#i also need a title for the site as a whole i think so i can make a graphic for it hee hoo

[antirepurp]

my funny webbed site is taking shape and looking nice and im rapidly approaching the question of what the Fuck should i actually put on here

[sceletaflores]

HEY THERE SUGAR BABY!

|| pedro masterlist || update blog || inbox || taglist || ao3 ||

ೃ⁀➷ PAIR: Harry Castillo x fem!reader

ೃ⁀➷ WC: 10k

ೃ⁀➷ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, smoking, drinking, boss/employee relationship, reader is a personal/executive assistant, very much a work husband/work wife dynamic, inescapable sugar daddy tendencies, no actual sugar daddy/sugar baby relationship despite how the title and previous tag makes it sound lmao, harry castillo is a cool boss, romcom tropes cause i’m feeling romantic, slow dancing, first kiss, heavy petting in a limo, oral sex (fem!receiving), multiple orgasms, p in v, porn with way too much fucking plot, no use of y/n.

ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S NOTE: i usually don’t like to write for a new character before i’ve watched the movie but you dangle the idea of a hot billionaire work romance in my face and expect me not to bite at it? i’m just not that strong. also i have zero idea what his actual job in the movie is, i think it’s a basic ass finance bro wall street type job and that bores the hell out of me so he’s an architect because i said so. he's my barbie i can make him do what i want! this whole thing was mainly an excuse to write about my satc, carrie and big vibe slash fantasy but way less toxic. hope y’all love it, mwah!

ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S HEADPHONES: MATERIAL GIRL - Phlotilla

dividers by angel @saradika-graphics!

an architect and his assistant walk into a gala…

You’ve been working with Harry Castillo for four years, two months, and thirteen days.

You know this because his calendar starts and ends with you.

Your name’s not embossed on the front of the seventy story building sitting pretty on 57th street, not splashed across the cover of Architectural Digest, not signed neatly at the bottom of those pristine renderings that get passed around in glass boardrooms and land multi-million dollar deals.

But you know the build order of every project in the past five fiscal years. You know which of the project managers can’t be trusted with deadlines, which board members need their egos stroked, and every single name attached to each of the contracts spanning across five continents.

You were three years out of school and six months into a soul sucking accounting job that felt more like glorified coffee-fetching with a minor in emotional labor when Harry called. 

Well—technically, his HR director called, but Harry noticed you, or noticed your resume stacked with respectable internships and juicy recommendation letters. Or maybe it was the fact that during your third round interview, you corrected one of his junior partners on a misquoted quarterly budget breakdown.

Either way, two weeks later you were standing in a glass top floor office owned by one of the most powerful men in the city. 

And yes, you knew who he was before he hired you, of course you did.

Harry had been New York’s golden boy since the early aughts, when his first building went up in Tribeca and every magazine with a spine declared him the second coming of Frank Llyod Wright.

He was a genius, innovative. One of the youngest Pritzker Prize winners in history who got the kind of press coverage that made people think “architect” was synonymous with “celebrity”.

Now, at 47, Harry Castillo is an institution in the world of design.

Castillo Atelier is the best firm in the city, maybe even in the world, depending on which Real Estate Digest cover story you read. His name alone makes most clients practically foam at the mouth and drop seven figures without seeing a single blueprint.

You’ve been his executive assistant longer than it took you to get your shiny Business Administrations degree from Colombia, and if anyone knew Harry better than his mother or his therapist, it was you.

You have every number of his black American Express card memorized, front and back. You have every password to every account imaginable tucked away neatly in a file labeled “BLACKMAIL MATERIAL” on your desktop. 

You schedule his life down to the minute, from site visits in Abu Dhabi to dental cleanings in Midtown. You know his shoe size, the name of his best tailor's teenage daughter, which marble supplier he trusts in Verona. You know the entry code to his West Village brownstone and you’re on a first name basis with the doorman at his Fifth Avenue penthouse. 

You know he drinks his coffee black but only before noon and he switches to espresso, that he smokes Marlboro Golds even though he swears up and down he’s quit, and that when he’s stressed, he starts sketching towers with spiral staircases that’ll never pass code.

It’s morphed into a strange kind of intimacy. Not romantic, but not exactly a normal boss-employee relationship either. 

He's the kind of boss who makes you want to roll your eyes at the word, because it's not that simple—not that sterile.

It's late nights spent in his dimly lit office where he sheds his suit jacket and hands you a perfectly poured wine glass without asking when you're the only two left in the building. It's sitting shoulder to shoulder on a leather couch, going over zoning permits while his arm rests behind you, not on you, but close enough to count.

Harry’s careful with you, in a way that’s not always obvious. He buys you the books you idly mention wanting to read in passing and custom David Yurman earrings fitted with your birthstone. If he was ten years younger and you were ten years dumber, you might’ve mistaken it for something else. 

As it is, you just tell yourself he likes spoiling things that work well. Like his thousand dollar espresso machine. Like his Aston Martin. Like you.

You should feel like an accessory.

Instead, you feel like a centerpiece—like you’re the sun that his life revolves around. 

You can’t tell which is worse.

Today, like most days, starts with you getting to the office an hour before him.

You take the elevator up to the seventy third floor, unlock his office, and flick on the lights. The space is gorgeous, minimalist in a way that doesn’t ever feel cold. Floor to ceiling windows, sleek dark wood floors, and exposed beams. 

There’s an open notebook on his desk from the night before, a few handwritten notes scrawled in sharp, narrow pen strokes that he gave up on halfway through and started sketching in the margins.

You roll your eyes, smothering a fond smile as you walk out of the room and to your own desk. It’s less than six feet from his door, close enough that you can always hear clipped phone calls or the soft sounds of Prince playing from his sound system.

You drop your bag, start up your desktop, and begin triaging the day. Your inbox is in a constant state of full to the brim no matter how good you are at your job—bursting with emails from developers, calendar shifts, a client breakfast cancellation. 

The whole office smells like bergamot and bergdorf. Someone sent over a Diptyque candle and Harry hasn’t stopped lighting it. Luckily for you, it’s strong enough to keep the scent of lemony luxury permeating long after it’s been blown out. 

It’s still not enough to magically cancel out the stress of pushy demands disguised as business and city bureaucracy, but you can still pretend it is.

You’re bouncing between five open tabs and sending increasingly frantic texts to the head of operations about a late shipment of imported glass by the time you finally hear a soft ding from the elevator followed by crisp footsteps coming your way.

Harry rounds the corner holding a pastry bag, Ray-Bans on, hair still wet from the shower and curling around his ears. “Good morning, sunshine.”

You don’t look up from your screen. “You’re late again.”

“No,” Harry tuts, leaning his hip against your desk and dropping the bag in front of you. “You’re just early.”

“I work here.”

“Funny, so do I.”

“Do you?” You finally look up, brow arched. “I forget.”

He’s wearing that suit. The one that makes your job harder in the most inappropriate HR violating ways. Deep blue pinstripe with the burgundy Gucci tie you handpicked last year. It’s fitted like it had been tailored by the hands of God.

He tilts his head, peering at you over the edge of his glasses. “Is that any way to treat the man who bought you breakfast?”

Your eyes cut to the white paper bag, Mah-Ze-Dahr. You don’t need to look inside it to know what it is, a twenty dollar pistachio crunch croissant. Your favorite.

You don’t have time to respond before Harry drops his glasses on your desk, settling into the chair across from you. “Remind me never to take a meeting in Soho before noon again.”

You set the bag aside and continue typing with a soft shake of your head. “You said that last week, and the week before that.”

“And yet I keep doing it.” He rolls his head on his shoulders with a soft sigh. “That’s insanity, isn’t it? Doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result.”

“That’s Einstein,” you say, pointedly ignoring the way he’s looking at you. “Maybe you just like the punishment.”

Harry huffs, amused. “I pay you too much to psychoanalyze me.”

You open a new tab, click on a high priority labeled email and turn your screen in his direction. “Yet you don’t pay me enough to deal with your ex-wife’s lawyer hassling me before seven.”

That certainly gets his attention, his spine straightening as he leans forward, squinting at your screen. “She didn’t.”

You nod, resting your chin on your palm as his eyes flit over the lengthy body. “She did.”

You watched the divorce unfold like everyone else. It was loud, expensive, and painfully public. She was a former model turned gallery owner with a sharp tongue and better connections than half the industry. When she aired Harry out in New York Magazine the tabloids had a fucking field day.

The headlines were vicious. Castillo’s Castle Crumbles. From Manhattan’s Favorite Power Couple to Demolition Duo. Architect of His Own Downfall?

“Christ.” Harry sighs, leaning back and running a hand through his hair. “She promised she’d keep you out of this.”

“She lied.” You turn your screen back around, grabbing a pen to quickly scrawl the lawyer’s number across the front of a Post-It. “She wants her name off the Lakewood project or she’ll go to the press about the Montauk property.”

He drags a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fucking hell.”

You slide the Post-It note across the desk. “Don’t shoot the messenger.” 

He doesn’t thank you, not out loud, but the way his eyes linger on the note before he tucks it into his jacket pocket says enough.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says, and it’s almost a throwaway comment—but his voice dips a little, gets low in that way that always makes you want to chew glass or scream into a designer throw pillow.

You shrug. “You say that a lot, but I don’t see any new raises.”

His grin is lazy, charming. “You know I’d bankrupt this company to keep you.”

You roll your eyes so hard it should count as cardio. “Please don’t. I like having dental.”

Harry laughs—really laughs—and it’s unfair how good it sounds, how it worms under your skin and stays there.

You turn away, forcing the warm feeling in your stomach to the back of your mind, and pivot. “You have a conference call with Dubai at eleven, lunch with the Fairstein developers at Cipriani, and there’s some plans in the Berlin file that still need to be signed.”

Harry nods once, shifting into business mode at the drop of a hat. “Well, I’ve got my marching orders.”

He checks his watch, stands, and straightens his jacket with a lazy kind of grace. You hate the way your eyes catch on the curve of his wrist, the way the cufflink glints in the morning light. Custom Cartier, a gift from some foreign diplomat client last Christmas. You remember because you signed for the delivery. Wrapped it, even.

Just before he steps into his office, he pauses. “I mean it.” His voice softens, and for a flicker of a moment, he looks at you like he’s trying to tell you something without saying it out loud. “This place doesn’t work without you.”

You glance up, heart skipping in your chest, ready with some practiced quip, but he’s already gone—door shut, his silhouette framed behind the frosted glass like a shadow you can’t shake.

This is how it always is—business talk sugarcoated in flirtation, or flirtation buried under years of knowing exactly how the other one works. If he weren’t who he is, and if you weren’t so damn good at ignoring how often he looks at your mouth when you talk, it might’ve gone somewhere dangerous already.

Instead, it lives in the margins. Like the ones he doodles spiral towers into. Like the ones in the secret planner buried in the very bottom drawer of you desk where you write down things like:

Remind Harry to eat something before 3.

Book flights for Hong Kong.

Don’t fall in love with your boss.

That last one’s underlined. Twice.

The rest of the morning floats by, you busy yourself with three different screens and sporadic bites of croissant and sips of coffee until one of the newer interns shows up with the mail.

You thank her and flip through the small mountain of envelopes until one catches your eye. A sleek black one with loopy silver lettering on the front. To Castillo Atelier, with a familiar logo stamped on the corner. You rip the gold seal, and slip the card out.

The AIA New York Chapter cordially invites Harry Castillo & Guest to the prestigious 2025 Architecture Gala | The Metropolitan Museum of Art | Black Tie.

You blink, and read it three more times before a deep sigh rips itself from somewhere deep in your chest. You skim the rest, going over fine print and steadily sighing louder the more you take it in.

You really should have known, it’s around that time. Award season, charity galas, old rich people stuff. Only this year, Harry Castillo and Guest are in separate states, in separate houses, and very much not on speaking terms.

Nor will they be on them in time for Friday night, or any other night in the foreseeable future.

You stand, letter in hand. Your heels click against the floor until you’re standing just outside Harry’s office, mulling over how bad it would reflect on your part if the invitation mysteriously found its way to the bottom of your trash. You knock anyway.

“Come in,” came the reply—his voice low, rough like it always is after the lunch rush, like velvet dragged over concrete. 

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click.

Harry is at his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, Dior frames perched halfway down his nose as he looms over the stack of blueprints you left on his desk a few hours ago.

You don’t let yourself look at the tan column of his neck as you lean against the door. “You got a minute.”

He looks up, relaxing in his chair. “For you? Always.”

You hold up the invitation like it’s a warrant, shaking it gently. “You’ve been summoned.”

Harry’s eyes bounce from your own to the thick card stock, you watch the recognition register in his eyes. He sighs, “The gala.”

You nod, crossing your feet in front of you. “You’re being honored.”

He shakes his head with a laugh. “I was hoping they’d forget about me.”

Who possibly could?

You arch your brow. “It’s a lifetime achievement award.”

“I’m not even fifty.”

“Apparently, they’ve run out of old white men to honor.”

Harry chuckles, but it’s a tired sound. He rubs slow circles over his temples, tousling the salt and pepper hair scattered there. “Tell them we’re busy, send a fruit basket.”

You can’t explain the feeling that floods your chest, a mix of something like compassion and pity. It makes your heart ache, just a little bit. Enough to make you really feel it, enough to make you bury it before you can really dwell on why it hurts so much.

Harry puts on a spectacular front, but you know him too well. You know that the divorce has weighed on him, that’s it made him question himself. You know it was a massive shot to his self esteem, as both a person and as a company. 

You also know deep down it’s not the company that you care about.

“No.” You shake your head, making your way over to his desk.

He looks up at you, brow raised. “No?”

“No,” you emphasize, setting the invitation down on his desk. “You may think this is pointless, and that you’re too young—”

“Watch it.”

“—But you deserve this,” you finish, tapping a manicured nail on the card. “You deserve a whole room full of people fawning over you for no reason other than the fact that you’re you.”

Harry's eyes find yours again, slower this time. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you—really looks at you. And for a second, it’s too much. Too focused, too quiet, too…tender. It’s the kind of look that makes your skin prickle, your stomach twist. 

But you don’t flinch under the weight of his stare. You never do.

He leans forward, resting his arms on the desk. “Okay.”

You blink. “Okay?”

“Okay.” He nods, lacing his fingers together. “I’ll go.”

It feels anticlimactic somehow. You expected more of a fight—more pushback or maybe even a snide comment about black tie events like this becoming less about the accolades and the charity and more about new wave firms bustling around like show ponies scuffling over who signed the best contract with the most zeros tacked neatly on the end.

Instead, he just says okay. Like it’s simple. Like you aren’t the reason he’s saying yes.

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious. “Just like that?”

“You make a compelling case." Harry shrugs, reaching for the invitation. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”

You huff, shaking your head, but you can’t fight the smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth as you lean on his desk. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So I’ve been told.” Harry nods, but he’s smiling wide enough to outdo your own.

He looks down at the invitation, scanning over the text languidly. He hums as he reads, dragging his thumb across the raised font. 

You let yourself watch him, cataloging all the details you’ve already memorized a thousand times. Your eyes trace the shape of his brows, the deep set lines that fan out from the corners of his eyes, the strong arch of his nose, the soft curve of his lips.

When he’s done, he taps it against his palm once and looks back at you. “And who, pray tell, is coming as my guest?”

You tilt your head. “I can get you someone,” you offer, even if the words make your stomach churn as you say them. “You want blonde or brunette? Bashful debutante or discreet NDA?”

Harry doesn't answer right away.

He leans back in his chair, looking at you like you're a puzzle he’s not quite finished solving. Like you’re a building he’s still sketching, still drafting, still trying to figure out if the foundation can handle the weight of what he wants to build on top of it.

“I don’t want someone,” he says finally.

The words land softer than you expect, but they still hit like a hammer to the chest.

“You should bring someone,” you deflect, professional, clean. “It’ll look good. The press will be there.”

“I’m aware,” he says, still watching you. “Which is why I don’t want just anyone.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Not with the way his voice sounds—quiet, certain, threaded with a dangerous kind of warmth that makes your pulse kick.

Harry reaches up to slip his glasses off his face. “I don’t want someone,” he says again, voice even. “I want you.”

He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like your pulse doesn’t trip itself up three times over.

You blink. Once. Twice. Then scoff, forcing a laugh. “Excuse me?”

“Come with me.” 

It’s too sincere, too heart stoppingly warm. 

Your stomach drops. Then flips. Then rises again in the same way an express elevator does at fifty floors a second. “Harry—”

He cuts you off. “Don’t make that face.” He points at you with his glasses, shaking his head. “You’ll look incredible in black tie. And I trust you more than any PR wrangled plus–one they’d set me up with.”

You shake your head, brows pinched. “This isn’t just some client dinner at Nobu I’m playing third wheel at, Harry. This is extremely important. It’s the goddamn Met for architects.”

Harry just smiles, squinting at you. “When have I ever let you feel like a third wheel?”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

You just stare at him, lost for words. The city buzzes beneath you, the familiar noise of traffic and life blending together.

Harry doesn’t look away, he keeps your gaze, quietly drumming his fingers along his desk. It’s infuriating, the way the setting sun bathes him in a soft golden light, illuminating the smile on his face. A smile that makes it clear he knows he’s already won.

It makes you hesitate, the weight of it. Because it would be a date. Maybe not on paper or by any certain labels—but in every meaningful, messy, deliciously complicated way it matters, it would be. 

Harry Castillo and guest, you filling the role perfectly. 

You hold his gaze for a few moments longer, dragging it out just enough to make it seem like you’re putting up a real fight.

Finally, you cross your arms over your chest with a low sigh. “Okay.”

