and shut the door. 

After that day, Entrapta was a regular sight around the studio. She consulted on story details, brought prototype toys and playsets from her factory for the artists to reference, and even improved the building’s electrical wiring. She was a woman of many talents. And more than that, it seemed as though everyone around her put just a little more joy and enthusiasm into whatever they were doing when she was nearby. It was incredible to see. 

Gradually, organically, the world of Princess Emily took form. Sketches and suggestions became cels and scripts. The characters began to move and speak. Hordak wound up playing a rainbow-winged unicorn, his deep, gruff voice creating a surreal dissonance that he hated and Entrapta delighted in. 

“No, it makes sense,” she would say, flipping through storyboards of scenes where Emily snuck past clueless guards, or used her super-strong posterior as a heat shield for atmospheric re-entry. “It’s what a kid would think of. It’s the kind of story they would tell.” 

“It’s silly,” Hordak protested. 

“Of course it is. That’s the point,” Entrapta answered. “I mean, you played with toys as a kid, didn’t you?” 

“I had a Roy Rogers and Trigger,” Hordak admitted. 

“Right. And did your Roy just do regular cowboy stuff?”

“Hmm. No. Not always.” A faraway look crossed Hordak's face. “Sometimes he went to space. And fought space dinosaurs.” 

“Exactly! And that’s the thing!” Entrapta leapt up, a fire in her eyes. “All those stories that kids everywhere come up with? They’re all true and just as valid as anything in comics or on TV. Those ideas have been embroidered by so many storytellers over the years that there’s no one continuity. It’s a living myth.” 

She looked at him, and he felt his chest tighten. 

“Don’t you remember how big your imagination was when you were young? I want to create something like that. A message that tells kids it’s okay to make things up just for fun. That it matters, to be weird and silly and creative for its own sake.” 

“Uh.” Hordak gaped. Words were suddenly difficult for him. “I… acknowledge the work you put into this. It is very, um, philosophically sound. Anyone who discounts you would be an utter fool.”

Entrapta smiled. “Thanks,” she said, with a soft bat of her eyelashes. “I like being friends with you, too.”

Two weeks later, they sat squeezed together in the studio’s tiny screening room, watching the finished pilot episode. The theme song blared and Princess Emily struck a pose, holding her sword to the heavens. Hordak sweated while Entrapta bounced in her seat and squealed with excitement. 

“Does my name really have to be that big in the opening credits?” Hordak groaned, as Hector Hordak: Executive Producer flashed across a royal blue background in looping white script. 

“Of course it does. This is a very serious production,” Entrapta cooed. Onscreen, Emily bellowed a battle cry and charged an army of buzzing bee-people. 

Was it Hordak’s imagination, or was Entrapta leaning closer? 

“This is your baby as much as mine,” Entrapta went on. “And my name is already on all the merchandise. So I think this is only fair.” 

“Thank you for giving me magic powers, Princess Emily! Now I am Rainbow Speed!” the flying unicorn whinnied. 

Hordak blushed and looked away from the screen. But then he found that Entrapta wasn’t looking at the screen either. And she was blushing, too. 

Their eyes met. As if pulled by gravity, they inched closer together. Something passed between them, like a tiny spark. 

Clang. The door banged open, flooding the room with blinding light. Entrapta and Hordak froze, their faces suddenly much farther apart. 

Catra stood panting in the portal. “You have to come quick! It’s an emergency!” she cried. “We boarded an entire episode with Bot-Tholomew as a villain, but Kyle forgot to remind us that the script says he’s supposed to be one of the good guys! We’re already behind schedule as it is. What are we going to do?” 

Entrapta and Hordak looked at each other. 

“Well,” Entrapta said carefully. “I guess we’ll just keep working on it. Until it’s perfect.” 

Hordak nodded. “As long as it takes.”

~*~

Winter, 1985 

They lasted two seasons. Which wasn’t bad, all things considered.

The episodes they made were madcap and freewheeling. Everyone had their favorites: the one where Emily threw a crashed spaceship back into orbit. The one where she brokered peace between two warring moons. The one where Bone-Head was dying from a poisoned deathberry cobbler and only Emily was brave enough to save her own nemesis, by doing him the kindness of looking at his old vacation photos. 

And there were fans. Mostly kids, but some grownups too. They sent handwritten letters and photos of themselves in homemade costumes. Children would beg their parents for the newest Princess Emily toys. Catchphrases echoed across schoolyards. They were everywhere. 

The problem was, there simply weren’t enough of them. 

“Horde Prime doesn’t know what he’s talking about!” Hordak ranted, pacing up and down the floor of his office. “I should have given him and the other network suits a piece of my mind. Do you know what he said? He said boys weren’t watching the show because girls like it too much! That's not a reason to cancel a show! That’s just prejudice!” 

“It’s okay,” Entrapta sighed, looking wistfully at the piled-up boxes of forgotten art. It was late, and raining outside. “There’s no need to get huffy. Experiments fail sometimes. It’s over, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t important. Maybe this just means it’s time for a new project?” 

Hordak shook his head. “No, not for me. I’m getting out. I sold my share of the company back to Grizzlor and Cobalt, and I hear they’re thinking of accepting a buyout from Warner Brothers. But the studio will probably shutter either way.” 

“Oh.” Entrapta was suddenly very interested in something outside the window. “That makes sense, I guess. To be honest, the toy business isn’t going so well either. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been getting offers, too. So it looks like this is the end for Princess Emily.” She glanced back. “But I still don’t regret what we did. I’m proud of what we made together. It was a good thing.” 

Her eyes glistened. “It was nice, being partners with you.” 

Hordak felt like a useless machine. He knew he ought to say something. He wanted to say something. But he didn’t know how, and the more he thought about it the more he doubted himself. Long seconds ticked by. Finally, desperately, he extended a trembling hand. 

“It has… been an honor working with you, Ms. Vesselak,” he managed. 

A longer silence followed as Entrapta stared at the offered hand. Then she smiled sadly and shook it, looking up at Hordak with wine-dark eyes. 

“Thank you, Mr. Hordak,” she replied. And she turned away, very slowly, and with very small steps, she left. 

Hordak let her go, and hated himself all the while. 

And then she was gone. 

~*~

Spring, 2018 

The years went by like a sailing skiff. 

In the end, Hordak found that becoming a solitary septuagenarian wasn’t such a terrible fate. His knees hurt, and he couldn’t walk as far as he used to, but he still had his garden and his cats, and Adora called once a week and visited from Vermont twice a year. He had time to read, he ate well, and he liked the view from his west-facing window. 

Really, Hordak wondered. What more could he want? 

Something deep in his heart fluttered. 

The phone rang. Once. Twice. Odd, since he didn’t usually get calls at this time. 

Hordak picked up the receiver. “Hello?” 

“Hector! Hey, did you hear about the Princess Emily reboot? Oh, sorry. This is Entrapta. From the show. Remember me? Hello!” 

Hordak’s chest thudded. A sudden, delicious chill shot through him, like cool rain in a blazing desert. He felt his breath hitch. 

“…Entrapta?” 

“Yeah! Your daughter gave me your number back in the eighties, and you seemed like the sort of person who would still have a landline. And live in the same place. How have you been?”  

Hordak took the receiver away from his ear and stared at it as if he held a long-lost curiosity. He was wearing his robe and slippers. He didn’t get out much these days, and he tended to sleep in. He looked around the little kitchen — it was, indeed, the same familiar place he’d always lived in — and was hit with a sudden wave of nostalgia. 

Almost tenderly, Hordak brought the receiver back. “Entrapta. It’s so good to hear from you.”

“Well, you know.” Entrapta’s voice echoed tinnily from the speaker. Older, but still with the same unmistakable, vibrant energy. “I didn’t want to bother you or anything. But then I saw about the new show — I sold the character rights ages ago, of course, but I still keep up with some of the fan websites — and I knew I had to bend your ear about it. Have you seen any of the promotional stuff? There was a panel at Comic Con. They got that one webcomic artist to be showrunner. I think it looks really good!” 

“I hadn’t heard,” Hordak lied. Adora had told him about it a week ago, but he desperately wanted Entrapta to go on talking. 

And she did. Her energy was as wild and uncontainable as it had ever been. She talked as if it had been days, not decades, since they last spoke. About anything and everything. At first they discussed the novelty of seeing a new generation’s take on Princess Emily; their memories of the studio; the glimpses of fandom they’d caught over the years. 

“I did an interview for a documentary once,” Hordak recalled. “Small operation; came to the house. Couple of thirty-somethings in ironic t-shirts. They were friendly.” 

“I still like to watch the old cartoons,” Entrapta said. “I bought the Blu-ray they put out last year. All ninety-three episodes, plus bonus features. This might sound silly, but it’s kind of like being with old friends.” There was a pause. “And… it’s nice to hear your voice. Even if it is just as Rainbow Speed the flying unicorn.”

Before long, the conversation turned toward their own lives. Their families. How they passed the days, orbiting around and around the local star. 

“No, I never settled down either,” Entrapta rambled. “Just me and the big old house I inherited from my parents. But I have my hobbies.”  

“Adora?” Hordak smiled. “Oh, she’s married now. Yes, the moment it was legal. I’m so proud of her.” 

And so on. 

When Hordak finally thought to check a clock he realized that nearly three hours had gone by. The sun was high and the lazy Saturday morning was about to slip into a sunny Saturday afternoon. 

As if a spell had been broken, Entrapta paused in her flowing chatter. 

“Well,” she said, drawing the word out slowly. “I should probably let you go now, shouldn’t I? I’ve talked your ear off long enough.” 

Something that wasn’t quite a thought and wasn’t quite a feeling overtook Hordak’s body. It was as if time flowed backward, then forward, then every direction at once. He was aware of everything around him. Each sound and sensation held meaning. 

“So long,” Entrapta sighed. 

“Wait,” Hordak blurted. He knew he wouldn’t get another chance. His heart was hammering. He took a deep breath. “There’s something I have to ask you.” 

And he did. 

The joy in Entrapta’s voice when she answered him was the most beautiful sound Hordak could possibly have imagined. Magic returned to the universe. Flowers bloomed and rainbows arched across the sky. He closed his eyes and smiled. 

It was just like he remembered. 

[arienai]

Actually I want to talk about Utena/Otherside Picnic specifically one certain scene:

Ending of Revolutionary Girl Utena: Utena gets stabbed through with a sword, Anthy gets stabbed through with like millions of swords, Utena crawls over to save Anthy despite being injured, struggles to open a sealed door but eventually does. Ends with them reaching for each other and the post credits scene is holding hands. Gender stuff is discussed at some point "you can't be my prince because you're a girl [stab]".

Otherside Picnic birdbox/kotoribako: Sorawo gets stabbed through with a pointy bird thing, Toriko gets stabbed through with like DOZENS of pointy bird things, Sorawo crawls over to save Toriko despite being injured, struggles to open a sealed box but eventually does. IIRC they are holding hands throughout this process and the post-action scene has them holding hands and refusing to let go. Gender stuff is discussed at some point "these things only stab women and girls".

Now... this could just be me being a turbonerd and reading too much into something but knowing Miyazawa it also wouldn't shock me too much if this a sort of homage. If it is an homage, then it also means Miyazawa made Sorawo the Utena in this story and made Toriko the Rose Bride, which brings up several more interesting questions and things to think about. Especially because you have a sort of role reversal later on in UraPi where Toriko is the Prince with a Weapon saving Sorawo from her past (the Red Person).

I guess I could be putting way too much thought into this though. lol

[unexpectedyarns]

RANT

I’ve been home two days and haven’t gotten one f*cking thing that I need to do, done.

Yesterday I had to take the kids to several stores bc son 3 needed items for his cosmetology class. Also I needed to return a Christmas gift and get something different, which I sure didn’t want to attempt next week.

Then I spent several hours at the laundromat bc Kid 7 had left something in a (shared) bedroom that then had molded. Both kids having respiratory problems so everything made of fabric in that room had to be washed.

I was supposed to have a local-anaesthetic, needle biopsy this morning. But because of hospital CYA principles, the nurse said she needed a blood test “to see how fast I bleed or clot,” which I consented to. But then she left the needle in the bend of my arm, “in case we need an IV,” which I did NOT consent to, having had a VERY traumatic experience in that same hospital with IVs put in both arms at the bend in my elbows, thereby prohibiting movement of both arms.

I told her so, and asked her to move the stent further down my arm so I could bend my arm, and she refused. Called the doctor (whom I’d never met before) in, who said, “then we can’t do your biopsy.” I asked if moving the stent 3 inches away, still in plain sight, was an unreasonable request. He said I was being a combative patient (not that word but I can’t think of the one he used) and that if I didn’t like their policies, I shouldn’t have scheduled the procedure there. I said I didn’t, my doctors office did, and not only did they choose the place but also dictated the time. But is my request unreasonable?

So he goes to the foot of my bed and tells the nurse. “So we need to get this IV line moved…” (like still, why do I need an IV line for a 5-minute local procedure but ok). Then he goes, “You know what? NO. I’m not doing this procedure. And leave the computer file open so I can notate the patient’s defiance.” Then he said, “I’m just not going to biopsy that thing in your neck.”

I told him it is on my clavicle, and I’ve had to explain to a dozen people that the mass is on my clavicle, not in my neck. And he said, “YOU don’t get to tell ME where the problem is. That’s part of your neck. I’m sick of LAYPEOPLE coming in here and thinking THEY should teach ME about anatomy.”

Like motherfucjer if I plopped you in the middle of my job, you’d look stupid too. But also, when what you’re doing is without my consent and is scaring me, my bodily autonomy supersedes the consent for treatment. You’re not God, or A god.

Came home. Two baskets of laundry from yesterday are damp and need to be further dried.

I can’t make Christmas cookies because apparently we are out of butter even though the kids made a grocery order while I was gone AND I WAS AT 5 STORES YESTERDAY but nobody told me we’re out of butter.

I need to go to storage (23 miles away) to get Christmas stuff out but wolf needs to fix our other car and needs (the only working) one here in case he needs to go for parts. That is once he gets back from taking Josiah to a Dr appt an hour away and takes him to the college.