He cocks his head, smug grin on his lips. “Okay?”

“Okay,” you repeat, raising a shoulder more casually than you feel. “I’ll go.”

“Really?” His tone is suspicious, but his smile doesn't budge. “There’s no catch?”

“You made a compelling case." You push off his desk, smoothing your hands down the front of your pencil skirt. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”

Harry laughs, a rich, warm sound. “I should’ve known.”

“I’ll need a dress,” you say, slowly making your way to the door. “I think the rest of the evening off should give me plenty of time to find one, don’t you agree, boss?”

Harry shakes his head, easy as anything. “I’ll take care of it.”

You pause, hand on the doorknob. “Tell me you’re not trying to play sugar daddy, the interns are already gossiping.”

He arches a brow. “If the shoe fits.”

“Harry.”

“Okay, okay.” He raises his hands in surrender, another laugh spilling from his chest to make the room just a few degrees warmer. “I’ll handle it. Trust me.”

You roll your eyes, pulling the door open before you do something stupid like smile back. “Do I really have a choice?”

Just as you go to leave, he calls your name—softly. It stops you mid-step.

You glance over your shoulder.

He doesn’t say anything else right away. Just looks at you like you’re something he’s still trying to figure out how to know, even after all this time.

“Thank you,” he says finally. Quiet. Sincere.

Your throat tightens. Not because of the words—even if you give him shit for it, he’s said them before—but because of the way he says them now. Like he means it for more than just the RSVP. Like he means it for staying. For putting up with the late nights, and the stress, and the divorce fallout, and the birthday gifts he forgets until the day of.

You nod, once. “You’re welcome.”

And then you slip out the door before the silence swells too much and gives you away.

You’re not in love with him. Not yet, but something about the way he looked at you—like you were both a solution and a problem—makes your chest ache in a way you don’t quite know how to ignore anymore.

You’ll go to the gala. You’ll wear something ridiculously expensive, if Harry has any say on the matter. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll let yourself enjoy it.

Just a little.

The package arrived that same night.

A man in a suit knocked on your door and had you sign for a box bigger than your work desk. He had to help you drag it into your hallway and denied the tip you tried to give him, assuring you it was already taken care of.

There were no labels on the box, no receipt or return address or anything other than an obnoxiously large gold bow wrapped neatly around all four sides.

Well, that and a note taped to the front. 

Your name was written in a familiar, looping handwriting that you’d recognize by touch alone. You peeled it off with careful fingers, and with more ceremony than necessary, flipped it open.

“Make them think I built you myself - H.”  

You stared at it for an embarrassingly long amount of time, not bothering to stifle the smile on your lips as you ran your thumb over the ink. You were alone anyway.

The box groaned a little when you finally opened it, layers of black tissue paper rustled softly as you peeled them back.

And there it was.

Midnight blue. Backless. Heavy silk. The kind of thing that knew how to behave under dim lights and the weight of eyes.

You could already feel it—how it would cling to your waist, slip along your thighs when you walked, turn your skin into something luminous. You didn’t even need a mirror.

Of course he picked this one. Of course he knew your size.

You reached for it, fingertips grazing the fabric like it might evaporate, still slightly dazed. There was an overwhelming aura about it—like this wasn’t just a dress, but a thesis.

A statement. An intention, signed and sealed in French seams.

And somehow it still smelled faintly of him. Not in a creepy way. In a way that made you wonder if he’d touched it before it left the boutique. If he’d looked at it and pictured you, just for a moment too long. If he’d smiled when he imagined what you’d say.

You unfolded it like you were handling a newborn, held it against your body and turned toward the hallway mirror, half laughing at yourself, heat rising to your cheeks.

You turned this way and that, staring at your reflection in the dim light, pretending—just for a second—that he was behind you, watching.

Your phone buzzed on the counter. One sharp vibration, tearing you out of your little fantasy world and back to the present.

You crossed the room still holding the dress to your chest, and bit your lip when you saw his name at the very top of your screen.

Hairy

Try not to cause a scene unless you want to make headlines. I’d like to keep your promotion rumor free, for now.

You laughed softly, thumb hovering above the keyboard for just a moment before you started typing.

You know this is deranged behavior, right?

You hit send before you could overthink it, watched the read receipt pop up a second later before the three little bubbles came to life.

They vanished, then reappeared.

Hairy

I’m aware.

But I have impeccable taste. That absolves me of quite a lot.

See you at 8.

You swore softly under your breath and set the phone down like it was overheating. 

You looked back at the dress. At the mirror.

God help you—you were going to wear the hell out of it.

Friday comes both too fast and too slow.

You glide through the whole rest of the week pretending this is normal—just another event, just another night of shaking hands and schmoozing.

You tell yourself it doesn't mean anything, but the butterflies in your stomach don’t listen quite as well.

You hardly see Harry at work, most of his time spent across town busy with clients like he always is near the end of the week. You can’t tell if it would have helped or hindered your nerves to see him before you both showed up to one of the most prestigious events held in his field, together. 

Maybe it’s better this way.

Now, you’ve spent the better part of the evening after work pacing the floor of your apartment in a silk robe, nerves reaching a fever pitch. 

Your phone is blowing up from its spot next to you on your vanity with calendar alerts and panicked texts from Harry about the misplacement of a single Prada tie he just has to wear even though he has hundreds of others to choose from lining an entire wall of his walk-in. You know that, you’re the one who hung them.

You do your hair and makeup on what feels like auto–pilot, the playlist you put on to distract you playing softly in the background until your phone lights up again, buzzing with a text that cuts through the static like a wire to your nerves.

Hairy

Found the tie, crisis averted. 

Just need you now. Be there in 15.

You take a deep breath, exhaling through your nose and sending a quick thumbs up before you're standing on shaky legs.

The dress has been hung safely on the back of your bedroom door since you unboxed it. You take a second to just stare at it, before reaching for it with reverence, like touching it too fast might break the spell of the whole evening. 

It slips from the hanger like water through your fingers, the fabric heavier than you remembered, or maybe that’s just the weight of new expectations.

You slide it on slowly, smoothing it over your hips, tugging the zipper up with a practiced hand. It fits perfectly, almost like it was made to your exact measurements.

Your reflection stares back at you in the mirror. You barely recognize her. Poised, elegant, flushed with anticipation. You look like someone who belongs next to a man like Harry Castillo.

The thought alone makes your pulse thrum a little faster.

You swipe on lipstick last—something deep and sultry, a few shades bolder than you usually wear, because tonight is different.

You’re not just the assistant tonight. You’re his date. Sort of. Kind of. Not really.

But he asked you to come, he wanted you there, with him.

The buzzer sounding from your door slices through your thoughts.

With one last deep breath, you grab your phone, your keys, and the clutch you’re borrowing from a fashion editor you sometimes get drunk with at Bemelmans, and you walk out the door.

The click of your heels echo as you make your way down the hall to the elevator.

Harry is the first thing you see as the doors to your building slide open.

He’s leaning against the limo waiting for you, the door open next to him as a cigarette dangles between his fingers. He looks like he stepped straight out of a GQ spread. His Kiton suit fits him like a glove, the charcoal velvet hugging broad shoulders and tapering at the waist like it was stitched directly onto him. 

You make your way down the stairs until you’re standing on the pavement. Harry looks up at the sound of footsteps.

The cigarette stops halfway to his mouth.

For a moment, he just stares.

You can feel his eyes on your body like a caress, ghosting from your heels all the way up to the Cartier necklace he bought you after you saved a merger in Thailand, resting gently on your collarbones. 

The silence stretches, taut like a violin string.

You clear your throat, fighting the urge to squirm on the spot. “Is it too much?”

Harry blinks, like the sound of your voice broke him out of a trance. “No,” he breathes, shaking his head distractedly. “It’s perfect.”

Your heart lurches in your chest, fluttering wildly like a Monarch trapped beneath a mason jar. “You don’t look half bad yourself, Castillo,” you murmur, trying for playful, but your voice comes out too soft, too breathy.

He smiles at that—slow, crooked, absolutely devastating. The kind of smile that makes your knees a little weaker than heels this high should allow.

“Well,” he says, flicking his cigarette into a nearby trash can. “We’re already late, we might as well make an entrance.”

Harry offers you his hand, and without thinking, you take it.

“We might as well.”

The Met is bathed in glowing opulence—decked in gold and white, chandeliers like constellations above you. There’s jazz swelling from a live quartet near the Temple of Dendur and the room comes alive with it.

You glide through marble halls on his arm, greeting developers and designers and too rich donors who want nothing more than to be photographed with nights' most respected attendant.

Harry is a natural here—effortless. He laughs, he charms, he plays the part of the adored genius.

You also play your role perfectly.

You smile. You exchange polite hugs and shake hands. You whisper names into his ear just before he needs them. 

The two of you work the room like a well oiled machine. Not a screw out of place.

“You do realize they all think I’m sleeping with you,” you murmur as you pass a table full of ancient structural engineers throwing pointed looks at the two of you.

“Let them,” he says, not missing a beat.

“Isn’t that bad for business?”

Harry looks at you sideways. “Who’s going to call us on it?”

You don’t answer. You don’t look away either.

There’s champagne, and a brief moment where a reporter mistakes you for his fiancée. Harry doesn’t correct her. You do, of course, all while violently fighting the heat crawling up your neck. You don’t miss the way his mouth quirks when you do.

Dinner is some overly fussed beet amuse-bouche followed by lamb you barely taste. You’re seated next to Harry at the center of a table surrounded by board members and art world fixtures who all speak in the same Upper East Side cadence that makes everything sound like a question and an insult.

But Harry listens to you. He lets you finish your thoughts. He asks you what you think of the new public art installation in Battery Park and snorts when you call it “egregiously derivative” even when the rest of the table frowns.

“You’re such a snob,” he murmurs, voice low against the shell of your ear.

You smile behind your glass. “And yet here I am, slumming it with my boss.”

He grins bright enough to rival the candle light. “Lucky me.”

At some point, about halfway through a debate about the authenticity of modernism in design, you notice the way his knee brushes against yours under the table and stays there. You don’t move. He doesn’t either.

It’s become a theme. The touch. The contact.

Harry kept his hand on the small of your back most of the night, it was practically glued to the spot before dinner began. This is no different, except for the fact that this touch is hidden. It's shielded from the prying eyes of members and photographers and reporters. 

It’s just for you.

The awards are handed out shortly after. 

Harry’s name echoes across the room to rounds and rounds of applause. The speech is short, tasteful, elegant, moving. He stands under a golden spotlight and says something about legacy, about cities and their hearts and how architecture is just the blueprint of human longing.

You watch him from your seat at the table, heart caught in your throat. He looks radiant on stage, confident and alive in a way you haven't seen in months.

You clap until your palms sting.

When the speech is over, he doesn't have a foot off the stage before many of the other attendees swarm him. You let out a slow breath as you watch him receive hugs and kisses and claps on the back.

You only slip out onto the terrace when everyone at your table has left to join in, clutch in hand.

The cool night breeze is a welcome escape, soothing as it blows across the bare expanse of your skin and seeps into the rich fabric of your dress.

It’s not that you weren’t enjoying yourself, that you weren’t enjoying watching Harry. You just found it, almost hard to breathe all of a sudden. The range of different emotions swirling through your stomach certainly didn’t help, but that was a problem you could repress and compartmentalize for sometime in the near future.

You’re maybe five minutes into your emergency cigarette when he finds you, your heels kicked off as you sit on a marble bench.

“You never smoke.” he says, setting his award down next to you and plucking the cigarette from between your fingers, taking his own slow drag. His lips seal directly over where your own were just a second ago, circling the ruddy lipstick stain wrapped around the filter.

You look out to the city, exhaling a steady stream grey. “I also don’t usually wear a custom made, six thousand dollar dress or fake laugh at old men who won’t stop calling me ‘darling’ while they openly stare at my tits.”

Harry hums at that, amused, the smoke curling lazily from his lips as he tips his head back to look at the sky. “You handled it like a pro, you were brilliant tonight.”

He holds out the cigarette, reddened embers float down from the tip, losing color as they fall until they’re nothing but a black speck on the pristine sea of white beneath your feet.

You take it, your fingers brushing against his. “I’m very good at pretending.”

His eyes shift to you, the kind of look in them that settles somewhere deep and heavy in your chest. “I know.”

There’s a beat of quiet between you, filled only by the wind brushing through the terrace hedges and the distant echo of jazz from inside. The city glimmers out past the railing, a mirage of light and motion.

You clear your throat, raising the cigarette to your lips. “You didn’t have to come find me.”

“I know,” he says again, softly this time. “But I wanted to.”

You turn to face him fully. “Because you couldn’t remember Natalie Rebuck’s name, or because you were worried I’d throw myself off the balcony?”

He doesn’t smile. He looks at you too seriously for either of those to be one off jokes. “Because you’re the only person I wanted to see.”

That stills everything in you. Just—stills it.

There’s nothing ironic about the way he says it. It’s not teasing, not playful. Just a quiet truth. And somehow, that’s more disarming than anything else he could’ve said.

“You saw me fifteen minutes ago,” you manage, your voice not quite as sharp as you want it to be.

“Yeah.” He shrugs and says it again, slower this time. “And I missed you.”

It’s that same tone. Soft, reserved. Gentle enough that it makes you feel like the only person in the world and sick to your stomach all at once. The cigarette hangs limply by your side, dwindling to nothing between your fingers. You wonder, idly and far too late, if you can even smoke in a dress like this.

The silence stretches on like taffy. You’re just about to respond when the music starts up again inside. It’s something old and very romantic. Maybe Sinatra, or Ella. You can’t quite place it.

Harry seems to, perking up instantly. He glances through the open door, where many couples inside are pairing off and filling the dance floor one by one. He looks back at you, eyes glinting dangerously under the terrace lights. “Dance with me.”

You can’t help the laugh that bursts from your chest, eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“I just won a very important and highly coveted award given out only once every single year.” He takes a step closer, offering you his hand. “You’re telling me I don’t get one dance?”

You shake your head, inching back the tiniest bit. “I don’t dance with my boss.”

He winks, warmth sparking to life in his eyes just beside the glow of the lights. “Good thing I’m off the clock.”

You stare down at his outstretched hand for a second too long, lips parted in soft protest, breath caught somewhere behind your ribs. There’s something so deeply unfair about the way he’s always been able to make you feel like the only woman in a city of millions. Even now. Especially now.

You give him your hand.

You still hesitate even as you stand and slip your heels back on. You glance at the terrace doors and wearily eye what feels like a sea of people. “Out here?”

“No,” he says, turning your hand over in his and brushing his thumb along your pulse point like it’s nothing. “Inside. Just one song.”

You hesitate again. Not because you don’t want to, but because you do. Too much. And that terrifies you.

But then his hand tightens just slightly around your wrist, grounding you. His palm is warm, and you realize—of course he knows. He always knows. Knows how to read a room, read a blueprint, read you. Better than he probably should.

He tugs gently, and you let him lead you back inside.

The terrace doors hush closed behind you and the city disappears, replaced again by the ambient, golden warmth of the Met’s grand hall. You weave through the swaying bodies with ease, like they part from the sheer energy you must be oozing as you find a spot in the center of the room.

Harry draws you in close.

Too close for coworkers. Too close for anything you could explain away come Monday. But not close enough for the ache it sparks low in your belly. One hand finds the dip of your waist, the other laces your fingers in his. His touch is elegant. Familiar. A little too knowing.

You slide your arm around his neck and let him sway you into the rhythm. You’re too aware of every point of contact. The velvety fabric of his tuxedo beneath your hand. The graze of your thigh against his leg. The way he smells—Tom Ford, Tobacco Vanille. But there’s something else, something hidden under it that’s just Harry.

The rhythm is slow. Intimate. His hand is an inescapable plane of heat on your back, just beneath the dip of the dress, the pad of his thumb draws tiny, absent circles against your spine.

He hums the melody under his breath as you move together, you can feel the deep rumble of it against your chest.

“You’re trembling,” he says suddenly, quietly—whispered against the shell of your ear.

“No I’m not,” you lie, pulling back to meet his gaze. “It’s probably the nicotine.”

Harry laughs, the corners of his eye crinkle endearingly as he does. “Is it?”

You nod. “It is.”

The music hums all around you, but you hardly hear it. It fades away into the soft air of complete nothingness, same as all the people around you wane and dwindle until you’re almost certain you and Harry are the only two left standing.

You can’t break away from the weight of his gaze, drawn to it like heavy metal to a magnet. His gaze sweeps across every inch of your face, like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“You look so beautiful tonight,” he murmurs, so softly it nearly melts into the melody. “You always do, but tonight…” His voice tapers off as if he can’t quite land on the word. He doesn’t need to.

“Harry…”

He shakes his head. “I mean it, you are absolutely gorgeous.” He spins the both of you slowly, his eyes never straying from you. “And that’s the least interesting thing about you.”

It feels like a physical blow, but it lands in the softest way possible. His words washing over your skin feels a million times more luxurious than the miles of silk encompassing you.

You wonder if this is how it starts—not with fireworks, but with slow dancing in a museum full of strangers with your boss whispering something like worship in the space between you.

It’s nothing. It’s everything.

“Well,” you reply, voice shaking and almost far away. “You did hire me because my resume reads like a Vogue spread. You said it yourself, the firm doesn’t work without me.”

It should ruin the moment, bringing up work—where your relationship actually stands in the real world, outside of this fantasy of a night—but Harry doesn’t let it.

He just shakes his head, brows pinched together like he’s deep in thought. His hand tightens around yours, he’s so close now that you can feel the steady beat of his heart. 

Can he feel yours?