Everything that belongs under the kitchen sink has been sitting in the floor for a month bc the kitchen drain is clogged and in trying to fix it, the handyman caused the drain to leak so there’s a bucket under there. And no. Apartment management haven’t fixed the leak OR the clog. We can do 5 dishes until the drains back up, and then takes hours to drain. For a month now.

We have 2 loads of truck laundry that need to be done before Wolf leaves on Sunday morning. And I need to make truck food (see above, can only wash 5 dishes at a time)

I have 5 households of Christmas presents to wrap for adult kids. I need to go to a Christmas tree lot to buy the smallest tree in the world.

Everywhere I look is mess (the kitchen. Laundry waiting in the dining room. Growing stack of boxes to be mailed. Wrapping station in the living room).

Merry f*cking shitscram.

// end rant //

[snarkythewoecrow]

so we have this lovely 92 year old German lady living across the street and she lives alone, now I've never seen her name written, and her accent is thick, but I think it's Laudie, or that's how it sounds.

but I need to tell you all a bit about her and the cookies she makes

so it snows a lot here and snow plowing is expensive but my husband plows driveways in the winter, so he's been doing hers for free, or trying to, but she's the most stubborn woman you'll ever meet and refuses not to pay, going as far as trudging to our mailbox in a blizzard in her snow boots to stick money in the box, so not wanting this woman to hurt herself, she's 92, we eventually reach an agreement, which is if she really wants to do pay something, a batch or two of cookies once every winter is more than enough

(everyone on the street has had her cookies at some point, and they are very--no, we will not speak ill of them)

now, does this lovely, stubborn woman agree to the deal? oh she did, but her smile, that glint in her eye, it should have warned us

because every single time it snowed enough to plow over the course of the winter, which was approximately 20 times in 4 months, she delivered 2 dozen oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, which let's say took some milk to wash down

now at this point, coming into spring, we cannot look at another cookie, and then her son from out of state ends up seeing us in the yard one day, and he comes over to thank us for giving his mom someone to make cookies for again, it's given her people to take care of again, and like, okay, yeah, cue my heart having a grinch moment, especially since at certain moments this winter i had grown to dread the next grocery bag of cookies

but anyway, this brings me to today, the day before easter, which brought a gift of more cookies, and i have no idea if there is a cultural difference, but this morning, i was sleeping in, only to be startled awake around 10am by the kind of urgent, rapid banging on your door that would make you believe the house was on fire and some passerby was trying to alert you, so off i go, flying out of bed, there's more rapid, doorframe shaking knocking, rounds of it, my heart is racing, pull open the door, and it's Laudie, with a bag of cookies, which dammit, she's too fucking cute, scowling at me like i somehow offended her and probably totally judging me for my pajamas and bedhead, then nods sharply, aggressively stating, "Happy Easter," shoving the cookies at me, and of course i smiled and thanked her, and her expression softened a bit, and then she just turned and went home

but anyway, that's Laudie and the cookies, and yeah, in case you're wondering, we give her eggs from our chickens and buy things to restock her cookie making supplies when we can, but the results have always been an increase in cookies

honestly, everyone should have a grumpy but lovable 92 year old cookie making German woman for a neighbor, because she's pretty damned great (even if the cookies are somehow more like weird unsweetened oatmeal biscuits with chocolate chips than what you'd normally expect)

and it definitely makes me a bit sad now, some days, ya know? knowing someday those cookies will stop, but for today, I'm gonna sit here and eat some damn cookies, knowing it's not quite the recipe but the intent and love she put into them

[jymwahuwu]

New World, New Beginning

Toji Fushiguro x Fem! Reader

Content Warning: dub-con, non-con(flashback), angst, unrequited love(past), kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, misogyny, pregnancy sex, lactation kink, forced breeding(flashback), housewife kink, degradation, forced oral sex(flashback), non-consensual spanking

Summary: Toji loves his little housewife now...but he's never treated her well in the past.

Note: finally finished! this wip took me so many days, but the desire to be toji little housewife has never gone away... hope you guys like this story.

Dark Content, Minors DNI

The tiny wind chimes on the balcony swayed with a crisp and pleasant sound, greeting each other with the birds flying by the window. You're washing mushrooms in an open kitchen. Yesterday, Megumi showed you his exam results, and you couldn't hide your joy, telling him that you were proud of him. Toji, sitting next to him, was circling the lottery code, and he didn't say "Well done, Megumi" until you knocked him on the head.

To celebrate, you're going to cook sukiyaki, which requires various ingredients. However, the cursed spirit bound to the door traps you in this place; you can't buy anything. Fortunately, you urged your husband to go to the supermarket a while ago, and he came back with an oversized shopping bag in one hand and filled the refrigerator. This morning, you opened the fridge, counted the ingredients, and discovered that these can already be cooked sukiyaki three times.

Although your husband, Toji, only bought sushi or yakiniku for takeaway, he prefers to be home now. He and Megumi are attentive when they're drinking the soup, and they would also stare at the prepared dishes but refuse to admit that they wanted it.

Thinking of this, you smiled. Like father, like son.

(Toji told you how to be his good girl again —

You're sobbing and adding spices to dishes, but the relentless slaps on the ass didn't stop.)

While waiting for the ingredients to thaw, you lowered your head, picked up the vacuum cleaner, and walked into the room to clean.

His faint scent and traces were everywhere in the room. The TV that wasn't turned off was showing horse racing channels. And the papers on which the bets were written were scattered like snowflakes. You pick up one of the slips of paper, and the amount written on it can cover several months of household expenses.

You collect those pieces of paper and put them in a folder in order.

("Toji, let's go to the beach and the shopping street once? Just once, okay?…." You leaned on his back, kissed his cheek gently, and said, waiting for the surprise.

He pushed your hand away and watched the powerboat racing intently. He gambled on it.

That day was Valentine's Day.)

There was a whiteboard in the corner of the room with dozens of people's names and information about them pinned to it.

Except for the new name, all other names were marked as if they had been deleted from the world.

You opened the torn pages of the books on the ground, with ancient and obscure words and pictures written on them. There are some cursed tools of various shapes on the ground.

According to your husband's instructions, you stuffed those cursed tools and books into the space where the spell was pasted.

(Toji never told you about his work before.

Every time getting off work, he gets a lot of money. This would explain a large amount of cash he casually left on the table. )

You hesitated for half a minute, then dragged the box out, opened it, and wiped the dust off the album.

The first few pages are all about the same person, a smiling woman with short hair. Simple wedding photo. A diamond ring is on her finger. This was taken next to a lake. He hugged her from behind. Not like his perfunctory when he's around you. Not like his indifference when he pushed you away.

They are sweet. Perfect pairing.

("We're over. I don't need someone who never cared about me."

Your hand holding the suitcase trembles, praying that he'll glance at you.

After a while of silence, that man told you expressionlessly. "Remember to leave the key.")

You're wiping away your tears to put it back in place but found... there is another album under the album?

This is something you've never seen before.

The first page is Purikura that you and your husband took in the photo booth.

You froze. He never wanted to spend money for you before, so you paid for it yourself. You dragged him in to take pictures. Toji stared unnaturally at the camera, not knowing where to put his hands, but seemed like was going to smash the machine in the next second. You quietly added cat ears to him while editing a photo.

Before breaking up, you asked him where did this photo go? He replied that it was thrown away as trash.

The second photo...got weird.

You crossed the road at the traffic light.

You were playing with stray cats at dusk.

You were shopping for clothes in the mall and held up two sets of clothes for comparison in annoyance.

You're dating a man(the photo is ripped off, leaving only your part).

The photos were taken after the breakup.

Toji...taking your pictures in private?

He-He cares about you like he cares about his first wife? Resisting surging nausea, you buried the photo album in your chest and felt a little comfort.

("That's not right. To-Toji, we've broken up..." You kneel on the ground, priing on the eerie chains around your neck, startled by the situation you're facing.

His hands were cruel — almost irresistible. All he has to do is press your head down and fill your ignorant and stubborn mouth with a dick. )

The husband's bed is black and white in color design. You planned to change the sheets to wash, but something fell when you lifted the quilt. Took a closer look; you saw a close-up of the model's smile, her massive breasts placed in the center of the shot, with some blatantly erotic text next to it.

Adult-adult magazine?

You picked up the magazine and just found that there were five or six next to it... Is this... your husband's collection? Curious about your husband's secret hobbies, you opened one of the books, and what you saw was a female model dressed as a housewife. She poses sexy, spreading her legs towards the camera.

You compared your chest and butt with the photo, and then you pouted and turned to the next page.

Perverted Toji.

The theme of the photo on the next page is the same. It is a photo of the wife preparing breakfast, but there is no cover under the apron, and there is residual redness and swelling on the waist and buttocks, leaving room for imagination.

You gradually figured out some outlines of his collection preferences, flipping the magazine with burning cheeks.

After having a baby, you don't have to solve it yourself, and Toji just gives you some gentle treatment like floating on the water, but those are not enough to solve...needed. He usually kisses your round belly and tells you to be the perfect little wife.

(Toji occasionally gives you a breathless tongue kiss while his lower body presses against your ass. You sob and beat his chest, white mucus spilling from the spread petals, smearing his thick dick and scrotum. It was mixed with the sound of a mess of water stirring the seeds inside, indicating that the inside was full, but there was still no sign of stopping the thrusting.

"Please, please don't continue, I don't want to get pregnant...!")

A box of discs fell out of the magazine.

The cover title on the box describes an adult film in which a pregnant wife is sweetly punished by her husband. Lately, Toji just cuddles you to sleep; even though you offer to help with your hands, he refuses. But his collection of this kind of film... means that he actually has some needs?

Bastard Toji. You don't need any punishment.

But... if you watch it for a while, you should know what your husband wants, right?

You held the box to your chest, looked out the door, made sure there was no one in the house, breathed a sigh of relief like a kid stealing candy, and put the CD into the machine. A specific image gradually emerged from some beating spots of light on the screen — a wife standing at the door saying goodbye to her husband at work and tidying his tie.

The husband punishes the wife who does not do housework.

She was wearing a sexy dress with lace.

A lewd moan drifted past your ears.

The husband is... sucking, the breasts are...

Some of the heat gathered in the private part, and you rubbed it through the cloth, but it became itchier, so you groaned in a low voice.

"Tsk tsk, what did I find?" Without warning, silently — a smug smile appeared by the door and came to you. That's your husband, Toji Fushiguro. The usual black shirt, with chiseled muscles looming from the fabric. You turned to look for the remote, but it was already taken from him. "A bad girl who peeks at her husband's stuff."

You tried to justify yourself. "... I'm sorry... it's not what you saw, Toji, I-I didn't mean to peek...!"

He raised his eyebrows, "But this is the result. Tell me now, do you deserve the punishment?" This person who subverts the world formed by tradition and curse, his voice is always low, but with a hint of arrogance and playfulness, always inspires those cravings that shouldn't be there.

"...Yes." You lowered your head.

"Yes, what?"

You put on a faint cry. "Yes, I should be punished, Toji. I shouldn't have peeked at your stuff."

"Say, I'll be your good wife. Say this."

"I-I…"

Are you really going to say that?

The shards tangled in the objects, clattering into tiny notes, reminding you to stay sane — you have ideals and goals, not cooking, sewing, cleaning, taking care of your husband and kids.

Not a traditional housewife.

Not every day with open legs waiting for a husband. He's not even a husband. You — you didn't go to register for marriage, you didn't take wedding photos. You broke up. It was him; it was he who dragged you back.

When he first explained another world to you, the cursed spirit was clinging to the gate, laying down 281 layers of bondage. The sound of locking rang through the night. Thud. Thud. Thud. Every echo declares that you can't step outside this place unless master Toji Fushiguro allows it.

But, if you leave here, where can you go? His specialties are tracking and fighting; ask those Jujutsu Sorcerers to protect you? All the names he erased were sorcerers. Plus, you've considered Megumi as your own son, and it's hard to bear any sign of sadness on his face. and —

The thought of him getting tired of abandoning you and no longer thinking of you as a competent wife boils in your stomach with anxiety and sorrow, forcing you to make every promise of eternal loyalty.

"I-I'll be your good wife, Toji."

"Good girl." He licked the corner of his mouth and muttered. "Then you should know what the punishment is."

There was nothing to hide from Toji's eyes.

You are wearing a maternity dress which Toji bought for you. Holding the skirt, you bite your lip and slowly lift it up to show your husband.

Toji had already guessed your state, which further confirmed his opinion - your breasts are swollen beyond their original size, some milk is leaking from the inside. The abdomen is particularly rounded under the light, contrasting with the swollen breasts. When he realized it was your natural preparation for the baby, he couldn't resist the urge to harden in his crotch.

"When did you get milk?" Toji held up your breasts gently, thumbs around your nipples as if checking the storage.

"A week ago..." You whimper, an unusual sensitivity that comes with the milk. The corners of Toji's mouth twitched in a malicious smirk, and you're familiar with that smile — that means he's going to bully you.

Sure enough, he lowered his head and leaned close to your chest, teasing the tip of his tongue on the swollen tits, licking away the colostrum that had come, while the other hand massaged the breast skillfully, seducing the new cream to flow out. That itchiness has no place to vent; you can only rub your legs slowly, so there is still a little pleasant stimulation in the private parts.

"Toji...please..." The mist drifted to your eyes, "Touch me."

"Where do you want me to touch you, baby?"

"Touch my...my pussy, please...Toji..."

He snickered. "Guess I can't say no to a little slut like that."

The panties that your husband bought for you are comfortable cotton for pregnant women, but they have luxurious patterns sewn on the sides and a small bow on the front. Now, this is swaying gently in the air, revealing the essence of eroticism in purity. Thick fingers penetrated the sensitive, smooth inner wall, and the thumb, still outside, pushed through the soaked folds and stroked the tiny buds that were desperately needed. Joyful notes pop from your tongue, and bliss runs through you like an escaped rabbit. Without anyone playing with your boobs, but the gushing fluid get onto his fingers, the milk from flowed out involuntarily — pregnant milk wasn't much, just thin, but still pounding his visual senses.

"How perfect..." Toji's throat went dry at sight. He whispered into your ear. "It proves that your body expects punishment from your husband, doesn't it?"