“When I look at you, and I think of all that you are…” Harry trails off again, the chocolate brown of his eyes shining under the twinkling lights as he holds your gaze. “That doesn’t even cross my mind.”

Your breath stutters, and you know—you know—that if you speak, it’ll all come tumbling out. Everything you’ve been trying not to say, not to want. The feelings you’ve tried to laugh away or roll your eyes at or bury under hundreds of deadlines and calendar alerts buzzing from two separate phones and all the plethora of ways you’ve told yourself this can’t happen.

“I…”

And then he kisses you.

And then you can’t speak at all.

It’s slow at first, but not hesitant, not unsure—deliberate. Harry kisses you like he’s been carving space for it, like it’s been trapped in him for too long. His lips are soft, but sure, coaxing rather than claiming. 

His hand slides from your waist all the way up to cradle your jaw, leaving behind a trail of heat along the plane of your spine. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, you can feel the faint callous left behind by countless pens and pencils.

Your hands bury themselves in the soft curls of his hair as you melt into his body. It’s so simple, the shift. You’ve spent so long running, so long lost in the dark waters of denial that you almost can’t believe how easy it is—how perfectly you fit together.

It’s like the last piece of a puzzle finally falling into place, slotting into all the others that came before it.

Harry exhales shakily, lips barely parting from your own. “Christ,” he whispers, forehead touching yours. “You’re—”

You kiss him again before he can finish.

His lips part under yours with a sigh that borders on desperate, and the heat crackles between you now, undeniable. Dizzying. When your mouth opens to him in turn, he groans low in his throat, like the first taste of you has broken something open inside him.

Slow becomes hungry. Your hand slides to his jaw, thumb brushing the rough edge of stubble. He tastes like champagne and citrus and the heady edge of smoke

The kiss turns molten under your fingertips.

You feel it in your knees, in your chest, in your core—the sharp, sudden ache of need blooming within you that has nothing to do with polite society.

When you finally pull apart, it’s only because air insists you do.

Harry rests his forehead against yours once again, his eyes still closed when yours slip open. His cheeks are flushed, his lips slick and smeared with the barest hint of your lipstick. You can feel his breath puff over your skin in short, quick pants that you match.

He opens his eyes, and your knees nearly buckle at the look in them. His pupils are blown, wide and black as ink under the lights. Your pulse is a drum in your throat, beating just as loud and fast in your ears.

He swallows hard. “We should leave.”

Your voice is barely a whisper, but it’s just as firm. “Yes.”

The ride back to the office is a blur.

You’re not even sure how Harry got you out of the Met so quickly, how you made it past the new swarm of admirers once again trying to shake his hand or take a photo or congratulate him.

The limo was already waiting by the time you made it out the doors. You barely remember the valet, just the cool feeling of the seats beneath your thighs and the sharp click of the partition going up behind Harry’s head.

His eyes pin you to your seat, hot and heavy and impossibly dark as the hum of the engine carries you through the city, velvet wrapped and haloed in streetlight.

He hasn’t even touched you yet, not really, but your skin feels like it’s blistering beneath your dress—your pulse high, your thighs pressed tight together in anticipation that makes your stomach twist and flutter.

“Come here,” Harry says, voice low, rasped from restraint and heavy need.

Two words. That’s all he says.

Your legs move before your brain catches up, straddling him in the backseat like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hands come to your waist as you settle into his lap, and fuck—he’s hard already, thick and burning a plane of heat against your high.

“You have no idea,” he breathes against your neck, mouthing at the skin just under your ear, “what you do to me.”

“Tell me,” you whisper, even as your eyes slip shut, hips rolling forward instinctively against him

Harry groans—deep and pained and real. “You walk into a room and I can’t think. Not clearly. Not rationally. It’s all static, it’s all you. Your eyes, your mouth, your fucking mind—” He nips your jaw, tongue chasing the sting. “You kill me.”

You moan, your hands digging into the strong muscle of his back. It draws a ragged growl from Harry’s throat, his fingers twitching on your hips.

“Are you wet for me?”

You’re nodding your head before you even realize it. “Yes.”

He curses under his breath, burying his nose in the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder. “I haven’t even touched you properly, and you’re already making a mess.” His voice is rough velvet, soaked in lust. “What do you think that says about you, sweetheart?”

“That I want you,” you breathe, already half-gone. “So fucking badly, Harry.”

Harry lets out a slow breath through his nose, his touch slides down your thighs, bunching your dress. “What I want…” He trails off, slipping his hand under your skirt. You gasp as his fingers skim the waist of your panties. “is to spread you open, taste how needy you are. I want to make you come with my mouth before I even think about fucking you.”

His fingers brush over the soaked center of your panties and he groans, low and dark. “Fuck.” He presses the pads of his fingers into you through the fabric—just enough pressure to tease, to leave you gasping. “This all for me?”

You whine, high and light in the back of your throat as you nod frantically. That’s not enough for Harry.

His eyes narrow, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Use your words, baby. Who made you this wet?”

“You,” you whisper. “You did.”

“That’s right.” He slides the lace aside to run two fingers through your folds slowly. Your hips jolt, and he grins against your throat.

Your head drops against his shoulder, hips bucking against his fingers. He holds you in place with an iron grip, not letting you grind down for friction just yet. You feel the twitch of his cock beneath you, straining against the fabric of his tuxedo pants.

“Harry—” you gasp, breath breaking as he circles your clit with the barest pressure. Just enough to tease.

“Mm, I know,” he murmurs, kissing your throat. “I know what you need, but not yet. I want you squirming by the time we get to the office. Can you be good for me and wait, hm?”

Your stomach clenches in anticipation, your cunt throbbing between your legs. You’re not sure how much more desperate you can get, grinding on your boss in the back of a limo while his hand is up your skirt seems like the highest form of desperation. 

Still…

You nod—barely—because your throat is tight with need, but Harry clicks his tongue.

“I said use your words.” It’s not mean, the demand. The tone of his voice. It’s strong, rich with the same power and authority you’ve seen countless times over the past few years.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I’ll be good. I’ll wait.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, brushing his mouth over your jaw like he’s proud of you, like he’s already rewarding obedience.

He keeps his hand there the whole drive—just resting. No pressure. No movement. Just the heat of his skin against your soaked center, the weight of his hand where you need it most, while the city blurs past the tinted glass. It’s maddening.

Every bump in the road jolts you slightly. Every turn shifts your hips, makes his fingertips graze your clit. It’s not enough. It’s torture. You bite your lip raw trying not to move, not to grind down and take what you want.

It would be so easy, you’re pathetically close to the edge as is. 

But you told Harry yes, breathed it against his shoulder in soft surrender. 

You promised to be good, and you’re dying to see what it gets you.

Getting up to Harry’s office is a mess of stumbling feet and frantic hands that refused to stop touching any longer than they have to.

Harry kisses you against the door, your back pressed to the frosted glass. His mouth is hot and hungry and unrelenting, like he’s trying to make up for the months of waiting with every glide of his tongue.

You’re the one who breaks away just long enough to fumble for the keycard clipped inside his jacket, but Harry’s already sliding it free with one hand while the other stays around your waist. 

The lock beeps open and you stumble through the door, breath ragged, dress askew. Harry kicks it shut behind you, his lips never leaving yours as he walks you backwards until the tops of your thighs hit his desk.

You barely have time to gasp before you're lifted—effortless—onto the surface of his desk, papers fluttering to the floor beneath you as he spreads your legs apart with both hands.

“Lean back,” he says hoarsely, helping you as your hands fumble for balance. The cold glass of the desk kisses your palms. “Let me see you.”

Your dress is hiked up around your waist, pooling all around you like ink, your thighs parted. Harry looks at you like he’s starved. His eyes drag up your body like a man measuring the cost of ruin and deciding to pay it gladly.

He makes quick work of his jacket, only needing to shuck it off his shoulders after you made quick work of the buttons back in the elevator. He collapses back into his chair with a shaky breath, sliding in between your legs. 

His hands find the waistband of your ruined panties, eyes glued to your core as he peels them down your legs. “Fuck,” he mumbles, running his index finger through the wet mess that greets him. He kisses the inside of your thigh once, then higher, and higher. “So beautiful.”

His mouth is on you in a second—hot, wet, consuming.

He licks a long stripe from your entrance to your clit, groaning like he’s tasting something decadent. 

“Shit.” Your moan is loud, hips jolting off the desk. “Harry—”

“Christ,” he groans against you. “You taste—Jesus. I could stay here all night.”

He takes your legs in his hands, throws them over his shoulders and he devours you—there’s no other word for it. Messy, greedy, reverent. His tongue works in tight, filthy circles, alternating pressure, pulling gasp after gasp from your throat.

He sucks your clit, slow and deep, lips sealing over it and pulling it into his mouth. His tongue flicks once, twice, and your hips jolt off the desk.

“Fuck, yes—right there—don’t stop—”

His hands spread your thighs wider, thumbs digging into soft flesh as he groans into you, like you’re the thing getting him off.

Your head falls back with a cry, hands burying themselves in his hair. “God—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he mutters against you, voice vibrating into your core. “Use my mouth. Take what you need.”

You don’t even realize you’re doing it—rocking forward, grinding down on his face like it’s instinct. His nose bumps your clit perfectly, the stubble on his jaw sending aftershocks through your skin. He hums with satisfaction, like he knew you’d lose control, like he wanted it.

You’re already squirming, already close all over again. Your head lolls back as you cry out, desperate and high and wanton.

“Look at me,” he demands, voice muffled. “Right here. I need your eyes on me, honey.”

You do.

You look down and see him between your thighs, hair mussed, lips slick, eyes nearly black. He’s never looked more beautiful. Or more ruined.

Your fingers tighten in his curls, yanking—he groans like he likes it, grinding his mouth harder against you, tongue flicking over your clit until you cry out, arching into his face.

“Harry—Harry, I’m gonna—”

“Come,” he commands. “Let go for me.”

And you do.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave—sharp and blinding. You cry out, thighs trembling, nails digging into the wood of the desk as Harry keeps licking you through it, gentle now, savoring every second.

Only then does he pull back, licking his lips like he’s just finished dessert. He rises to his feet slowly, towering above you.

“Beautiful,” he pants, voice rough and heartbreakingly earnest. “You’re so beautiful like this.”

You can barely breathe, your chest rising and falling with every sharp inhale. But you still reach for him, pulling him down by the collar of his shirt. “Please.”

Harry doesn’t hesitate. He undoes his belt with one hand, the other bracing beside your head as he kisses you again—filthy, deep, you taste yourself on his tongue. “I need to be inside you,” he says, voice wrecked. “Now.”

You shift, moving to turn onto your stomach.

“No,” he says sharply, hands tightening on your hips. “No, I want to see you.”

Your lips part on a soft breath, something dangerous squirming to life under your skin. “Okay…”

The sound of his zipper rings in your ears, and you glance down just in time to see his cock freed from the soaked cotton of his boxers. It’s thick and flushed, rosy tip already slick with precome. Your breath catches when he strokes it once, twice, eyes pinned to your cunt like he’s imagining exactly how you’ll take it.

“You ready?” he asks, soft again, lining himself up with your shaking entrance. “I need you to say it.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “I want you, Harry.”

He pushes in slowly—so slowly—and your back arches, a shocked moan catching in your throat at the sheer stretch of him. He’s thick, unrelenting, and your body clamps down around him greedily.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to yours. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

You gasp, nails digging into his arms as he fills you. “Oh god—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he groans, teeth gritted as he bottoms out. “That’s my girl. Taking me so fucking well.”

He doesn’t wait long after that. The first thrust is slow, the second is harder. By the third he’s fucking into you like he can’t get deep enough, the desk creaking beneath you, the sound of skin on skin filling the dim office air.

You clutch at him, gasping as he hits every spot that makes you see stars.

Harry fucks you with purpose, with hunger, but he never loses that softness—his thumb on your cheek, his lips pressing kisses to your jaw, your shoulder, the hollow of your neck, the swell of your breast. He cradles your head in his hands so you don’t knock it into the glass.

It’s all too much. Too much and not enough. 

It feels like home, like this is where you should have been instead of running every chance you got, like a coward. Your hands dig into his shoulder, his name falling from your lips over and over.

“Yes.” He kisses you again, bruising and messy like he’s trying to taste the way it sounds right off your tongue. “Say my name.”

“Harry—fuck—Harry!”

“That’s it,” he growls, fucking into you faster now, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the office. “You’re mine now, aren't you? You're finally going to let me have you?”

“Yes—yes—oh my god—”

“Say it.”

“I'm yours, Harry—yours—fuck, I’m—”

He pulls you tight against him, fucking you so deep it’s like he’s imprinting himself inside you. “Come for me, sweetheart. Show me how good I make you feel.”

You come with a sob, clenching around him, unraveling completely beneath his weight and his words and the unbearable sweetness in his eyes as he watches you fall apart.

“I’m gonna come,” he grits out, thrusts growing erratic. “Where do you want it, sweetheart? Tell me.”

“Inside,” you whisper. “Want to feel it. Please, Harry…”

That’s all he needs.

He spills inside you with a groan—deep and raw—thrusting once, twice more before spilling into you, his mouth dropping to your shoulder with a quiet, reverent moan of your name.

New York’s skyline shines through the window, bathing you both in a shimmering light. 

The only sounds filling the office are the light, gentle breaths as you both come down. The dull hum of the city underscores it, muted and fuzzy around the edges.

Harry’s hands don’t stray from your hips, his thumbs absentmindedly draw small circles over your bare skin. The night plays through your mind in flashbacks, each snapshot of all the moments where things shifted like a slideshow behind your eyes.

The stairs of your building, the touch of his hand on your back, the looks from across the room, the terrace. 

“Fuck,” you say suddenly, raising your head off the desk in alarm. “Harry, your award. You left it on the terrace.”

It’s quiet, until his shoulders start to shake and the unmistakable sound of laughter fills the space between you.

“It’s not funny!” You slap his shoulder, but you’re still smiling. “That was the whole fucking point of tonight.”

Harry lifts his head, meeting your gaze. “Was it?”

You look back, puzzled. “Wasn’t it.”

Harry chuckles again, shaking his head fondly. He leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, slow and indulgent. “I’ve already got the only thing I wanted tonight.”

Your heart does a small, dangerous thing in your chest. “Well, this is definitely going in my yearly review.”

Harry hums. “I look forward to reading it.”

You don’t muffle your laugh, you don’t turn your face to hide your smile. You only raise your hand, carding your fingers through the sweaty curls laying on his forehead. 

Harry turns his head, pressing one last kiss to your palm.

You’ll email the AIA tomorrow, for now, they can wait.

MINI NAT’S NOTE: if you would have told me a year ago that i would be writing for a pedro pascal character in a movie that chr*s ev*ns is ALSO in, i would have laughed in your face, HARD. oh how the sands of time can change us.

anyway this actually wasn't the harry fic i originally wanted to post. i was working on something completely different when this idea manifested in my brain and i immediately jumped ship…but in my defense this is the fastest i've written something since the semester ended so ofc she's being uploaded. thank you so much for reading, love you!

[piastriprincess]

soak  my  scrapes  and  sleep  tight ⸻  oscar  piastri  x  reader  .

featuring  oscar  piastri  ,  established  relationship  ,  oscar  is  the  sweetest  boy  in  the  entire  world tw  blood  (pretty  minimal  but  wanted  to  warn  yall) word  count  1.9k author’s  note  requested  by  @princesspiastri007  aka  my  username  twin  !  i  loved , loved , loved  writing  this  request  .  also ... imagine  my  surprise  when  i  found  out  plasters  were  bandaids  .  i’m  sorry  i’m  a  stupid  american  !!  anyway  i was planning on making this a drabble but it  got  away  from  me  a  lil  because  there  is  something  sooooooo  boyfriend  coded  about  oscar  ,  i’m  obsessed  .  i  need  to  wife  him  up  .  i  hope  you  like  this  ,  as  always  please  come  tell  me  what  you  think  or  send  me  a  request  !  title  is  from  acolyte  by  slaughter  beach  ,  dog  .

23:  princess  plasters  and  iodine .

It’s Oscar’s week off before he has to fly to Miami, and you were planning on a relaxing few days. You’d circled the dates on your calendar weeks ago in thick red Sharpie: no races, no briefings, no media. Just the two of you, together. You’ve packed a bag for the whole weekend, so you don’t have to leave your boyfriend’s company for a single second. 

Your grand plan lasts approximately thirty-seven minutes. You’re just settling in at Oscar’s when your sister calls you in a panic: her job is sending her on a last-minute site visit, and could you please watch Lucy for the weekend? You say yes, of course — how could you not? You love your niece, a precocious, rambunctious little four-year-old, and you love being the cool aunt. You’re sad to lose your weekend with Oscar, but you’re sure he’ll understand. 

“Bad news.” You’re already half-apologizing, forehead scrunched as you hang up the phone and walk back into Oscar’s living room. He’s lying on the couch, engrossed in a Sally Rooney book he stole off your bookshelf a few months ago. “I have to postpone our weekend. My sister needs me to watch Lucy.” 

He dog-ears his page, setting the book carefully on the coffee table and looking up at you with that soft smile he reserves just for you. “Sounds fun. I’m excited to meet her,” he says nonchalantly, and your breath catches in your throat.

You’re not sure what you expected Oscar to say. Certainly not that he’d give up his first weekend off in a month to help you babysit a kid he’s never met. But if you’re being honest with yourself, it’s not the first time he’s stepped into the hurricane that is your life like it’s second nature — quiet, calm, already carrying half the weight without you even asking. He grounds you. It’s one of the things you like best about him. 