"...Yes." You timidly admit. "Fuck-fuck me, husband."

Toji's jet-black short hair fell on his forehead, and the taut muscles were covered with black cloth, but the explosive power implied in it was still visible. He can usually carry you on his back with one hand, but now it's different — you're carrying a precious baby. He rips off your panties, then lifts your hips and waist with both hands, and places you on top of him like a gorgeous doll. His crotch is already bulging like a hill, the eager cock inside jumps out — thick and long in size and red glans oozing pre-cum, standing upright in your dripping pussy with a natural deterrent.

It's not the first time you've had sex with your husband, but you're still intimidated by his cock. You move your ass slowly-slowly…until your husband lazily reminds you, "Do you want to be punished harder, doll?".

"Sit on my cock," he ordered.

Then you obey. You would obey Toji's orders so willingly that in your heart, all those tapes showing what kind of monster he was would stop playing. The trembling and wet folds rubbed against the glans, like flowers blooming in the fields, gradually propping up the tight walls.

"To-Toji...I can't do it, this is too big! This-this..." You grumble tearfully but don't know that this is one of your husband's favorite scenes. No matter how many times you take his dick perfectly, you have a visceral fear of this size. All he needs to do is a little pushing — to push his dick up, causing a pitiful scream.

"Look? This fit, I've fucked the baby into your body." He teased.

According to the parenting website, Toji quietly lay back on the soft pillow to prevent pressing you and his baby but still maintained a ruthless appearance. While you're whimpering on his cock like a stupid slut that's been destroyed, he's trying to give a new pinnacle to tight inner walls. With one hand, he held the thigh that was rubbing against flesh and slammed it upward cautiously and firmly, while the thumb of the other hand swirled around the tiny pearl.

The adult video is still playing, and now it's showing the supposedly bright future housewife being fucked by her husband, with a close-up of her reluctant but intoxicated look. The reflection pouring out of the electronic screen is the lewd gesture of you riding Toji with your round belly and shaking with your husband's cock.

Based on you sitting on dick, almost defenseless, he can smoothly rub against sensitive spots, stretch your pelvis, and cause your thighs to shiver. Toji told himself he had to be pretty careful not to really destroy you, but at the same time, there was a wilder, more eager energy driving him to give each loud slap—spoil you, fuck you, train you, and fuck another baby into your body. And the machine and the moans from the bed were intertwined, causing the room to reverberate with the sound of water hitting the flesh.

In the restrained but still relentless pounding, the wall encasing the shape of his dick exudes wanton heat, and a new throbbing builds up, the milk running down the belly.

"It feels good, eh?" he mumbled.

"... IT-IT'S SO GOOD, IT FEELS Sooo GOOD~!!..." You bear the constant pounding under you, unconsciously sticking out the tip of your tongue, struggling to let out every cute moan.

"Can you be my sweet little wife and take good care of our family?"

You screamed and promised. "I will! I will be YOUR sweet little wife!"

Even Toji Fushiguro, who had seen countless scenes, could no longer tolerate this situation. If you weren't pregnant, he would have to spank your ass raw as he always does — exhales a heavy, shaky breath, rubbing your ass with his big hands, pressing down on his hard cock. With that dazzling pause, the sticky, warm seed spurted out, filling the twitching pussy. You are all silent for dozens of seconds, immersed in this boundless happiness. When you both calm down, Toji hugs you like a doll again.

"Toji..."

You closed your eyes and stuck out the tip of your tongue, waiting for your husband's kiss. Toji appreciates this gesture first, then meets your lips, plundering the oxygen inside, and sucking the sweetness on your lips.

To be fair, neither of you wanted to leave each other, but you were the one who let him go first. He cautiously bypasses your belly, avoiding any sleep movements that are about to overwhelm the child. You rubbed your eyes but held on. "...Remember to pick up Megumi. The class will be over in a few hours...and I've prepared the materials for dinner..."

He responds absentmindedly, patting you on the back, urging you to fall asleep. Adequate rest is good for both the child and the pregnant woman. After a few minutes, your breathing gradually flattened, and your relaxed chest heaved up and down, just like you who accompany him every night.

"...I love you...Toji...love..."

He turned his head sharply and caught a glimpse of your lips moving, murmuring these words.

Toji Fushiguro hates alcohol. A body completely removed of cursed energy, it seems that even intoxicating alcohol cannot have any effect. He drank all night in the third month after her death, and people kept sitting down with him. He started having sex with random women, screaming, orgasm, forgetting. Some money and a cheap snuggle. People only begin chatting when they want to be hugged.

Thinking about it now, he didn't even remember the appearance of any of them.

So when he found you, Toji just thought. Oh, another one.

He doesn't know why you're tidying up his messy apartment. Even though he was pushing you away, you came back with a smile and prepared every meal for him and Megumi. You gave up that buying new clothes and accessories under his gaze, paying for every so-called "date." On some moonless nights, faint sobbing came from the bed. You poked him quietly while he was sleeping, but were afraid of being discovered. You covered your cheek and peeked at him through the cracks in your fingers.

After you left, he discovered that some people's hugs were just for dedication, but at that time, there was no way to get you back, so why not make you a real housewife? You will eventually forget how he used to treat you.

He observes your sleeping appearance, pulling a small tuft of hair back behind your ear.

His little wife. Spoiled and carrying his baby.

[theprettynosferatu]

3 - Landslide

    The following month was absolutely bizarre for Miranda. She woke up every morning and, strangely, she didn’t feel that weight on her shoulders that had been her companion for years as she commuted to the school. Indeed, she felt confident and strong and even… happy in a diffuse, foggy way. Whatever happened in the classroom was of no importance. Indeed, all that mattered was to float through the day and come home to her audios. She couldn’t say why, but she loved them. No, that wasn’t right. Needed them. She had tried to stop, but her body recoiled with withdrawal symptoms if she didn’t keep up her daily listening. She should have been alarmed, and in fact she had been the first time; but now she accepted her dependency on the files.

It was after a whole month that a second set of files showed up in her inbox. In other times, she would have considered them almost an insult and certainly an intrusion into her life. Now, all she could do was to put on her headphones, slide her hand between her legs and let the sounds and words wash over her. She could tell there was a different tone to these new files, a… stronger undercurrent sneaking its way inside her subconscious. Not that she could do anything to stop it. She was addicted, no more under control than any other junkie. She let her mind drift, a castle with its gate open and unbarred. She played with her cunt and mumbled, not even knowing what she was saying– which was, in a way, a blessing. If the old Miranda could see the new one, she would have been shocked. Headphones pumping information into her brain, hands playing with her pussy and breasts, mouth muttering her own downfall.

I will live for Master… Master will think for me… Master will choose for me… I’ll make myself sluttier… hornier… emptier… better… a better cunt for Master… 

In normal circumstances she might have questioned who Master was, but deep down, she knew. She knew she needed to be better for Him. She knew she wasn’t good enough yet. She knew she needed to earn his attention, the blessing of his marvelous cock. That night, a new determination was born inside Miranda: to be Miranda no longer. To become someone else– something else. Something more and less at the same time. She knew Master would guide her with his audios. 

The first thing was to change her wardrobe, obviously. It felt like those clothes belonged to another person, a more boring, more common, undeserving person. No, she would have to prove herself if she would ever have a chance to be used by Master. She went online and quickly discovered the usual apparel stores were… not what she was looking for. Not at all. Sure, some of the outfits were cute and sexy, but cute and sexy was a dime a dozen. She needed to set herself apart, and her quest led her to some sites she would never have considered before. Latex. She needed latex.

During the morning, she was her usual self, only stronger, more confident. Those brats couldn’t get to her. But in the back of her head she was dreaming of home, of her headphones, of the man behind the assistant principal’s office door. One day. One day she’d be worthy. She waited for her purchase doing what she was meant to do: listening to audios and playing with her tight ass. She was an anal whore, and she loved it. Why would she ever touch her pussy when edging her ass made her feel so needy and docile and didn’t make her cum?

When the first of many packages arrived, Miranda felt elated. It seemed to her that inside the discreet, large box was more than just clothing and sexy accessories: inside the box was a different life, a better version of herself– or rather, the version of herself she should always have been, but had refused to accept. Now she had to make up for lost time, so she tore the box open and immediately went to work.

Latex, Miranda discovered, was trickier to put on than she had supposed. No matter. Her determination was equal to the task. In her head she could feel Master pulling her forward, driving her much needed transformation into a better, worthier self. It took her longer than she would have liked, but she reminded herself that this was only the first time. Soon, she’d master latex like she had mastered being an anal only slut and keeping her pussy denied. She stood there, strangely entranced by the feeling of the airtight latex bodysuit. It was such a strange sensation… it hugged her tight but it was also a prison, but a welcome one, one she had chosen for herself. It reduced her to a plastic being, a doll devoid of will or freedom… and she loved it. It felt stern but gentle; it didn’t let her touch, but surrounded her with warmth. It was as if Master himself was there with her, a spirit rewarding her for her efforts. She felt better. Worthier. Still, one thing was missing. She went to the mirror and instantly tried to edge through her suit, but the latex was unyielding. No touching… even if the doll in the mirror looked so hot, so submissive and exposed, every curve accentuated and tantalizing… but her face still felt naked, still felt… wrong. Good thing she had ordered something just to fix that. But before she used that item, she would have to get her camera ready and set up. She suspected she might not be able to focus enough to operate it once the outfit was complete.

 Her foresight, it turned out, had been dead on. Once the ballgag went into her mouth, her mind shut off entirely. Drool coming off the toy’s small holes, she could only sit in front of the camera, put on her headphones and mindlessly hump the air, moan and writhe for Master. Nothing else mattered, or even existed. She was an object for His pleasure, and He needed to see that, so that one day He might bless her with His presence and attention.

At some point, she must have gotten up and sent Master the video. She must have taken the latex suit off. She must have plugged herself and gone to bed. Of these things, she had no recollection; the alarm woke her up and she felt happy, energetic, ready to face the day. She didn’t shower. She wanted to bask in the lingering scent of latex while she was at the school. She also decided that, for the first time, she would work plugged. 

It was that night, while reviewing the video she had sent and fingering her asshole mercilessly, that Miranda made a decision. Latex was a paradox: obscuring and revealing at once. She had been saving up for a new car. Now she knew that fund would be better spent on new breasts. Something to make her more valuable, more desirable, more plastic. A better doll.

She spun a bullshit story at school that would never had flown if not for the Assistant Principal vouching for her. Her pussy twitched when she learned the news. Master himself had approved of her transformation! She was on the right track, and when He sent her files for her recovery, she was elated. Whatever pain may come, whatever discomfort… it would be worth it.

Three weeks later, Miranda came back to work. Her change would have been impossible to hide had she even attempted to, which she hadn’t. She strolled into school with a low cut top that drew amazed looks from faculty and teenagers alike. The distance between the stern, boring Miranda and the new, big-tittied teacher was a veritable abyss. That they were the same person was a mind blowing idea, and it took most a few glances to put the pieces together. Nobody dared pulling her aside and telling her that her outfit was hardly appropriate for her profession. The men sure weren’t about to complain; other women, jealous women… that was another story. Miranda didn’t much care.

Things unraveled like a landslide. Every hour away from work was spent listening to audios, bouncing on a toy to rain her little ass, trying out slutty outfit after slutty outfit, filming video after video to show Master her progress. By the wayside fell things like grading, prepping lessons, giving a fuck about the school at all. Her usually punctual feedback on homework stopped coming. Her lessons devolved into rambling, chaotic things that jumped from topic to topic with little rhyme or reason. To be fair, she was barely mentally there during class; rather, she was dreaming of new ways to degrade herself and be a better fucktoy, or even thinking about her break in the teacher’s lounge. She had made it a bit of a game to cocktease everyone, to lean forward and watch them try (and fail) not to stare at her spectacular rack, to cross and uncross her legs and reveal to some poor young teacher that she was, in fact, going commando. Did a plug count as underwear? A matter for smarter minds than hers.

Her lowered productivity and teasing ways didn’t, sadly, come free of consequences. First came the official notice to change her behavior which she dutifully ignored. Change? When she was finally, for once in her life, enjoying herself, enjoying her body, feeling sexy and powerful and dumb and owned? Fat chance. If anything, the notice only made her dress sluttier, flirt harder, pay less and less attention to the students. It was almost a teenage rebellion a decade too late and damn it she loved every second of it. The second, harshly worded notice was in fact hand-delivered to her by the Principal. She felt such personal attention deserved special consideration, and so she broke her anal only rule to rub the letter all over her soaked cunt in front of the camera, call herself Master’s living fucking whore, lick her juices off the paper and finally shredding it to pieces. Only Master mattered, and she felt that video made the point rather well. Master rewarded her with a new set of audios.

His email also had something new. Before, all his correspondence was blank, except for the attached files. This time there was a brief note. Good girl, Holly.

Holly. Holly. That was her. That was her new self. Miranda was gone. Dead. Erased. Holly remained. Holly was a slut and a toy and always, always obeyed Master. Holly had big tits and dressed to show off. Holly was living porn, a fantasy made flesh, a latex addict and an anal whore. She put on her red latex bodysuit, gagged herself and put on the new audios. Of course, she couldn’t speak– but that didn’t keep her from mumbling and moaning. If she hadn’t put her mouth to proper use, one would have heard her breathy voice repeating the same thing over and over again for hours.

Holly. Holly. Holly. Holly…

4 - Hired Help

Time was such a strange concept. Sure, Holly knew it worked like a line, the future dead ahead and the past right there at her back. Except she didn’t have a past, not really. She was still very much being born, growing stronger and stronger the more audios she listened to, the more she edged, the more she took pictures and videos, the more she played with her ass. She knew there was a past there somewhere– only it wasn’t hers. Sometimes she had dreams, and she couldn’t tell if they were someone else’s memories blinking to life for the last time before they went away forever. God, she hoped not! If they were real, she really, really pitied their owner. A stuck up bitch teacher? What could be worse? In any case, it didn’t concern her. Her thoughts, such as they were, were entirely focused on Master. How could she make herself prettier? Sluttier? A better toy for Him? At some point she was online looking at yummy toys (tentacles for her little whore ass!) and a notification popped up. Something about a termination? She didn’t really understand, or care. She was busy becoming more and less. She was busy turning herself into the perfect servant. Whatever beliefs that other self had, whatever her opinions had been… they were barely echoes, growing increasingly distant.