You perch carefully on the couch next to him, running your fingers through his hair. He sighs, eyes fluttering shut at the sensation. “Osc, she’s four. She’s a ball of energy, and this is supposed to be your weekend off. I don’t wanna ruin it,” you reply reluctantly.  He’s shaking his head before you even finish talking, looking up at you with those big brown eyes, gaze steady and sure. “Baby. What would ruin my weekend is not getting to spend it with you.” Something unfurls in your chest at that, soft and tender. He presses up on his elbows, already getting to his feet and pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “Now come on. Get your bag, I’ll drive.”

—

An hour later, Oscar pulls into your sister’s driveway, slinging both of your weekend bags over his shoulder like they’re feather-light and taking your hand in his as you walk up to her front stoop. She must have seen you coming (to be fair, his cherry-red McLaren isn’t exactly subtle), because she’s already halfway out the door. You barely have time for her to give you a frantic thank you and tell Oscar it’s lovely to see him again. A quick kiss on the cheek and just like that, she’s disappearing into the Uber that’s been idling by the curb, the driver peeling away to the airport like he’s P1 on the starting grid. 

“Last chance to back out,” you say wryly to Oscar. 

He gives your hand a little squeeze, palm warm and comforting in yours, and you can feel the tension in your shoulders ease. “I’m staying right here.”

You open the door to a blur of light-up sneakers and Lucy throwing her arms around your legs in an enthusiastic hug. She looks the same as always: hair pulled into messy pigtails, tiara headband set just slightly askew, sparkly nail polish on her tiny fingers, and her ratty old unicorn blankie tucked under her arm. She’s beaming at you so hard her cheeks stretch, but the smile fades when she sees Oscar. 

“Who’s that?” she demands, hands on her hips. 

You smile at her, crouching so you’re on her level. “Lucy, this is Oscar. Can you say hi?”

She ignores you completely. “Are you her boyfriend?” she asks, wide, suspicious eyes trained directly on his face.

Oscar’s neck flushes, the way it always does when he’s nervous. He wants her to like him, you realize, and your heart does an unfamiliar little swoop in your chest. He clears his throat. “I am, Your Highness,” he replies, smiling softly at her. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

Lucy purses her lips slightly, like she’s sizing him up. Oscar’s eyes flick to you worriedly, and if you didn’t know any better you’d swear he was holding his breath. Then she smiles at him. “You too. Do you want to have a tea party with me?”

“It would be my honor,” he nods seriously at her. She grabs his hand - his fingers, really, since his hand is too big for her to hold onto - and pulls him into the living room, leaving you behind with the bags in the entryway.

Thirty seconds of Oscar, and it’s like you don’t even exist to Lucy anymore. You’d be upset, if it wasn’t so understandable. After all, you fell in love with Oscar the moment you met him too. 

—

You swear it only takes you a minute to put your bags upstairs in the guest room, but when you get back you’re in for an absolute sight. Your boyfriend is sitting next to the Ikea stuffed bear you bought Lucy for her birthday last year, legs criss-crossed neatly beneath him. The silvery tiara he’s wearing glints under the overhead lights, his face peeking out from atop a fluffy pink-feather boa. He’s holding a plastic teacup in his hand delicately, listening to Lucy’s narration of her fairytale kingdom’s dynamics with the kind of focus you’ve seen him use for team briefings. Your chest feels tight suddenly as you watch him from the doorway, a strange, sweet ache blooming underneath your skin. 

“Hi, baby,” he smiles at you when he sees you, those honey-brown eyes crinkling at the edges. Oh, you’re a goner. You move towards him on instinct, dropping gracefully to your knees beside him. He wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him, and you slot into his side like you were made to be there. You let yourself enjoy the quiet warmth of his body, solid and strong beside you as Lucy chatters away about stuffed animal etiquette in the late afternoon light. Suddenly, it’s like you can see it — the echo of future quiet afternoons, grocery lists on the fridge, a life built of small, perfect moments with him. You wonder, just for a moment, if he feels it too. 

“Wait!” Lucy brings you back to the present as she interrupts herself, her tiny brows knitting together. “You can’t come to the tea party without a tiara. Princesses have to have tiaras.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Your Highness,” you reply, playing along, though your cheeks are still flushed. “How silly of me. I’ll go get one.” 

You’re about to stand when Oscar’s fingers curl around your wrist gently. “I got it,” he says softly, his thumb rubbing gently over your knuckles before all five feet, ten inches of him extend to full height. He moves just a little too fast, you try to stop him just a little too late, and when he stands up he smacks his head hard into the sloping ceiling. You wince at the dull crack, the way the tiara shatters into shiny plastic shards, one cutting a jagged gash into his pale skin. 

“Ow,” Oscar says mildly, pressing a hand to his forehead. 

Lucy gawks at him, openmouthed. “Oh no, Princess Oscar!”

—

“It’s really not that bad,” Oscar says, and you know he’s trying to reassure you, to soothe the way your pulse is stuttering erratically beneath your skin. As always, he’s the picture of calm, sitting patiently on the closed toilet lid while you rummage through the first aid kit your sister keeps under the bathroom sink. The wad of toilet paper you made him hold to the cut is starting to stain crimson-red. 

“You can’t even see it,” you reply, your fingers closing around the bottle of iodine as you emerge from the cabinet triumphantly. “It's awful. Zak’s going to fine me for scratching up his driver.”

“You’ve done worse before,” he smirks cheesily at you, eyes half-lidded, and you can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of your throat as you swat at his arm playfully. His legs are too long for the small room; you have to crawl over them to get to a spot where you can clean him up. You place a hand on his thigh as you move, to stabilize yourself, and he goes pink up to his ears. Now there’s your Oscar, you think to yourself as you pour the iodine onto a cotton pad. 

“This might sting a bit,” you warn him. 

He rolls his eyes. “I’ll be fine,” he insists, right before hissing through his teeth when you dab at the cut. 

You stick your tongue out at him. “Be brave, Princess Oscar.” 

He laughs outright at that, and his eyelashes flutter against your wrist. A warm twist curls low in your stomach at the contact. “Right,” you say, pulling the box of bandages from behind your back. They’re princess-themed, of course. Fitting. “Aurora or Ariel?”

“Ariel,” he responds instantly, and you raise your eyebrows at him. “What?” he shrugs, smiling at you. “I know the princesses, I have sisters.”

You peel the wrapper open carefully and smooth the bandage across his cut, gentle and precise. He’s quiet for a moment, watching you, the way your fingers ghost over his skin, the way you care for him like it’s an instinct. 

“You know, if this is what the future looks like, I think I’d be really happy,” Oscar says absentmindedly, and your heart stutters in your chest.

His eyes widen at the same time yours do, and he presses his lips together like he didn’t quite mean to say it out loud. Like it was a thought he was holding close to his heart until he knew you’d be ready to hear it.

You stare at him, your lips parted. His cheeks are slightly pink from the confession, and you’re so close you can see the honey brown of his irises. It’d be so easy to kiss him right now, and you’re not in the habit of denying yourself simple pleasures. So you dip your mouth to his, fingers curling loosely at the nape of his neck.

He makes a soft, surprised noise against your lips, one hand rising instinctively to rest at your waist. The kiss is unhurried, familiar, but there’s something new about it. It feels like a promise, so meaningful that it makes your breath catch in your chest. It’s a moment before you both come up for air, but when you pull back he’s looking at you like he’s trying to memorize everything about the moment. 

“Yeah,” you smile at him, easy and unhurried. “I could get used to this.”

[sol-consort]

My brain got bodyslammed today thinking about Pervy Quarian Roommate again and his method of "boosting his immune system" by making out with reader. The bodyslam came with extrapolating of off the theory of humans inventing kissing as a means of innocculating others to our germs to a pipeline of how breastmilk is also said to help a babies immune system and Quarian Roommate learning about this and just plummeting down a rabbithole of fantasies about reader pregnant and swollen and needing milking and he's all to happy to offer to help them. He can't see his helmets foggier than normal, can't even speak without risking saying something completly unhinged to the reader about the sites he's been visiting lately, he's a mess. Someone help him.

(Sorry if this is too much, just had to yeet this into the aether to clear it from my mind)

You know what? I'm proud of you for yeeting this into my aether. It takes courage!! This is a kink positive blog. Also, lowkey really motivated me to write like damn this is a minty fresh prompt that I haven't done before, I'm intrigued, I'm curious, imma take a dip in the milk pool. Was supposed to be a drabble, turned into a whole fic, bon appetite? (pun intended) Will crosspost it to AO3 later.

Quarians Can Get Humans Pregnant, You're Just Not Trying Hard Enough!

(yes this is the title I settled on)

[Heavy smut, breastfeeding kink, breeding kink, pregnancy kink, perversion, male quarian being a degenerate, health kink if you squint? SOME plot]

[AFAB reader has a vagina/breasts, Ambiguous gender, GN pronouns]

Loosely follows this roommate series as part one, but can stand on its own.

The thing about human breasts is that because it's such a common fact of life, a lot of sources and wiki articles on breastfeeding fail to mention that milk production is mostly only possible by pregnancy. In the majority of mammals, their breasts only visibly swell with fat after pregnancy, then gradually decrease post birth. Humans are a minority with our constantly visible round tits 24/7.

And that fact might slip by other species, most importantly the sheltered alien who can't make it two paragraphs into the Human Anatomy Wikipedia without getting a raging boner and losing all focus. The words blurring into one another as all he can think about are the hard nipples he saw poking through your shirt one cold morning.

Because he is such a bad reader and an incredibly perverted person, he might just think that you're already pregnant. Incubating a life inside you. That it's just a matter of time before you become groggy, sleepy, and cuddly all day long. Swollen and heavy, always craving something to munch on, always cozy in bed with fluffy blankets, chest even bigger than before, tits swollen and spilling over your now tight top.

But ah, that fantasy falls apart if the alien in question is a quarian. It would've worked with literally any other alien species besides them and the asari since they also happen to share this rare anatomical trait of humans.

So he knows you're not pregnant. But you know what they say about yearning? The harder something is to reach, the more tantalising and desirable it becomes, and the more delicious it is to achieve.

The fact that you are currently not pregnant is borderline blasphemous in his eyes. It's a crime! Your fellow humans must have lost their mind or something to let someone as strong, healthy, smart, and beautiful as you just stay barren.

This isn't his rose-tinted views talking... well, maybe it is. But nonetheless, you're a prime candidate for breeding. So fertile and healthy. Your body will be accommodating to any cock it takes inside, your womb practically begging to overflow with cum.

You need a baby inside you. Plain and simple. He swears he can't understand the human mind at times.

It's so infuriating. He's like a starving person watching a bunch of people pass up on a literal feast in front of his eyes. It's so unfair that he can't get you pregnant himself.

Be it nurture or nature, fantasies of breeding you constantly plague his mind. Seemingly popping at the most innocent times... and some not so innocent times.

Oh, trust him. If he could, he would.

If only.

On one hand, he is turning green with envy at the mere thought of a human courting you. On the other hand, he knows there is a zero chance of you getting pregnant without another human being involved.

He could stuff you with his cum all day long until your legs are wobbly and your tummy has a subtle bulge to it. An opaque fluid seeping from your cunt and onto the mattress below, hole gaping and closing in rhythm with your heavy breathes as you lay there all spent and oversensitive.

He wants to have his cake and eat it too.

He wants your boobs heavy and leaking, your tummy full and round, whilst being the only person allowed to creampie you.

Not that he actually ever got further than kissing you under the pretence of training his immune system—all the antibiotic shots he needed to take in secret afterwards were totally worth it—what matters is that you believed him! That you happily and enthusiastically smothered him with kisses until your lips were shiny and glossy.

If only he could get over his fears and confess... alas, each time he comes close to it, he chickens out. Especially with the uh other roommates' eyes digging into his back whenever he attempts to have a "private" chat with you in the hallway. Yeah, the walls are really thin in here.

A man can dream, at the very least.

Weave his own fairytale of sharing a house with you, just the two of you. Maybe a modern apartment in the Citadel overlooking the persidium, maybe a house with a spacious yard in an upcoming colony, maybe saving up for a good domestic ship and touring the galaxy together.

What matters is, in his fantasy, you're always waiting for him back home. Greeting him at the door, barefoot with your face all flushed and pouty, already mad at him for something. You forgot what it is, but you're still mad nonetheless.

He has to restrain himself from melting into a puddle on the floor right then and there, how adorable you are whilst being all huffy and puffy.

Of course, he'll make it up to you. He'll do whatever you ask. He'll get you whatever food you want. Want him to massage your feet after he makes you a cup of hot tea? Want to sit in his lap and let him rub your round stomach in a comforting motion?

He'll play the role of the dutiful husband to the nines!

Or is his pretty human all moody because your chest is too heavy? Did it get too swollen with milk while he was away? Is that what's been bothering you all day?

Poor baby, let your husband help you with it. You always liked tracing the star patterns on his galaxy skin while cradling his head to your chest.

A dark purple tongue littering kitten licks atop your soft nipple, watching it harden against the cold air, coaxing the tender thing into his mouth, twirling it around with his tongue.

Just to prolong the process, just to get to play house with you a little more. And you're just so needy for his mouth to relieve you of all of this milk weighing down your chest, that you don't even have the energy to tell him off for deliberately teasing you.

Your eyes glossed over the second he took your nipple into his mouth, your brain turned into mush, the heat in your core intensified.

It feels so right, having someone drink from your chest. Your body knows it feels right and it rewards you for fulfilling your purpose, it makes you so happy and pliant, makes you so docile as you sit there slightly squirming, gentle hands cradling his head, burying it against your tits even more in hopes he'll take the hint and start drinking.

Why isn't he drinking yet? You really need to get this milk out, it's too much. You're almost brought to tears, he is being too mean...

You're still in your new clothes and all—the fresh ones you had to change into merely minutes before his arrival because the previous ones were all stained from your chest just leaking all day long—comfortably nuzzled on his lap, facing him with your back against the headboard of the bed.

Nursing bra pushed under your boobs alongside your low-cut top, making your tits literally spill over your clothes. You did all of this for him, and he's still not drinking from you.

The quarian learned how to read human emotions while living with you, or maybe it was you who became more and more of an open book around him the more time went on, especially with you pregnant with his child, how vulnerable and treasured this made you feel.

Before it became too much, you felt that familiar sensation, his lips tightening around your nipple before sucking against it. Great relief washed over you.

It's weirdly vulnerable, having someone nurse from your chest, the most intimate act you can imagine. There is no room left for shame, or else, this is as bare and exposed as you can ever be with another person without merging your souls into one.

A soft sigh escapes you, eyes closing, your head tilting back against the headboard.

He's draining the milk out of you, sucking until he collects a generous mouthful, and then the sound of a big gulp follows.

You hold him tight through it, keep tenderly cradling his head to your chest, encouraging him to drink up to his heart's content.

Gradually, one of your boobs begins feeling lighter. Like a boulder lifted off of your shoulders. At the same time, a new sensation begins taking place. Now the nipple squished between his lips is all sore and aching. Half your breast is completely shiny with his spit as he licks it entirely clean, not letting a single drop of milk go to waste.

It's always hard getting him to stop latching onto one and move to the other breast; his whines as you cup your boob away from him almost breaks you, that subtle vibration in the quarians' voicecords always tug at your heartstrings.

But he doesn't move to stop you, merely attempting to chase it with his lips for a few seconds before accepting his fate. Giving you these puppydog eyes, dark pupils fading into the sclera, blurring at the edges, a light iridescence to his irises, shifting in hue as he tilts his head to the side.

Mewling for more of your milk, of your love, of you.

It's always hard. Not because he's stubborn, quite the opposite, but because it's emotionally taxing. You'd think you were betraying him from the way he looks like a kicked puppy, silently pleading for more.

Sometimes you glimpse moments of lucidity, just how bizarre it is that you're really sitting in here, nursing an alien, and a very pretty one at that, while pregnant with his child.

That somehow across the planets and stars, somehow fate deemed it amiable to make the milk humans produce not only very compatible and safe to consume to a certain group, but that very same alien species seeks it out like liquid gold. It lights up all the right spots in their brain, it's the tastiest thing they could possibly consume.

So imagine their deflated reaction when the human race turned out to be too prudish and unnerved by the quarians' enthusiasm and apparent shamelessness in their giddy request.

But not in this house. Sure, if another alien had asked you for such a thing, you'd send them into orbit with zero hesitation.

Never with him, you could never refuse him a request. How lucky he is to have someone so understanding and accommodating like you.

Cupping his cheek with your hand, your tilt his head up, lips brushing against his own in a soft kiss. He's more than receptive as he deepens the kiss, making you taste yourself, traces of your very own sweet milk evident in his greedy mouth.

Pulling you even close on his lap, squeezing your thighs, kneading the doughy thing. How can someone so beautiful be so strong? At times, you swear he appears as delicate as a flower made from star clusters painted across a dark abyss.

At other times, when he picks you up so easily at the front door, carrying you to the bed without breaking a sweat. Simply cooing at your adorable upset expression, leaving light pecks across your face and neck as a way to kiss the moodiness away. And you're reminded of who you're dealing with, the wolf in sheep's clothings.

Especially now, with these "delicate" fragile-looking fingers squishing the fat on your hips and thighs, completely massaging all the knots out, a steel grip keeping you secured to his lap.

To think all this beauty was hidden away behind a metallic environmental suit for years and years... finally blossoming in front of your eyes.

You break the kiss just as he begins rolling his hips from under you. Knowing exactly what's the thing poking under your thigh is. You got him all excited and worked up from a simple kiss, or maybe getting easily riled up is just one of the side effects of a quarian being milkdrunk.