Master kept sending audios, and every time a new batch showed up she giggled and bounced like a schoolgirl with a crush. This was the best life ever! Well, apart from the life she’d have once she was worthy of Master’s presence. One thing that was clear to her was that she had to diversify. She was empty, just a vessel for Master’s wants and desires, and so she could be anything and anyone. All it took was edging to will her new self into being and the right outfit to make her shine. The effect was earth-shattering. She didn’t pretend to be someone else; for a while, she became whatever she chose to, whatever she guessed Master might like. The phenomenon took her by surprise.

When she had been a latex doll, gagged and plugged under her suit, she had felt the complete emptiness inside her, the mindless willingness to obey without question. When she had dressed as a schoolgirl, the shame she had felt confessing to Master all her dirty little fantasies had been delightfully genuine. When she had become a whore, any limit or boundary was erased as long as the client in her head had the money– money, of course, they would give to Master. Nothing in her was set in stone, and that meant everything was real to her. She was everyone and no one, a multitude and a peaceful, edged void. Of course, she sent Master video after video as she tried on new selves like clothes. Goth slut, stepford wife, eager camgirl, innocent library worker, agile and seductive stripper… she hadn’t just performed those roles for Him. She had lived all those lives.

It took her around a month of exploration to realize a very simple truth. It wasn’t that she wasn’t good enough for Master, no matter who she became. It was simply that no single woman could ever hope to be enough for Him. She felt so dumb for not realizing sooner! Of course someone like Master deserved more than one toy! Where Miranda might have been wounded by the realization, Holly simply felt elated. She knew what she had to do, and she immediately set about doing it.

She browsed and browsed. Thank God for the Internet and the visual culture that meant everything required a picture to draw the eye– even something as simple as hiring a maid. The site had short descriptions and customer recommendations of the womens’ skills and praises for their work ethic, their honesty, their diligence. Holly didn’t care one bit about any of that. She only cared about the pictures. Too bad, she felt, that they were headshots, rather than full body shots. Or pics in bikinis… or even better, pics of them with cocks in their mouths… then again, that might be the toy in her ass talking. She bounced on it as she looked at the images, imagining Master using each and every one, conjuring a vision of them in latex or leather, on their knees and begging…

There were so many girls, all so willing to do their job… it was impossible for Holly to decide. But she knew that, when her brain failed, her pussy answered. She tried not to touch too much, to be anal only, but she figured this was for a higher, more noble purpose. She slowly started rubbing, letting her cunt guide her to the one girl that might have a certain something, a certain quality invisible to the eye but revealed to instinct. Her pussy would tell her the right choice. She edged slowly as she went from picture to picture, listening to her body…

She stopped, her eyes fixed on the screen. She was surprised by her own reaction, by the way her pussy had twitched because of that one picture. If she had been thinking with her brain, the girl wouldn’t have been her first choice; but her cunt was absolutely certain. What it perceived, Holly couldn’t tell. Some… underlying perversion, or maybe some vulnerability to be exploited. She took a closer look. Mariana. Light brown hair, streaked with red. A round face that gave her an air of almost childish innocence. Green eyes, slightly scared by the camera. Pale, smooth skin. She read her bio. New to the job. New to the states. From Argentina. No customer reviews yet. Well, that should make her eager to please her first employer… Any doubt Holly might have harbored vanished. She was the one. If she couldn’t entice Master to come to her by herself, she would resort to hired help. 

Well, hired help and some… modifications.

5 - Mariana’s Tale

Well, Miranda -sorry, Holly- sure wasn’t what Mariana expected. For example, what was up with that name? The website said the client was a Miranda something, but the woman in the apartment insisted her name was Holly and, in fact, had never met this Miranda person. Well, she wasn’t about to argue with her first client. She needed a good review, and needed it quickly. Sure, Mariana wasn’t some expert maid but she had done her fair share of cleaning back home. She could do this, she told herself. Still, the apartment was… as particular as its owner. Maybe it was a culture thing, but the maid highly doubted that Americans just… left their sex toys in full view when a stranger came. She suspected, of course, that Holly wasn’t exactly your average American. Her open closet full of fetishwear was a pretty good clue, as were the implants adorning her chest. That didn’t shock Mariana: she came from Buenos Aires, cosmetic surgery capital of the world and a society that downright worshiped huge, fake tits. But to see such obvious work on an American was… new. From what she could tell, Americans tended to go for a more natural look, less… doll-like.

Ah, whatever. Her job was to clean, not to judge. God would do the judging some day, and it wasn’t her place to be horrified by others’ sex lives. Even if they included toys permanently affixed to computer chairs. Even if she had to clean those toys, and Holly had made it clear she had to. She focused on the fact that they were just objects of plastic and silicon, and tried not to imagine the busty bimbo mid play session. What did unnerve her was the way Holly looked at her. Sure, she might have been checking on her cleaning skill, but it sure didn’t feel that way. She felt a bit like a piece of prime asado on display. Mariana knew she wasn’t a model or anything like that, but she could tell when someone was… appreciating her assets. By which she meant her ass. She blamed (or thanked, depending on the circumstances) her mamá for that one. Firm, big asses ran in the family, so Mariana was what Americans bafflingly called “thicc” online. Sure, vanity was a sin, but she had to admit she did enjoy the way boys lost their minds over her posterior. Most of the time, anyway. And she did mean boys. She had no interest in women, aside from the fact that it would be more uncatholic than she would be able to stand. She wasn’t extreme in her beliefs, but that line was pretty clear to her.

It took her a bit over two hours to clean the place, but she was fairly sure she had done a good job. Holly certainly looked happy, but then again she had been smiling the whole time: a dumb, happy, mischievous smile. Well, as long as she gave her a good review, the bimbo could smile all day and night as far as Mariana was concerned. Holly came to her, praised her hard work, and Mariana felt tension vanishing away. A job well done. She took the iced tea the busty woman offered her. She was parched, and downed it in one go.

She woke up taped to a chair. Wait, did she wake up? She couldn’t be sure. Strange sounds assaulted her brain, as a voice spoke to her. Her English was good, but for some reason it was as if her mind refused to understand. She knew she was supposed to understand, but a wall was there, keeping her away from the meaning of the words even as they slithered deep inside her. She knew she should feel scared, and yet her body refused her the adrenaline that would make the sensation real. Instead, another entirely different set of stimuli assaulted her body. She groggily looked down… 

She had to be dreaming. Surely, this was a nightmare. The beautiful woman was looking deep into her eyes, as if beckoning her to let go… all while using her skilled tongue on her sensitive pussy. This was wrong. Wrong. Sinful. She had to get out. One feeling, however, arose over all others: shame. Shame that it felt so good, so fucking good. Shame that her hips were moving on her own, humping and desperate for release. Shame that suddenly, for the first time in her life, she looked at a woman and saw… saw nice tits and kissable lips and a body that called to her like a siren towards treacherous, deadly seas…

No. She would never… whatever happened, she knew she couldn’t… fuck, Holly was good. And cruel. She had an uncanny sense that let her read the poor girl’s body, to intuit from her moans and movements when an orgasm was about to finally arrive… and there, just there, she stopped. She always stopped. Miranda couldn’t even focus on the audios anymore. They were just there, doing… whatever it was they did. She needed to cum. She needed to cum. She needed to cum. She begged. She cried. Holly was remorseless. Holly wouldn’t let her have her release.