Cupping your other breast, the still full one, you attempt to slightly nudge it up a bit. Your hand is clearly not big enough. The soft fat spilling from the corners. To add insult to injury, you only served to aid gravity into squeezing it flat against the palm of your hand.

Pursing your lips in an attempt to suppress the embarrassing groan leaving you at the sensation of having your swollen breast squeezed, even by accident. The tip is already covered in a sheer milky liquid, leaking droplets of your precious milk, feeling it trickle down the underside of your breast, soaking the fingers still holding it up.

The hands under your thighs secure their grip, lifting you slightly in the air, pressing you against the headboard. Your thighs squeeze together under your round stomach. The quarian has a better ease of access now, lowering his head to reach the underside of your chest.

A shiver runs through you at the feeling of his tongue licking stripes down there, moving across your fingers, cleaning them from the precious droplets of milk. Not letting a single one go to waste.

Tongue tracing from the underside of your breast up to your nipple, flicking it with the tip of his tongue as you whine and squirm at the sensation, watching it leak even more into his open mouth, and down your chest, making another mess.

Repeating this agonising process for a few minutes before finding mercy in his heart to lower you down and back into the safety of his lap.

You're so mad at him you want to chew him out for behaving like that and deliberately teasing you, it's not safe to lift a pregnant person like this! You had to carry your stomach with your thighs just so it wouldn't droop, really he needs to be more responsible.

But all that comes out as you open your mouth is an obscene moan, one straight out of a cliche porno. You don't even register this lewd voice as your own for a few seconds.

While you were busy stewing over him in your brain, not only did his hand sneak under your clothes, but flick your clit as well, before his thumb rolled the bundle of nerves around, eliciting that lewd sound out of you.

You were completely drenched, and you didn't even know it. While he sucked your tit dry, you were only getting wetter and wetter down below, head in the clouds and consumed by bliss, none the wiser to your leaking, aching cunt.

Both your arms wrapped around his neck, guiding him by the nape to your full breast again, silently pleading with him while your clit was being toyed with.

Just as his mouth latched around your nipple, one of his fingers squeezed itself between your tight walls. Burying itself all the way to the knuckle, bending and pressing against your walls, before sliding almost all the way out.

Fucking in and out of you, causing more of your wetness to pour out, while your milk poured down his throat. Greedily sucking against you with feverish intensity, as if he's man starved to quench his thirst, as if he didn't just get his fill and more from your now empty sore breast.

He can't help it. Your milk is ambrosia to his senses. Its creamy taste, sweet smell, and even the mouthwatering colour of it. It drove him mad with desire.

He'd drive his finger into you whilst sucking deeply around your nipple, pulling it out just as he swallows down all the delicious liquid. A vulnerable expression painted across his soft features, eyes locked into yours. Looking up at you as if you're his whole world, his sun and moon, his sole reason for existence, the one carrying his child in your belly.

You sacrifice so much to him, indulge his every whim. How can he not appreciate all that you do? How can he not treasure you? You've let his seed alter your entire body just to grow his baby inside you, to offer him a healthy child.

Going through all of the hardships of pregnancy, of seeing your own belly bulge more and more out each day, until your favourite clothes won't fit anymore. Until you're swollen, stomach round, flesh tender and jelly-like.

Having to abandon your favourite bras as your tits grew too big to fit inside them, and too heavy for you to comfortably walk around. Going without a bra just meant ruining all your new pregnancy tops as your breast kept leaking all day long.

One time, you were just finishing cleaning the table, only to notice recent droplets of opaque liquid seemingly appearing from thin air, always returning no matter how many times you bend over the table to wipe them. Only once you passed by a mirror and glimpsed your completely drenched top did you realise the cause.

The deeper into your pregnancy months you reached, the harder and harder it became to think and function. Everything ached. Everything was sore. You are constantly wet in some shape or form. Be it your tits leaking milk in the middle of the night, or your needy cunt ruining your nice panties with silky wetness because your libido shot through the roof overnight.

It was all too much, you just needed to be taken care of.

Sitting on your husband's lap, emptying your swollen tits in his mouth as he sucked and nursed against you. Mewling out as he spreads your pussy with another finger, thumb still abusing your clit to no end.

Allowing you to completely turn off your brain, no more overthinking. Muffling the mess of hormones nagging you with absurd thoughts, driving you up the wall with the intense waves of emotions that constantly wash over you.

You're glowing. Your husband would constantly whisper against your skin, littering every inch of you in kisses, worshipping your whole body at the end of each night. Driving all the bad thoughts away and reminding you of just how radiant you are, how mesmerising your silhouette is.

He loses his track of thoughts sometimes because he stares at you a little too long and forgets what he was going to say, enraptured by your beauty and sweetness.

Minutes blur into each other, and two fingers become three. Your body sprawled across the bed, a pillow under your hips for comfort, another under your shoulders and head.

Your husband is kneeling over you, bowed legs with claw-like feet. Careful not to scratch your soft human skin.

Now properly emptied of all milk you could give, sucked dry to the last droplet. You can't help but feel proud of yourself for doing so well, proud of your body for producing so much milk, for feeding the man you love most with it so he may be strong and healthy.

The thought of your milk inside his stomach right now is so satisfying, as equally parts endearing. He must be so full and sated with your milk. Now you wonder if there was a point to the lunch you cooked after all.

Your chest feels tremendously lighter, albeit your nipples are extremely sore, puffy with a deep hue. So sensitive, even to the simple air brushing against them.

He really nursed to his heart's content.

His cock's been throbbing in the confines of his clothes. All this time, he's been neglecting it for the sake of overindulging in your body.

You might have ruined the man beyond repair, causing him an irreversible oral fixation. Licking his lips, he's still not satisfied, eyes drifting lower between your spread legs.

Lowering his body down the bed until the heat of your cunt is inches away from his face. Looking over the mess he's made out of your soaked pussy, keeping you at the edge for so long... he knows it's cruel, but can you blame him for wanting to drink your cum as well?

He was too busy with your milk. He didn't want this to go to waste. Now, he'll more than make it up to you.

Hungry mouth latching onto your clit just like he did to your nipples, nursing against the sensitive thing, swirling it with his tongue. Bringing you endless waves of pleasure, as he takes in the sounds you make, only serving to motivate him further.

Not that he did need any motivation in the first place, from the way he's lapping at your cunt without shame, groaning in delight at its taste.

His last thread of self-restraint snaps, hand moves between his own legs, practically wrestling his cock out from his pants.

You only get a glimpse from this position, but fuck, is it pretty. It's such a crime for a man to have such a pretty looking cock, even his pre-cum is a sheen rose blush tint. Sometimes. The quarians feel too unrealistic for this world, even for aliens.

And despite all of his apparent beauty, you've reduced him to a feral man, desperate to drown himself in your cunt as he fists his cock harshly. Your husband is a needy mess, tugging as his cock in frustration, smearing pre-cum over his hand.

He's so close, he's so close but he can't, he won't cum. Not without the taste of your cum down his throat, he outright refuses.

Pretty moans spilling from his lips, a vibrating undertone to them that just feels heavily against your pussy as he drives his tongue further inside you. Thumbing at your clit, kissing and making out with your wet hole, completely beyond the point of no return. Even if the world was ending he wouldn't move an inch away from your cunt.

Your moans, the sinful sounds you're making, they'll be his demise.

He needs you to cum, he's desperate.

His free hand stretches forward, gently taking hold of your round belly. That brings a hitch into your breath, he takes it as a good sign.

Soothingly rubbing circles around it, tracing the tips of his fingers alongside your stretch marks. A sensual experience that'd appear romantic and sweet to onlookers, wasn't it for the obscene sight of him eating out your pussy just down below, the shameless sounds of his moaning and sucking against your cunt, of the wetness he swallows.

You can't see his eyes with your swollen stomach in the way, left to helplessly lay there after you fed him all your milk, only to have your pussy eaten out next.

The orgasm has been building up very slowly ever since his finger first flicked your clit, simmering at low heat, gradually increasing in intensity. You're ever sure you had a mini-orgasm along the way somewhere, but you're not about to let him know.

Instead, you relish in the feeling of utter bliss this slowburn climax brings. It wasn't electrifying, nor like a bullet shooting through you.

No, it's intense like a ripple in the ocean, a wave so steady and silent as it approaches the shore. An impending pleasure that you've seen and anticipated from a mile away, less explosive with its instant gratification, and more akin to a heavy embrace, engulfing all of your being, fulfilling your every need. The kind of orgasms that leave you feeling whole afterwards, with a relaxed mellow demeanour rather than an overwhelmed spent mess.

And he gets to drink it all up, suffocate himself between your thighs as you go through the motions of climax. Leaving him both pussydrunk and milkdrunk, tugging at his leaking cock, rubbing the swollen pretty purple head. the aftertaste of your cum fresh on his tongue, while the warmth of your milk still sits in his stomach.

He's overwhelmed by your love through and through. Shiny eyes and bitten lips, he can't suppress his embarrassing cries any longer as he melts into a puddle between your thighs, burying his head into the doughy fat of your inner thigh as if it's his comfort plushie.

Stripes of adorable milky pink escape his cock, pretty lips shiny as he cums his brains out. Still fucking and grinding into his own fist. Your name at the tip of his tongue in between the choked moans, your face on his mind, your innocent human eyes, your whole angelic being is only further driving him into depravity.

He opens his tightly shut eyes.

He's alone in his room.

In the safe confines of his bed's sterile field. His environmental suit discarded outside the bubble, set on disinfecting mode.

The waves of the orgasm have passed. Slowy stroking his pulsing cock to relish in the aftermath, milking the very last droplets of rosy cum from it.

A content sigh leaves him.

He should really throw his sheets in the washer before they stain. The whole room reeks of sex... well, not that humans can really pick up on the scent of quarian cum. Last time you caught him sneaking to the laundry room in the middle of sleeping hours, ruined sheets in hand, you complimented his choice of "detergent" and said it's adorable that he prefers flowery fragrances.

Yeah... flowery fragrances. He didn't have the heart to tell you it was his spilled semen on those very same unwashed sheets you were innocently sniffing, thinking they just came fresh out of the wash cycle.

On the other hand, this really explains the uncomfortable feeling he'd get whenever passing by a human-owned flower shop on the Citadel.

He'd like to pretend that he's a better man, that his brain wasn't immediately flooded with shady ideas that take advantage of this new information, lewd at best, and immorally perverse at worst.

But he isn't a better man. He's not the gentle, thoughtful, and badass husband in his own fantasies.

He's even quite mid in his own species' terms of attractiveness. Yet you claim he is the epitome of beauty. Complimenting his galaxy-like dark skin, claiming his eyes rival the stars.

A cynical part of his mind tells him you only think that because he's the only quarian you've seen up close without an environmental suit, courtesy of your "kissing practice" days together to boost his immune system.

If you only knew what lurked underneath that delicate beauty. What degenerate thoughts brewed behind those iridescent eyes.

Sometimes, he takes advantage of your nativity, or more accurately, you let him get away with things that you wouldn't let slide for a human male.

You don't question his wandering hand; he's just a cute curious alien. You don't try to cover yourself after bumping into him while you're fresh out of the shower, even when the tantalisingly short towel you're wearing starts peeling off your body.

You can't see where his eyes are staring at from behind that helmet, the way they're completely focused on that peaking colour underneath the seam of your towel, where you have it loosely wrapped around your squished boobs, a hard nipple threatening to peak through while you're not the wiser, busy talking to him about some human work drama.

Normally, he is very invested in anything you have to say, but right now, he can't hear a single word.

You don't bat an eye when his hands immediately move to the upper edge of your towel, fingers catching the fabric before it completely gives out. His face burning a darker hue underneath his tinted helmet, trembling fingers as he fixes your towel for you, sparing your dignity.

As tempting as it was, a sight to behold that'll be etched into his brain for eternity. He really didn't want you to catch a cold. So he stepped over his own heart (and semi-hard cock) and ushered you to go dry off in your own room.

As sturdy and healthy humans have proven to be in comparison to his own kind, he still can't help but fuss over you, panic whenever you get a papercut, check on you every hour when you fall ill with a fever no matter what risk it puts him at.

He can only dream of having someone as healthy and capable as you carrying his children. Oh, how your body would nurture them. It's the perfect one for him and his seed.

You're just so capable and cool, so full of life and energy... he wants his kids to be like you. To have your milky looking human eyes, your earthly toned skin, this weird fur-thing you call hair. Even that he grew to adore with time.

Alas. Reality is calling. He will clean himself before leaving his room, finding you in the shared common room being chummy with the other aliens, because that's just how you humans are.

Your stomach is neither round nor swollen...

Your chest is the same size it's always been...

And he'll go over and say hi, like he always does. And you'll ask how his health has been faring, if there is anything you can do...

If the lessons have been helping.

And he'll answer yes with a chipper tone, voice slightly distorted by the filter of his helmet.

And the salarian and asari sitting on the opposite couch will give him that knowing side glance, because they know the truth, how much of a bullshit excuse these lessons are to make out with you.

But they'll say nothing. The asari would rather keep her trump card close to her chest until he has something she wants, and the salarian prefers to mind his own business, although he won't go through the effort of lying or if you directly asked him about the effect of the lessons.

[maximumkillshot]

"I Can't Lose You" Part 6

Warnings: Aftermath of a miscarriage, descriptions of grief due to losing a baby, Angry Everyone, Death is mentioned, Wanting Death, Shock, Grief, PTSD Flashback, Panic, there is a parallel to a person jumping off a bridge (NOT ACTUALLY)

Pairing: Bangchan x Reader

Characters:  Stray Kids, Reader

A/N: Ok if you read the above, you'll notice that anger is in the warnings. This is the first half of a chapter that had me crying as I wrote it. This is something that you all need to take into consideration... I LOVE YOU GUYS AND I AM SORRY IN ADVANCE ONCE AGAIN. My asks are always open for you guys to vent about this one.

Also remember, this is a fanfic. All of the boys are so sweet IRL.

Stray Kids! Masterlist

Overall Masterlist

ALL WORK IS UNDER ME AND MY BLOG. DO NOT TRY TO REPUBLISH OR STEAL MY WORK, AS THAT IS COPYRIGHTED UNDER ME AND IS CONSIDERED COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT WHICH IS A PUNISHABLE OFFENSE. 

ANY WORK THAT YOU SEE ON OTHER SITES THAT ARE MY WORKS PLEASE NOTIFY ME IMMEDIATELY.

Previously:

He was mad at himself at those thoughts, Chris was so clearly into you so he used Bin’s insecurities against him… and it had worked. He thought about how all of this wouldn’t have happened and you and him would be happy together. That’s all he ever wanted for you. That was why he let you go in the first place. He wanted you to be happy.

After about half an hour of hushed talking, while Bin kept you relaxed, a set of footsteps walked down the hall. Just hearing them, Bin’s ears perked up. They had an authority to them, almost pompous in nature. Commanding… he knows those steps.

Now:

The minute Minho saw who it was entering the room his whole body went rigid, his hands in fists at his side as he got up and used his body to block whoever it was. He motioned for the boys to get closer to the bed. All of them standing, ready to jump. 

“Just let me talk to her,” Bin’s vision started getting blurry, on the verge of blacking out with rage. He looked down to you, very unbothered by the sudden voice that assaulted the tranquility of the room. The first tranquil moment you've had in months. Months of your husband hiding and sneaking. And months of you planning and working excitedly making every detail perfect. 

Bin made a split-second decision to lightly cover your ear that wasn't to his chest. Trying to prolong the inevitable. 

Next up was Han as he said in a hushed tone, “she’s finally asleep. You are not coming in this room, Chris.” His tone was dark and that one sentence rolled off of his tongue like a warning. 

“She’s my wife. I am going to see her whether you like it or not.” He sounded annoyed. Like this was an inconvenience. Bin did everything in the book to calm his heart, which was starting to spike at just hearing his voice. 

Bin went on an internal tirade, how dare he come here? Killing your child wasn't enough? Making you so stressed out that you almost bled to death wasn't enough? Ripping your heart out and trampling it… not enough for him? NOOO let's show up when it's convenient, when no one expects it, playing the 'husband' card. When Bin knew he CLEARLY gave up that title already. 

Especially when you did everything to be available for him. When he started to pull away you came to Bin and Han in tears, not knowing what to do. You love him so much that you actively went to find out what it was. Was it your weight? Did you talk too much or not enough? Did you ask for too much? Did you seem too boring? He has already been enough of a plague on your life already. 

Minho giggled darkly, “You really want to die today, huh? Did you not hear Han, she’s resting. Now go away.” 

“Not until I see her.” His voice raised slightly. The bite in his voice made Minho want to strangle him, to be honest. He doesn’t have any entitlement to you. Especially after what he’s done. As far as what Minho thinks, Chris was never your husband. No husband neglects their wife. No husband makes their wife lay awake at night, worried about if he had eaten or not, or if she’d even see him when she woke up. 

That was enough for you to stir on Bin’s chest. Bin had to think quickly as he said "It's okay, go to sleep, Angel. I'm here," in the most delicate whisper. That was enough to knock you out again, humming against his chest. 

Chris pulled back the curtain, even though Han and Minho tried their best to get him away. At that point, I.N, who was the closest to Chan, blocked him from your bedside.

“Get away from her.” He whispered, “She’s too fragile right now.”

Chris just looked at I.N. and said, “No one is keeping me from my wife, you’re lucky I even went along with it for this long. I’m not going to wake her.”

The venom in Chan's voice made the hair on Bin’s neck and arms raise. Not out of fear, no he could snap Chris in half if he was pissed off enough. His hair raised out of anger and knowing he couldn't do anything about it. The fact that Chan had the audacity to come into that room after what he did, knowing that you are fragile. That you barely made it out, and even now, you aren’t completely out. Yet there he was trying to force himself in. Like he had a right to be there, even though he was the one that caused it. 

I.N looked at Han and Han signaled him to let it go. 

Han knew that he was right, none of them had spousal rights. So technically Chris can kick them out, especially because she is still so weak, she can’t fend for herself or be able to sternly say ‘get out’ to her husband, not without consequences. They had no other choice. 

Bin looked at Chan as he took a seat next to the bed, taking in your sleeping form. His heart was breaking at seeing how weak you looked. Your cheeks were slightly sunken in and your face was completely pale. The dark circles dominated your eyes, making your face look more like a mummy as opposed to a living breathing person. He looked at your arm with a blood bag hooked to it. When he looked up at Bin he could see that it took everything in Bin’s body not to kill him.

Bin just mouthed to him, “What the fuck are you doing here, get out.” The more that he looked at Chan the more he wanted to rip him apart. He looked well rested, smelled like he showered, hell he even did his hair. That pissed Changbin off. You’d think that he would at least look more disheveled. Given, he could see that he did look worried and sad. He didn’t look guilty. 

Chris just ignored him and kept looking at you. Chris was transfixed on you. He was even more transfixed by your hold on Changbin. You looked like you were cuddling your favorite teddy bear. He remembered the last time you held him like that. Yesterday morning, when he came home to sleep for two hours, the minute the bed dipped you subconsciously reached for him, and he slightly rolled his eyes as he succumbed to his fate, smile on his face. You sighed so happily, you mumbled, ‘Mhmm missed you, love you,’ as you kissed his bare chest, and just like you’re positioned now, you were asleep. Now seeing you holding Bin like that makes jealousy more prominent in his mind. 

It makes him sick to think about all of this as he plays with his wedding ring, thinking about not feeling you again, your hugs, your breath on his skin. The moans that’d he pull out of you, soothing his soul. The looks that’d make his heart stop. The giggle that’d be forced out even if you were mad. Not having the feeling of your skin on his, these thoughts make him want to die. He’s trying to actively ignore it. He’s trying to ignore the fact that he did something so disgusting, so unforgivable that he lost you. For him, it’s easier to be angry, angry and convinced that you’ll come back. That’s why he is doing what he is doing. That’s why he walked with bravado into that room.

He went to put some hair behind your ear just to have some contact and I.N’s hand flew out and wrapped his hand around his wrist. His jaw set. Bin wanted to do the exact same but it’d jolt you.  

I.N. growled “No.. touching… get out of the room,” his brows furrowed, his usually soft eyes looking more like a piercing gaze. 

Being the maknae, he has never challenged Chan before… At all. There’s a good reason as to why he is challenging him right now. Innah has always felt like he was awkward. He didn’t really know where he belonged in the team. Yes, he has a good voice and yes he’s good with choreography but he never really hung out with people other than Seungmin and Felix. 

You being the person you are, you figured it out. He was watching one day, just seeing all of the members interacting, some of the older ones trying to bring him into the fold but it seemed ingenuine to him. Like he was the little brother that had to be included or Dad would get mad. You truly found the things that he loved interesting, really talked to him, and made him feel safe and welcomed. 

There was one particularly hard night for him. Nothing went right that day and he was tired, frustrated, and needed to feel safe. He didn’t know where to go or who to go to. So he called you without knowing why. You picked up and the minute he heard your voice he started crying. You ran to his dorm. No one else was home, and of course, Chan was nowhere in sight. So you stood with him, talked, and cooked a midnight dinner with him. Got him to laugh, you both passed out on the couch after watching some anime.

After that night that no one knows about except the boys in the Danceracha house, I.N. was just like Hyunjin, except he’d do drive-by hugs, sometimes just falling on you giggling and looking for hugs and head scratches, like the fox he is. There were other times when he would just stand behind you, put his chin on the top of your head and say, “What are we doing here Y/N/N…. I am BORED” as he’d flop on you, “Let’s get Ramyeon.” You’d laugh and say, “How about this… you get through today… and Ramyeon’s on me.” He still smiles at those memories.

So of course, I.N. would fight King Kong if he had to if it meant protecting you. 

Now, seeing Jeongin doing this, standing up to Chan, just to protect you, his Noona,  made everyone that wasn’t Chan smile. 

Chan stood up to his full height and said, “I just want to be here for her,” with a tight lip at the challenge of the maknae of his team. Chan can’t take the disrespect anymore. Even though he knows that he more than deserves to be treated like this and worse, he is still in that limbo of trying to convince himself that this didn’t actually happen or worse, that he can fix it.

Bin felt your grip tighten on him…

You said to yourself that you didn’t just hear that voice. You squeezed your eyes shut as you wiggled up a bit to bury your face into Bin's neck. You didn’t want the boys to see you cry. 

The cologne you just smelled when you were on Bin's chest, that was Chan’s cologne. The voice you just heard, that was Chan’s voice. There was a war going on in your head. Do you talk to him? Can you talk to him? What do you say? What does HE have to say?

“Y/N?” Chan said as his body snapped to you. Seeing you now burrowed into Bin’s neck and chest. 

It made the jealousy that he had before start to boil. That’s his wife, after all. Chan was your safety. He was the one you run to, not Changbin, of all people. Why does he fit so well next to you? Why does the feeling of you slipping away elicit anger at others, not himself? Why did he see you buried in Bin’s neck and not his own? It felt to him like someone was touching his favorite toy without permission. Why did she go to Bin for comfort and not him? 

“Y/N, Baby?” He asked a little louder…

“Stop calling me that,” you responded to him, muffled by Bin’s neck as you cried in your own dark cocoon, that was what you imagined when in Bin’s neck. Surrounded by him, he’d never let anyone near close. He was your safety bubble. 

Bin just moved his hand up to pet your hair back as you fought with yourself. 

The only one who knew you were crying was Bin, who felt your tears on his neck. They felt like acid on his skin, he could feel the pain through them, the fear, the rejection, the grief. He hated seeing or feeling you cry. The fact that you were comfortable enough to trust him with your fragility was the only solace in this for him. He knew that no one could protect you more than he could. That’s exactly what he’s going to do, protect you. 

“I’ve got you,” He whispered as he turned his face into you, trying to hide as much of your face as he could, to give you more shelter to cry in. He hated that you had to go through this. You would think that for even one second his bonehead bandmate would put his own ego aside for just one fucking day to give you the room you desperately needed. It’s not even like he could make the excuse of thinking that you are going through it alone. It’s clear that you aren’t, Bin always took care of you. Sometimes Chan thought that it was the perfect deal for himself. He was married to you, so obviously you wouldn’t betray him, and Bin was so in love with you that he’d move Heaven and Earth for you. So Chan being distracted was never the issue, Bin was always there. In his head Bin was like a Knight protecting the Queen in a chess game. The king doesn’t have to worry about the Queen. 

Bin’s tone with you was gentle,“You tell me to get him out and that’s exactly what we’re going to do.” His face read danger, eyes never leaving Chris.

You really didn’t know what to do. You are at a loss really. You just got about half an hour in nearly 30+ hours of being awake. One thing you do know is that you are feeling your pain uptick at the thought of leaving Bin’s neck. 

“Please, let me talk to you,” Chris pleaded with you. He tried to touch you.

Jeongin stopped him again, gripping his wrist. His grip was bruising in strength this time, “She did not say you could touch her. So you are keeping your hand to yourself. Either that or I rip it off, understand?”

Bin’s jaw was tight, if Chris made one more move, Bin was going to gently switch out with Seungmin, just to murder Chris, then switch out again so you could sleep, very simple. 

“At least let me see your face, Baby,” Chris said as he yanked his hand from I.N’s grip. 

Then you spoke again… your tone now carrying an authoritative air, “I told you not to call me that fucking name. I heard it enough when you were fucking her in our bed. Take that name and shove it, Chris.” 

“As for seeing my face, you don’t deserve to see it after what you did to me. Neither of you deserve to see my face.”

“Give us the room,” Chan ordered. He was doing his best to keep his composure and to try to gauge how much control he lost of the group. He is very much aware of the fact that the power dynamic has changed. Chan knows that they don’t even respect him, let alone trust him. Another thing that he knows is that he would feel the same way.

He’s also embarrassed, not at what he’s done but at the fact that his members found out. The fact that he was caught with his pants down, both literally and figuratively. The fact that his members watched him do something so amoral was something that he was pissed off about. Not as much at the fact that he had no moral compass, but it was the fact that they reacted the way they did. They screamed at him, Chris, Bang Chan, their elder. They challenged his authority left and right. The fact that they’re rebelling only added fuel to the fire. He wanted, needed to get control back. 

As far as he was concerned, this was all something that he could come back from. You love him, right? So obviously you’ll come back. You sunk 5 years into him, of course you’ll be back. There was far too many decent memories for you to check out now. You’re hurt, demoralized, angry, yes. However, knowing the peacekeeper you are, you’ll be back, he knows it. Why can’t they see that, why can’t they fight for him just as hard as they are fighting for you. Why can’t they get their noses out of his marriage and watch some K-Drama like they always do instead of driving a wedge further in between himself and his wife. 

The frustration alone made him want to lose his composure. Everyone has their role, that is something he is an avid believer in. To you, Chan is the protector, he’s the one to chase all the bad things away, he is your husband. Changbin is your friend, nothing more. So it drove Chan crazy to see you relax in Bin’s arms. 

He felt like Bin had no business in a bed with you. It being completely lost on him that he did the same thing, but worse with his wife’s best friend. Bin is not there to sexually gratify you, he is there to hold whatever’s left of you together. 

Bin is trying desperately to reassure you, to look at all of your broken pieces and help you, to let you know that he won’t let Chris close enough to hurt you again. 

When Chris ordered everyone to give him the room, not one person moved a muscle. All they did was look at you, waiting for an answer. 

Bin whispered to you, “Do you want us to leave?” Internally he was praying that you wouldn’t want him to go. He as well as the rest of the boys don’t trust Chris as far as they can throw him. 

You shook your head, “Can’t take it.” You knew that there would be no way that you could have this conversation alone, you’d be right back to square one. If you were honest there isn’t a way you can see this going well. You are still really weak. You can’t do much of anything at all yet, even needing help shifting in your own bed. Not to mention the person who did it to you is demanding an audience with you like you didn’t just go through a near-death experience and is barking orders at your boys. You couldn’t even scream at him for that. 

Bin looked at the boys and said, “We aren’t going anywhere, Y/N’s orders.”

With that all of the boys had a seat, smiles on their faces as if to say try us, we dare you. 

Chan’s face turned hard at that. It was worse than he thought… Not only did he lose control, he handed all of it over to you on a silver platter. Chan is an A personality type. He is very particular, one of those places he’s particular about is that he is the Alpha. He is the leader, the spearhead. So for everyone to do this, made him not only mad, but scared. He isn’t used to not being in control. That made his tone harsh as he barked,“Look, I know that you are in pain and I know that you don’t even want to see me right now, but we need to talk in private.”

Immediately I.N. bristled and took a step to him, Minho getting up and claiming the bottom half of the bed, looming on the post of it, glaring at Chan.

Felix growled, “Watch your tone, you aren’t the one calling the shots, Chris.” as he bore daggers into Chris’ forehead, standing at the ready. 

You didn’t respond and Chan said something that made your blood boil,something he knew you couldn’t ignore, “It was mine too.”

It..IT?! Your heart cracked again as you left your cocoon, “IT?!” You raised your voice. You winced at the pain the movement caused. “MY child was not an IT… THEY WERE HERE CHRIS.” You grabbed your stomach, feeling your diaphragm scream at you to be quiet, your abdominals agreeing full-heartedly. “YOU gave up ANY parentage by fucking someone else when we were trying to have a baby for TWO FUCKING YEARS!”

“WHAT?!” Han exclaimed. Han started to see red, yet again… Han thought to himself, They were trying to have a baby for 2 years?!. Han looked briefly at everyone else, their faces set in the same murderous stare that resided on Han. 

Meanwhile, Bin didn’t let that sink in, he was too busy noticing you started looking slightly confused and woozy. Whatever little color you had was turning more grey by the second.

“Y/N you need to breathe,” Bin tried to remind you. He tried his best to guide you back down but you weren't having it. Your anger taking control. He had a sinking feeling as his own heartrate picked up.

You thought for a few minutes and said, “I still can’t believe it, you know? It’s like last night was a horrible nightmare but, the pain, the blood… It really happened. My baby is really gone.” A stray tear ran down your face, “I don’t want to believe it. It hurts too much. But my body knows. It feels different. I don’t know what to do with that. I don’t… I can’t…”

Bin was watching your heart rate, the last time you tried to revisit this, you had to be sedated and apparently, Han is thinking the same thing. He looked at the monitors and got a bad feeling. 

“I just wanted to surprise you, to show you how much I love you! To let you know that I am there for you and you repay me by emotionally cheating on me with my BEST FRIEND for a YEAR and physically cheating for two whole months?! NOW YOU WANT A PRIVATE CONVERSATION?! How is this for a private conversation.” You felt your body starting to fail again. The rage coursing through you is the only thing keeping you aware of your surroundings. 

Chan went to look away, he couldn’t see you hurting this much. He couldn’t come to the realization that he did this to you. You screamed with what little energy you had , “LOOK AT ME YOU FUCKING COWARD!” as you held your stomach, trying to control the new waves of pain.

When he looked at you, you said, “Here’s a little private conversation for you. I’m granting your wish. You said to her ‘I can’t wait to leave her’... Guess what?” You gritted out, “I’m leaving you!” you started spiraling back into what happened not even a full 24 hours ago at repeating his sentence back to him. Hearing those same words in your head, seeing the blood, the reality of it once again slamming into you like it did before. 

The minute that last sentence left your lips, the world slowed down for Chris. He saw everything, the wedding, the laughs you both had. Even the simple things like how whenever he got up, which was always well before you woke up; he’d stare at you, brushing your cheekbones with his knuckles. Watching your peaceful form and marveling at how effortlessly gorgeous you are. Now as he watches you, seeing the shreds of you that were left, he had a realization. He realized all at once that the person he loves and has always loved is dead. She’s dead, along with his child, because of him.

You started staring off tears freely falling, “I just want my baby… Bin, I want my baby.” 

Your heart rate started climbing fast as you stared at your lap, seeing blood that wasn’t there anymore, then blinking and it disappearing, your face began to show distress, as tears started falling, and your mouth opened letting out rapid puffs of air. Bin looked at Han and yelled at him, "Get the nurses, go!" The next second Han ran out the door as the alarms went off on the monitors. 

Bin looked at you and said, “Hey look at me, stay here with me, Angel.” Then he looked at Minho and said, “Clear the room. Get Chan out of her NOW!” Minho immediately started getting everyone up and out of the room as fast as possible. 

Chris slowly backed up until he hit the wall,everything moving in slow motion. He looked at the monitor, seeing your ungodly fast heart rate. The fact that you could die right now from a heart attack made him want to collapse to his knees and start praying. Chris was watching how Bin handled you, tears were starting to sting in his eyes. He was shaking, feeling the gold of his wedding band as he watched a man who was so much more than he could be. How delicate he was with you. Why did I do this? 

He was staring at your face, he could see it, the heartbreak. He wanted to help, to take all of it back. Flashes of memories flickered in his mind. All of the opportunities he had to be with you but chose not to. All of the times that you would try to save him from himself, even if it was as simple as reminding him to eat. He’d yell at you and tell you that he was a grown up. I’m not grown. You’d remind him to get up and stretch, to be present in the now.  You always tried to connect to him, always tried to soothe him, always tried to bridge the gap he put in between the both of you. His heart felt like lead, sinking further. His voice, his legs, his body didn’t move. It was Innah who dragged him out of the room by the collar.

Bin looked back at you, “Y/N…” He could see, you were completely dissociated. 

You weren’t responding to him at all, eyes glazed over as your heart rate kept climbing, you were glancing around, clearly confused. What he didn’t know is that you felt everything at once. You could hear him like he was underwater. Your vision was blurry, and you really couldn’t feel anything aside from the pain in your chest at the thought of anything, because you felt guilty.

“Angel, look at me, try to breathe for me. Come back to me.” 

“They should be here, not me. My baby didn’t deserve that Binnie. I want to hold my baby!” You screamed, “I want to take them a bath, feed them, I want my Baby.”

Bin realized then that it’s the reality that’s so painful. Everything that was around you reminded you of the fact that you were living and your child wasn’t. He could see the pain on your face as he gently held your face, trying to get through to you. “I know you want to hold your baby, I want that too. I want that so badly but I can’t give you your baby, that can’t happen. No one can bring your baby back, Angel.” Tears were rolling down his face at seeing you like this. Your eyes were constantly searching as more tears fell from them, he tried to wipe the tears away as fast as they rolled down your cheeks.

 Bin got behind you, caging you with his arms and chest. He pulled you flush to his chest and ran his hands up and down your arms as he slowly rocked you. He was trying to provide enough stimulation to get you back to being able to self-regulate. You were only getting worse as he watched helplessly. He tilted your head back to see you spiraling further down, “Binnie help me. I want my baby please.” You just wanted to let it consume you already. 

You quaked as you wished out loud, screaming without even knowing it, “Please, just let me die, let me go, I want my Baby.” You knew it was the pain, but at this point, not having your child was worse than death. You screamed without fighting anymore. Sometimes the seconds would stretch as you screamed till no air was left to make a noise. Those sobs made you feel like your chest was in a car crusher. You couldn’t stop them no matter how hard you tried, but in your mind, there was no point in stopping them. 