How long did it go on for? Hours? Days? Mariana couldn’t tell. Holly didn’t seem to tire, and her own ability to measure time was well and truly shot. Maybe it was the constant edging or the audios or a combination of both, but her mind twirled and sank deeper and deeper and deeper and she felt as if she was dissolving slowly in a vast, warm ocean as her cunt reached the edge over and over again…

At some point she opened her eyes, and realized she must have passed out. Except her eyes were different, they were new eyes, eyes that saw the world in a different, shimmering brightness. She felt so close to Holly, so thankful to her for not letting her cum… good girls didn’t cum. Good girls stayed edged and ready for Master. Good girls obeyed. And she wanted to be a good girl. She wanted it so, so badly…

She opened her eyes. Something didn’t fit. A lot of things, actually. There were memories, but they weren’t hers. Someone praying, someone dancing in some faraway land, someone in class in a catholic school… but that couldn’t have been her. She was Master’s toy. Always had been. Always would be. Holly was her slut sister, her teacher and Mistress, both mindless and obedient for Master. But who was she? There had been a name at some point, but that wasn’t hers. No, she needed a name. A good, slutty name. She squirmed as Holly’s tireless tongue kept working her yummy cunt. Fuck, Holly was hot. A name… one that fit her…

Nati. Not Natalia. Nati. Short and dumb, like her. She felt her pussy twitch with approval. Nati. Every edge made it more real, pushed the false memories away. Nati. Nati was a bisexual, mindless slave. Nati was happy. Nati was horny. Nati never, ever came. 

6 - Summoning

The air crackled with electricity as the girls worked on their makeup. A storm was coming, and the entire city felt it: some people felt energized, others anxious, others couldn’t even put their emotions into words. The two dolls inside the apartment, however, were far too busy with preparations to be concerned. Everything had to be perfect. 

Master had sent a link- a link to a live video service. He’d be watching them, and they knew this would be their big test, the final exam that would deem them worthy of Him… or not. The latter possibility was too painful to contemplate, so they focused on everything they’d need. They had worked together like good sister slaves, coordinating their makeup (Holly’s would be more overt and theatrical, Nati’s more natural to play up her supposed innocence), their outfits (after all, if one was going to play the schoolgirl, the other would have to play the stern teacher), getting the toys ready. They didn’t know how long the stream would last, so they planned for a good twenty-four hours of entertainment. They could endure it– hell, they could enjoy it. They had tested their slutty stamina and discovered that somewhere at the eight hour mark something sort of… cracked inside, and they worked together without even having to say a word, in perfect harmony like two jazz virtuosos riffing off each other, feeding off each other’s kinks and lust, all thought gone in a marvelous symphony of perversion they could barely remember. But that had been a test. This would need to be flawless.

It was a show for Master, but it felt… different. More significant, not only because it was their audition. It had the air of an ancient conjuring in which even the slightest mistake would offend the spirits and turn the magic against them. They knew they were equal to the task. Master had molded them to be.

The appointed hour arrived. The instant the camera light turned on, their brains shut off. They had memorized their set, and now they were living it. Their plan started with a quick hook, a simple edging torture using a large, imposing black toy with the vibration power of a sledgehammer. Nati screamed and moaned and shivered until she was nothing but a body overwhelmed by pleasure, writhing on the floor. Holly made her kiss her foot and beg for more, beg for more torture, more edges, more humiliation. A good start, to be sure. Strong, but far from extreme. There would be time for that later.

The second segment was a bit of a roleplay. Holly needed to show her range too, after all. She was a patient in therapy. She wasn’t pretending, either. For that moment, she was in therapy, desperately seeking help, and Nati was a therapist carefully using Holly’s confessions, prodding her, manipulating her until she broke down and edged to her own darkest secrets and fears, edged to trauma that had never happened but felt real, edged to her own inferiority, her need to obey and please, her inability to stand up for herself. Her shame and delight in edging to it were very real, and Nati edged with a wicked smile to the girl she had broken.

The third segment, as planned, was a teamwork exercise. Fully nude, a double sided dildo deep in each other’s ass, they bounced their butts together, moaning and drooling, fucking each other and taking turns degrading one another. They called each other cunts and toys and slaves and pieces of fucking rapemeat and every awful thing that came to their mouths in the middle of their anal ecstasy. They were mean, each trying to drive the toy harder, deeper into the other. Holly in particular could barely form words by the end.

Then came the rack torture. Then the nun play. Then the edging contest (surprisingly, Nati took it with seven edges in twenty minutes). Then the elaborate bondage, the sister play…

It was during the schoolgirl play that something odd happened to Holly. Nati was being a slutty, bratty girl, sneaking edges in class. That would not do, not at all. As she made Nati bend over for a good spanking, the strangest feeling came over Holly. It was a sort of deja-vu only… different. As if she could right some wrong, do something the way she should have done it all along. Something came over her, an anger, a rage so long suppressed… but it wasn’t hers, couldn’t be hers. She had never been a teacher, she had always been an empty fucktoy! Still, she couldn’t help herself. She unleashed spank after spank, making Nati yelp at first, then start screaming. Holly had lost control, and any care for her student had turned to frustration, rage, righteous fury. Even when Nati’s ass was red and bruised, Holly wasn’t done with her. She grabbed the schoolgirl by her pigtails and pushed the girl’s face between her legs. Yes, this was where the little cunt belonged. The brat’s muffled moans as she tongued her pussy, felt right. Not that the punishment was done. Not by a longshot. She would have to fetch the whip. Soon, both girls were on the ground, grinding against each other as Nati begged and begged for the stern teacher’s forgiveness.

How long had they been exposing themselves, begging for Master, using and abusing each other? Time had no meaning. Depravity flowed into depravity, an endless river of perversion and drool and pussy juice, and had they been left to their own devices, they might well have played forever. Or until the camera light went off. In the end, however, things ended as they had begun, as they often do. The world has an affinity for rhymes, repetition, patterns. History is, in a way,  a huge hypnotic display.

They were in latex, one black, one red. The bodysuits restrained all mobility, the ballgags silenced everything except their moaning. Toys inside their pussies kept them at a constant edge, and audios blasted through their headphones. If anything remained of who they once had been, that final marathon of self-brainwashing obliterated it. They were their true selves: plastic, horny, mindless. Two dolls wrapped and ready for delivery, the camera observing every second of their blissful emptiness. Outside, the storm had begun to rage, and thunder blasted the sky in a twisted fanfare. The door opened. They couldn’t hear the footsteps walking closer and closer.

He looked at his work. Not bad, not bad at all. He smiled as he remembered the mousy blonde teacher he had once met. Oh, how far she’d come. How delightful her fall. Yes, these two would do nicely.

And he was only getting started.

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