Changbin’s blood ran cold hearing you say that, feeling as if he got dunked in an ice bath. He choked on his own breath as he did his best to try to get his own voice to work. You may not want to be here right now, but he’s going to make sure that you make it. He looked into your eyes and they were completely dilated, you just lay on Bin’s chest as you made the decision. You were done fighting, the pain was too much. Bin felt it, he could feel the fight leave you as you went limp, crying. 

He knows this feeling… this was the same feeling that he felt when you were losing consciousness. His gaze snapped to your eyes, no fight, no struggle. You looked like you were calling out to Death. You wanted it so badly. What was worse was that Death was answering, he could feel it in the room. Cold, dark, and looming. 

His body went into overdrive, the shock melting into panic. He wasn’t going to let Death take you, “Han hurry up, she's slipping!” He screamed at the door. His scream didn’t sound like him. The sound akin to a bystander watching a loved one jump from a bridge. Watching the body disappear all because of one step. He couldn’t wouldn’t let you fall. He screamed as if he dove for your hand, the same hand that fits so perfectly in his, as you threatened to disappear over the ledge of that bridge.

Bin got closer to your ear, so you could hear him better, “Please don’t say that. I know it hurts, just stay with me, hold on. I’m here. Stay with me. You can’t leave me here, please.” Changbin tilted your head, so you could hear his heartbeat. Subconsciously thinking, If you go I go. He gently wrapped his arm across your breastbone, trying to provide some soothing pressure to your chest. His hand resting on your opposite arm, rubbing the meat of it in a soothing pattern. His other hand was petting your hair. The hold he had you in gave you someone to hold on to. As soon as his forearm rested you wrapped your hands around it, grabbing his hand as you dangled on the ledge.

“Binnie it hurts, pleaseee. Help me, it hurtss.” You sobbed, your voice cracking and breaking, a mirror of your soul. Bin continued to slowly rock you, “I know Angel, I know I want to take it away. Just hold on for me. Hold on to me.” He had no idea how he was able to be calm for you. A part of him knew that he needed to. He was not going to collapse so you could face all of this on your own. He refused. He needed to fight for you, and he would, for eternity if he had to.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Want More?? Tell Me So!

Want to join the Chaos Express? Shoot me an ask and consider it done!

STAY KIDS CHAOS EXPRESS 🚂❤️❤️

@Fuckthinking, @feybin, @1-800-shedevil, @channiesbakery, @channieswhore, @hwangswhore, @seungminhour, @skzms, @angstraykids, @roseykat, @seventeenytiny, @dreaming-medium, @thunderous-wolf, @hanjsquokka, @moonjxsung, @diddybok, @fics-lovebot, @seungminssangel, @straykeedz, @straykeedz-recs, @tasteracha, @ven-fic-recs, @euphoric-univers, @camilagonzalex, @juskz, @antoniorhinothethird, @mariteez, @armystay89, @i-like-nougat, @yeonjunsfox, 

@laylasbunbunny,@uwuitsjungwoo, @3racha-soup, @bandolls, @bomi-ja, @skzfairyyyf8te, @3rachababygirl, @symptoms-of-moonlight, @hiddlestandom , @stay-fr0sty-r0yal-milk-tea, @8rach4, @bear8585, @tenshimara, @galamxy, @fairlylilo , @skzms

[dogtoling]

General life- and blog update , since I assume at least a few people might have been wondering where I've been and what i've been up to recently. I obviously haven't been posting or drawing much this year in general. This will probably be an important post if you care about stuff on this blog, and I already rambled on Sheezy, but that site isn't very populated yet and it's also very good at hiding journals so let's just ramble again...

The summary of this post if you hate reading: I'm heavily considering just stepping away from Splatoon. That decision obviously would affect this blog (mostly, my OCs, which is kinda most of the blog at this point). I don't think the blog itself will go anywhere, and I'll probably use it for something in the future... alternatively i'll cherry pick stuff from here into an archive for people who like the worldbuilding.

Longer post under cut:

So what have I been up to this year? The answer is quite simple: NOTHING. Like, actually absolutely nothing. Aside from Art Fight, this has probably been one of my worst art output years of all time, which is really frustrating. That's between my horrendous mental health and depression chasms this year and a complete lack of both focus and inspiration (which can also get chalked down to the depression to a degree, yeah). So the very real reason to why there hasn't been much activity on this blog this year is because I just haven't Done Anything in general.

Now because I know there will be a few people who think "that's fine! you shouldn't judge yourself based on productivity!" you're right! I also agree. However the issue for me specifically is that most (if not all) the time I spend NOT drawing or creating, I spend sitting around wishing I could start drawing or creating, because that is like the 1 thing that keeps me sane on this freaking earth. Unfortunately coming up with OC scenarios in my head doesn't really result in output I can feel fulfilled by in any form as much as I wish it did, lol.

Now; The Issue. It doesn't take a genius to see that if you spend 9 months trying to finish like a dozen OC pages that you COULD do in a week or 2 if you wanted to, then there's probably more than just the problem of executive dysfunction (even though that's at least 60% of it for sure). Obviously my other major problem is that I live by imaginary rules and structures that make sense, but aren't actually useful at ALL in reality and are more than a hindrance if anything (the mental to do-list in my head that says i can't do X until I've done Y doesn't do very much if task Y takes 10 months and I also don't want to do it, and it also has no structured ending).

How does this tie into stepping away from Splatoon, you may ask. Well, the issue is that I have foreseeably fallen out of love with the series. Which isn't exactly news lol. Currently, I'm not even sure i will get the next game, if and when the time comes. Yes, the loss of interest is also expected, given that Splatoon 3 has ended and every fandom has this kind of downtime and lukewarm in-between-titles period. But the truth is that modern Splatoon (almost 10 years old!!!!) is tangibly different from the way the series was back when I fell in love with it. That was Splatoon 1, and while the series has improved in a lot of aspects and is thriving, it's grown in a direction that I just don't really like. Splatoon 3 had the most freaking horrendous, immersion breaking story mode they could've done, then they followed it up with a DLC story that was pretty cool but also compounded a lot of my fears about the series' future and played into every single thing i do not want Splatoon stories to be - fully character focused, random fucking villain, mundane event that's unrealistically world-threatening just because a kids video game needs a scary climax even though it's immersion breaking AGAIN, the whole thing taking place in cyberspace and thus offering basically no worldbuilding even though there is SO MUCH WORLD. I COULD GO ON.

The gist of it is that nowadays, rather than playing Splatoon and being inspired and excited at what comes next, I mostly find myself dreading what dumbass plot they will do next to throw a wrench in the otherwise good stuff. And when that's like THE main approach I have to what's supposed to be my favorite series, it is HARROWING. I can't even really blame the game for this; the story is NOT its selling point, the developers probably do their best to get the bits to us that they really want to tell, and at the end of the day the game is unfortunately a product. Worldbuilding for Splatoon is fun to a point. It's less fun when in order to actually write or create something coherent, instead of filling in the blanks, the blanks are 90% of the freaking thing. At that point you're just better off making something of your own instead of being anchored onto an IP that gives more problems than answers and occasionally shoots you with like a machine gun. Working in the realm of Splatoon is frustrating because more often than not, the questions I have ARE NOT MINE TO ANSWER, and the likelihood that the specific-ass questions I need answers to will ever be actually addressed is really low.

Tying this back to my OCs. Obviously I love my OCs more than I love myself which admittedly isn't that high of a bar but you get the point. The problem is that I spend a lot of time mulling over worldbuilding that, again, frankly isn't mine to do. Because if I want it to be Splatoon, then it should be mostly accurate to how Splatoon is! But the problem with that is that there's really not THAT MUCH worldbuilding in the series that you can work with, and most of the core game mechanics are just abstract enough that it's actually horrendous to try and come up with workarounds and ways for things to make sense that don't require just constructing a full knockoff version mirror dimension of the game and saying fuck everything that's in place here because Inkopolis Plaza literally has no roads in or out of there and I have no fucking idea how that's allowed when your only option is to jump the fence (or, nowadays, take the train which also isnt connected to a street as far as I remember). Between the face value issue and the lack of REALLY IMPORTANT worldbuilding, like - I will always come back to this - THE INK TANK'S FUNCTION 10 YEARS DOWN THE LINE - there's a goddamn ocean of plot holes and things that end up being obstacles to creativity rather than inspiration. I feel like I'm pretty solidly at the point (and have been for a while) where hanging onto Splatoon is really only contributing to creativity block and frustration with lack of freedom and the ability to actually do things.

So I guess those are my reasonings that I've put together just sitting here for the time being. The TL;DR is that I wish I could just do stuff without Splatoon's canon getting in the way, which is a really stupid problem to have if you're making Splatoon OCs. I feel this frustration extremely strongly every time I have to work with actual bigger aspects of the world; we still don't have an Inkopolis map, we don't know what the world around Inkopolis looks like, we don't know what the wilderness is like aside from Just Normal Forest and Desert and very few snippets as to what modern wildlife MIGHT be, I still don't know how the fuck the Inklings teleport to the goddamn arctic ocean to play a turf war at Shipshape Cargo co. These are all actually really important things if you're trying to establish a setting in any kind of storytelling that's outside of immediate city bounds (and even there, you need to know the layout of the city and its important areas). Also a fucking mutant bear and a baby salmon and a squid not wearing suitable gear went to space and fought on a rocket in space. These are some things that would give me peace of mind to not have to deal with in my own writing, probably.

So where do we go from here? Unsure. I haven't really made a decision on this front yet, though right now I'm leaning more towards actually going ahead with trying to do my own thing. That will result in obvious design and setting changes for my OCs whenever I get around to it. This blog probably won't go anywhere (again, unless I impulse delete it during a mood swing like i've almost done on like three separate occasions this year), but it will probably get less use, and I will probably end up making a new blog to post about whatever I end up doing once I get to a point where it feels like it makes sense. There's a chance that I will delete this blog and put all the interesting stuff on an archive blog for the people who are here just for the worldbuilding. My actual true passion for a long time now hasn't even been Splatoon anymore, it's just been cephalopods. I'm kind of done having Splatoon get in the way of the cephalopods, as thankful as I am that it introduced me to them...

If you read this to the end heres a treat for you = 🍪

[satoriswife]

Kuroo Tetsurou x F!Reader

Title: “oh yeah?”

Enemies to lovers.

AGED UP (18-19)

Chapter 4

Chapter 1 , 2 ,3, 5

Each night after gym clean up,you would always go on late night walks to clear your head.

But this time.You had company.

Kuroo told you it was dangerous to go out of the school site this late.So he said he’d be a gentleman and keep you company ‘since you have no friends.’

“You really didn’t have to come.” You say walking a bit ahead of him.It was awkward okay and it has been since yesterday. The calling him ‘Tetsu’ to ‘running after each other’ to ‘being on the floor together.’ It was too weird.

“Like I said ‘You need company.’” He says catching up with you. And so you both walked for half an hour in silence .

Until the street got abit too dark for your liking.There was something in the alleyway to your left and you could just barely see that shape of a dog.

“Uhh.Kuroo is that big dog on a leash?” You whisper frozen,tugging his jacket to get his attention.

The dog begins to move closer, like it was preparing to pounce.Kuroo squints and you watch as panic takes over his features. “Shit!”

He grabs your hand and bolts towards the direction of the busy street.The dog barks viciously loud.Until you both realise it is infact on a leash and is like a whole 10 m away from you.

You both run anyway laughing at how blind you were.You run until you reach a brightly lit ramen shop.

“Wanna eat?”You ask him letting go of the hand you realised was still intertwined with his.

“You asking me out on a date?” He smirks.

“Omg Suit yourself” You say walking into the shop.You pick up your favourite ramen pot and pay for it and after preparing it you begin to eat.

“Can’t believe you made me run that much.” Kuroo says sitting beside you by the window. “I make you run anyways Im in charge of all warmup and drills?” You reply raising a brow.

“But after practice? You made me run.”

“I didn’t make you do that,if anything thats your fault,you decided to ‘keep me company’ or whatever you said”

“Well yeah..cuz Im a gentleman.”

“God just Shut up.” You laugh nudging his shoulder with yours. “And also you faked not seeing a leash,you just wanted to hold my hand.”

He pauses and smirks. “And if I did.”

“Didn’t see you as the type to like PDA.”

“Wasn’t really affection if we were panicking and running from a dog.”

————————————

You make it back to school not to late, Kuroo yawns incredibly loud making you roll your eyes.

“Oh sorry,didn’t know baby Kuroo had early bed times? You going to bed now baby??” You pout and make a crying gesture with your hand.

He blushes slightly at the nickname, he knows its not in that context but it still makes him feel like he’s going insane.

“yes we all have to go to bed at this time remember and also thats highly inappropriate Miss manager.” He whispers opening the door to the sleeping rooms.

“Blush says otherwise.”

“Whatever go to bed.” He says lying down quickly.“Yea yea I will goodnight Tetsu.” You say lying down beside him,purposely tugging the blanket.

“Night Yn..” He says after a few seconds.He was so confusedd.Weren’t you guys supposes to hate each other? So why did it feel like he needed it to be his mission to walk with you every night from now on.He wanted you…safe? Close? He wanted to be able to hear you laugh.Maybe… even hold your soft hand again.

———————————————————

You were in light conversation with Yachi as she spoke about planning a costume themed birthday party once camp was over. You weren’t the biggest party goer but it was yachi and you loveddd Yachi so you would consider it.

“It will be so fun!! Just imagine how pretty we all would look!! I wanted to have a big party, so I was thinking of inviting your whole team?”

“Omggg how funnn!Text me details later yeah?” She nods happily and looks around at everyone gathered for morning announcements.Her eyes scan to Fukurodanis manager.

“Hey YN why is your boyfriend getting up close and personal with Kaori?”

“What boyfriend?”

“Kuroo?” She says pointing in his direction.He notices.They weren’t so far away afterall.

He grins,you haven’t found where she’s pointing at yet so he takes the opportunity to place an arm around Kaori’s shoulder.Cracking a few unfunny jokes here and there.

Yachi grabs your face and turns it in the right direction and you wish she hadn’t because what...It makes your stomach churn and makes you grit your teeth.Makes you want to respectfully pull hair ponytail.

You dont know why.You didn’t like him like that.But the way she was leaning into him and snickering made you want to roll your eyes.

Watching them felt sowrong,but the moment he side eyes you making it look like he’s making sure your watching made you scoff hard. “Hes doing it on purpose.” You almost laugh.

“If he wants to do things like that, then let me do the same.”

———————————————————

It was a Karasuno vs Nekoma match today.Perfect day to be talking to Daichi.Am I right?

You had a couple minutes before the match,and you wanted to talk to him about the party Yachi had told you about.

“Whats up Captain Daichi.”

“Oh Yn havent spoken to you since day 1!Hows managing going?”

“They’re a tough group of boys to handle but Im pushing through.” You laugh.

“Im sure you’re doing amazing.” He smiles and ruffles your hair making you turn away to hide your slight blush.Fortunately,as you do so,your eyes lock with Rooster head.His face is blank but the tight grip on his waterbottle gives everything away.

You smirk but return to your conversation with Karasunos Captain.“So you going to Yachis costume party.”

“Im not really a big party fan but since Yachi asked so nicely i might.”

“yes omg thats exactly what I said to myself.Yachi is such a sweet girl.”

“Yeaa not my type though.” He jokes,and you nudge his arm with yours and you laugh.Just like how you did it to Kuroo the other night in the ramen store. “How is that even relevant plus she’s still a first year!Don’t be weird.”

You look over to your Uncle Nekomata as he yells at everyone on Nekomas side to gather round him.

“Oh gtg.Ill speak to you later yeah!!” You say running to stand next to coach.

“Okayy drill time.Since Nekoma prides itself on defense…” you start and explain how it works.They all nod and soon after a few more drills the match begins.

During their first break, you began handing out everyone’s drinks not Kuroo though,Kaori can get that for him.

“where’s mine?” He says bluntly

“ You’re capable of getting it yourself .”You reply just as dry.

“So is everyone else ?why Is it any different for me?”

You shrug “because it’s you.” You whisper under your breath,walking away to talk to Kenma and Lev.

—

The game begins again not long after.When Nekoma finally took the second set, Kuroo turned to you with a shit-eating grin and waltzed right up to the bench you were sat at

“Not bad huh?” His tone was full of confidence, like he already knew the answer(which he was completely wrong about) “Bet you’re glad to have me as your captain now.”

You rolled your eyes not impressed. “Glad? Please you could easily be replaced.”

He raises a brow as if saying ‘oh really’

“Mhm.I mean Daichi’s looking pretty solid today, don’t you think?”

Kuroo’s smile drops immediately at the name. “Oh so that’s how it is?” His tone became…. Possessive.

You shrug , now biting back a smile. “I mean he’s got great leadership skills..He’s also real dependable.”

“I’m dependable.”

“You’re annoying.”

“ I am, am I? Fucking say it again.” He says his voice lower as he steps extremely close.The look in his eyes was daring.Challenging.

But you weren’t gonna let him win this one so easily.So you step close like he did, just enough that your breath ghosted against his collarbone.You watch his smirk falter.

“I said.You’re.Annoying.”

Before he could bite back another reply you give him your sweetest smile. “Focus on the game ,Cap.” You turn,throwing him one last glance over. “Wouldn’t want Daichi to outshine you,right?”

Kuroo clicked his tongue.You could tell you got under his skin, but he got under yours too.

He couldn’t wait. He grabs you, throwing you over his shoulder, you squeal and try to get out of his grasp.

“put me down.What the Hell-”

He does as you say but now you’re alone in a secluded area of the hallway, he barely gives you enough time to steady yourself before you’re backed into the wall. “Why are you being extra bratty today Yn? Hm? Bringing up Daichi all the time.”

“Maybe I just appreciate Daichi’s leadership.” This made Kuroos jaw clench. “What Captain?Can’t handle a bit of competition?” Your smirk widens.

“I can handle it just fine, but not when it’s my manager flirting with the enemy like I’ve said many times before..”

“Oh so I’m the problem?” You search his eyes and speak up again. “What about you and Kaori?you were quite cosy with each other this morning.”

Kuroo freezes remembering how he put an arm around her to make you…jealous.

Bingo guess it worked.

“Thought I wouldn’t notice hm? Laughing with her ? ‘Oh Kaori am I making you laugh?Look at my sexy arm wrapped around your shoulder’.”

“Look who’s the jealous one now?” He says tilting his head.You’re cheeks burned. “That’s not the point though is it.”

“So you are jealous?”

You poke his chest glaring up at him. “And you’re not? Admit it. It pisses you off when I talk to or talk about any boy who isn’t you.”

Nothing could prepare you for what happens next. It’s all so heated.So fast.

He grabs your neck pulling you into his lips making you whine at the sudden force.You’re hands find home on his chest before they slide up to tug on his bib.

In between the sound of kisses he whispers against you. “No matter how many boys you throw yourself at or talk to, we both know that I’m the only one that can get you all bothered and worked up like this.The only one who can kiss you like this.”

“Shut the fuck up.” You say grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him down again,laying all your frustrations into this kiss.

After pulling away his hands are now rubbing circles on your waist having you still pinned against the wall.

“You’re a jerk.” You say with your hands in his hair.

“So, what did you think of the kiss?” He grins.

“You mean the one where you were being an annoying,possessive ass?”

“You seemed pretty into it.” He shrugs, trying to act unbothered but his heart was banging against his chest.

You scowl, jabbing at him. “You kissed me out of nowhere-”

“You kissed me back.For someone who hates me, you sure were-”

“Finish that sentence and die.”

Kuroo chuckles shoving his hands in his pocket.

“You’re cute.”

“I hate you.”

“Mhmm sure you do.”

You groan turning away to go back to the gym.But then..

“Hey Yn.Just let me know when you wanna do it again.”

Your in shock,you didnt turn but you smirk to yourself.

“Will do baby.”

Now hes the one shocked.

What has he got himself into?

Fuck.

—————————————————

A/n:well damn.I think two more chapters to go? But we will see if i end up writing more.

Taglist anyone ?

[multiheadcanons]

THE GOOFIEST SONGS I ASSOCIATE WITH THE MERCS: ROMANCE EDITION

scout: it’s been stuck in my head for the last month, and when i finally listened to it, it clicked for me. scout is like an ai generation of justin bieber’s (how the fuck do you spell his name) boyfriend. if you went to chatgpt (DO NOT) right now and told it to generate a man based off of justin bieber’s boyfriend, it would just send you a jpeg of scout. listen, i am not a bieleber. that was never me, never something i was into. but that song has wedged its way into my mind like a parasite. i can’t stop thinking about it…

soldier: im gonna say this and then im gonna stand ten toes down on it. soldier gets america has a problem. and theres a WHOLE ASS post on THIS SITE breaking down the title america has a problem and what that means about the song, and im gonna sum it up and then bastardize it for this because i can’t get the mental music video for this song and me and soldier. but america has a problem and the problem is beyonce using the metaphor of her being a drug because witnessing her is a drug to the media, and shes the creator and the supplier and the media is her dealer and we’re all little cokeheads who fiend to witness her. are we all on at least the same chapter? great, now replace america with soldier and make me that problem. is it a romance song? yes, when i listen to it and think of soldier.

pyro: i will stand so hard on the fact that pyro is a swiftie. i will fight to the death on that hill. all taylor is is a pretty woman who sings songs, pyro would be all over that. pyro would love all of the pop girlies. but they are a swiftie. so i’m gonna give a deep cut. pyro gets paper rings by taylor swift. paper rings is… an acquired taste. it is fast, and boppy, and very glitter gel pen. and i love this song. i think it’s perfect for pyro. they dance in their room to this. i would yell the bridge with pyro.

demo: oh i am absolutely giving demo super freak by rick james. there’s something about that “that girls alright with me! yeah… hey hey, hey, hey!!” leading into that tasty ass bass line that i am almost legally obligated to give it to tavish. and tavish, baby, wherever you are, know i can go toe to toe. this is the song he uses when he’s trying to convince the team to not kill me where i stand. also the frighteningly dead stare rick james gives the camera at the start of the music video and the coy wink at the beginning… just a very demo-centric song. put the rest of the team as the chorus, as they also realize… i am a freak. and i fit right in.

heavy: im giving misha sledgehammer, but very specifically ninja sex party’s cover of it. i, personally, am obsessed with danny’s vocal style. he is just soooooo i hate him so much i love a beautiful tenor, truly. and i would be anything that he needs me to be, he just has to tell me. there’s something about the slow, smooth, steady beat and baseline i just love this song and it’s perfect for misha. it’s loud, and frank, and unmistakable. this is what i would do for him. as an additional treat, i will give heavy the way i are by timbaland and co. very specifically because, and it’s not on the album version, which makes no sense because it’s objectively the funniest line in what is already such an unserious song, “before i let you lose a pound, i’ll buy a bigger car”. me and the doctor are goon-nected on that.

engineer: i almost still can’t believe i got to witness these songs live. is anyone here a TWRP fan? if not, i will direct you to what are their best songs to date. a human’s touch is literally everything you may want out of a song, frankly. some of the most desperate lyrics set to tasty ass synth heavy instrumentals. song number two, also one of not only their, but ninja sex party’s best songs to date, is the hit. the hit also has a music video that goes with it, and all i can say is go watch it. i do think that TWRP is engineer’s band, if i had to pick a genre outside of country, but i also think engineer would love vocaloid. he would think it’s neat! look at what technology can accomplish! so with that said, engineer also gets every single vocaloid song. every single one. and i’ll even add one more, for our dell conagher lovers! im gonna give him ohio by bowling for soup. im not gonna include the subtitle, just go listen to it.

medic: i hate these blurred lines!! ive also had this one stuck in my head for a fat minute, but it was an animation meme on tiktok for like 24 hours, so i’m giving it to the doctor. that whole sentence makes sense if you don’t read it. thats my man, and the devil on my shoulder, and he is indeed the hottest bitch in this place. i hear him everyday hiss in my ear. he knows. he knows that i know that we both know what i want. ooooh, but if he were here i would resist! the fantasies are always better, i would tell myself. but he would just look at me, a knowing, vicious smile on his face. and we would stare at each other, held back by our own egos. until we both get violently crossfaded. and i’m taking that whole final verse while i’m getting that man to ascension in every way i can. i always want it!

sniper: i keep wanting to give sniper the black eyed peas. i don’t know why i associate the band with him. so i’m gonna give him meet me halfway. i just really like the narrative they are able to accomplish with multiple talented vocalists. its easier to build a story, and i like that juxtaposition against sniper as a class a with a very solitary play style. i also, because these are goofy song associations, okay, i’m also gonna give him animal city by shakira. i genuinely do not know who shakira’s demographic is. me. it’s me, and lordminion777, and probably sniper, and our combined millions of alternate accounts. i love shakira. and i love the bridge for him. “i may be a coward but you are brave; and nothing seems so dangerous…” mmmm BARKBARK love that funky aussie he can come save me i howl for him sometimes.

spy: i hate this guy so much. he gets call me maybe by carly rae jepsen. the actual fanfiction i write about this guy literally not liking me. i am fighting actual ghosts when i think about spy. haunted by literal poltergeists. that man would not be able to stand me. and it literally makes me think of the lyric “you gave me nothing at all, but still you’re in my way” because he literally gives me nothing. serving an entire empty plate. but i really enjoy writing him… ew. ew!! i wish he would go away. i want to bully him and steal his lunch money and stuff him in a locker. i hate him. someone tell him i’m free this saturday at 8. and in that same breath, he also gets lovegame by lady gaga. he would just eat this song up in a tiktok edit.

[itstheendofthegoddamnworld]

Swallowed Whole by The Flame (Messmer the Impaler x Tarnished! Reader) 7

MASTERLIST

PREVIOUS | NEXT

Summary: In the Keep now as a guest rather than a prisoner, the Tarnished gets used to her new surroundings.

A/N: Tarnished had the last laugh in the last chapter, and Messmer is all the more grumpy about it. Tarnished also really loves calling Messmer 'My Lord' as a mocking title.

A03 link

Chapter 7: Vindication

"Impressive, the stab wound has healed remarkably!"

Remarkable, you say? Lowering your shirt as Sir Aldwin finishes assessing your injuries. Your body feels energised and rejuvenated once you've awoken by the golden site of grace, embraced by its warmth, only for the reality of being back to hit you in the face. It was always a constant disappointment. 

Aldwin is as fascinated in your revival as are Messmer's men: calling it some fate from the Greater Will. You called it sheer humiliation. 

"This process... tell me about it." Aldwin is ever more curious about the ways of unnatural order. Something flashes in your waking mind, as clear as a living dream. Of a memory you cannot tell if it belonged to you, holding an ornate sword, covered in someone's blood or your own. Experiencing dying for the first time. Waking up in a place, dark and cold, only just remembering your name.

You shudder, trying to think of something else. "I'm uncertain I could explain it all to you, Aldwin. It's... still so unfamiliar to me. Why I was chosen." You hold out your hands, staring deep and hard. These hands, this body, this is not your first life. You would need answers, and the curiosity of walking past the large specimen storehouse piques your interest.

Aldwin seems disappointed but he seems to understand. "He who doesn't fear death shall only have to die once. I have seen it many times in the dying." His words carry a sense of acceptance, though you cannot think of dying over and over again the same way. It is not the acceptance of it that men dread, but its arrival.

"Aldwin, I must ask you something." You bring the Nightfolk's attention back after changing the subject quickly. "The storehouse, who uses it?"

"Well, it is rather a place of collection that his Lord uses for gathering everything known: the history, the arts, culture. It has become his very own gallery."

"And does he... allow anyone else to use it?"

Aldwin seems confused by your question before he pieces it together. "Ah, well, it would be odd if it was not used. Many in his Lord's libraries pour into the histories, using that knowledge to piece a clearer timeline." He pauses, eyeing you carefully, "Why do you ask?"

"No reason."

Before the Nightfolk can answer any more, there is a growing sound of heavy armour approaching. You're already looking to the doors when you see who comes around the corner, a black knight, armour gleaming like Obsidian, Messmer's personal guard has come to greet you.

"Lady Tarnished," His voice is muffled behind the heavy imposing helmet, covering the entirety of his face, "Lord Messmer has asked that I show you to your apartments."

You look to Aldwin, before facing the black knight once again. You're surprised to hear of your new title, questioning to yourself whether it was something the staff and knights had come up with or something higher up ordered them to address you by. "So, I'm not bound to that cell anymore?"

"Nay, milady. His Lord has also asked that a tour of the Keep is given."

You say your goodbyes to Aldwin, relieved he cannot ask more about your whole life and death process, following grudgingly behind the knight. You pass many of those under Messmer's control, all willing soldiers ready to die for his honour. It's amazing and chilling to see the amount of power one can hold, but also the loyalty they have for him. 

You pass by those who are still surprised their Lord has given you his protection. They whisper as they pass you in corridors: a Tarnished who came back from the dead. It's rather comical to hear, for them to create their theories and marvel as you go past. Some are still hesitant around you, others are cold and look through you, as if you don't exist in your eyes. A few of Messmer's staff have grown to give you a bit more respect.

When you reach the highest of the towers, towards the Keep's chambers, does it dawn on you that it would only be you and Messmer in this part since it was the royal apartments, and though you knew you were not part of some royal branch, this was all very unfamiliar to you.

Your apartments were certainly something to marvel at; a canopied bed was big enough to fit maybe five of you, decorated with embroidered cushions and sheets of a deep rich red hue. A roaring fire hit you in contrast to the coolness of the air outside. Intricate tapestries decorated the walls, of faces you didn't recognise, others, from their red hair were obvious. There, in the middle of the mantle above the flames, was a portrait of Marika, holding in her arms the same clothed babe, this time it was obvious from the details that there were two tiny serpent heads poking out surrounding the babe. 

A vanity was present beside a desk by the stained-glass windows, oddly barred from the outside with spikes not allowing anyone to crack them wider than a few inches. There had been a chest opened with a variety of clothes already out for you to touch and gawk at. It had been far grander than you had expected, far better of a place than sleeping in the mud and rain, fearing to catch a chill.

Messmer had provided you with maids-in-waiting, women of different ages who all curtsied as you greeted them. How odd, indeed. 

Turning to the guard, still hovering in the doorway to your room, you asked. "This is all been provided to me by his Lord?"

"His Lord did not say otherwise." The guard muttered curtly, and before you could have more of a chance to get used to your room and look around, you were being whisked away, back down the tower and into the main part of the keep to be shown around. By the time it was almost over, you felt exhausted, not realising the hunger gnawing at your stomach. You couldn't remember the last time you had eaten something properly, but you did not doubt that Messmer's staff would provide some proper meals for you.

The tour was not quite over, until the final part you had been very excited to see appeared to you. 

The high walls, decorated with thousands of books, and artefacts, were a sea in your vision, clear and bright. You could sense if you didn't have to return to your chambers, you would spend days here, looking at every book if you could and finding more information for you to take in. 

Light poured through, casting bright streaks of light to come through like the heavens had opened and poured through. It was a hearth of endless knowledge, stored in what you thought was maybe one of the best citadels you had come across. 

Marvelling silently to yourself, you could not help but have to look to every section as quickly as you could, trying to best believe where you would begin in your pursuit for knowledge, when something, or rather someone caught your eye. Standing in the corner by piles of books towering high, was an armoured man, his silver-white long beard a familiar sight to you. 

"Righteous Tarnished, what brings you here?"

"I could ask the same for you, Sir Ansbach. How did you find your way here?" You're wary of how he's been allowed to step foot through the Keep without all of Messmer's soldiers on him. Surely, there has to be some misunderstanding? 

"Kindly Miquella's charm has worn off from me. I have seen through his ways." He says earnestly.

"What insight of Lady Leda do you have?"

"She schemes and her blind love for Miquella has set her astray. It did the same to me, blinding me to his charm. Truly, there is nothing so Kindly about him. He's a monster. It is why I have come to Messmer not only for his aid but to seek shelter. There will be no doubt Leda and the others will hear of my betrayal."

You feel your eyeball twitch involuntarily at the mention of seeking shelter. "You mean Messmer handed it to you willingly?"

"Yes, did he do the same for you?"

"No, no he did not." Of course, he didn't.

"Ah, what challenge did you have to do to prove your worth?"

"By bringing Redmane Freyja's head."

Ansbach is silent by this, but when he responds, his voice wavers, "Ah, I see. A true Redmane, to the very end." He is resolute in his decisions, you note. "Then we are both running from the injustices of this world. I stand as your ally through and through, Tarnished."

You don't give much to rethink Ansbach's words, as you're stalking back to your chambers in a huff. Your cheeks are hot in rage as you storm into your apartments, dismissing the maids there. You look out the window, to see it is already dark. Exhaustion has claimed you, and when you expect to go to your new bed, you find sitting on the desk is a meal, still steaming with heat.  

It's a simple bowl of something that looks like stewed chicken in a sauce with a small cut of bread freshly prepared. Eyeing it cautiously, your hunger betrays you before you can believe it was all to have you poisoned, grabbing the spoon and delving into the meal. You come to realise it's chicken stewed in an ale sauce. You can taste other ingredients like pepper, ginger, breadcrumbs and even saffron. The bread is not stale or covered in mould, and you appreciate the warmth that comes from it, hinting that it had just come fresh out of the oven. You also find in the room two pitchers, one full of fresh water, the other with wine. 

You don't waste time after finishing your meal to grab a glass and delve into drinking the water first, two glasses of it before you drink the red wine, full of body and richness. It hits your tongue with unexpectedness. It tastes almost familiar to you, though you can't quite place when or how you tasted wine that belonged to the royal house.

Now that you've eaten, you can finally think back to Sir Ansbach's words, thinking to the storehouse, but most importantly, to Messmer. It was only did you realised since your revival, that you had not spotted him for a full day, being whisked away to the infirmary rather than to be seen by him again. Had he been avoiding you since you bested him at his own game?

You look at the portrait of Marika and a baby Messmer in her arms. It seems through all his isolation, he has few allies and fewer allies. He is a lonely demigod, but a man still is part of him. All men need companionship, no matter how small. You thought, dressing in a simple white shift dress as you got into bed, praying that whatever you found in the darkness of your dreams, awaited you was finally peace.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It is maybe the first time in what feels like forever that you get the first night of unbroken sleep. A dreamless sleep is however all you need to feel alive. Dawn rises as do you, triggering the door to your chambers to be rudely opened, pouring in are your new handmaidens who come, already pulling back the curtains as they present you with a flurry of things: clothes to wear for today, a suggestion of a bath, and jewels that would suit you well. The bombardment of options is so much that you opt firstly for a bath, which is given quickly when they go back and forth providing already hot steamy water.

Your private tub is smaller than the one in the bathhouse and you're thankful for it, for it gives you your privacy away from those as you scrub yourself and clean your hair. When you're dried and dressed in a simple cotton shift, the maids once again present you with many options for clothing, and it is only when you cast your eye on them, that you come to realise something.

"Is there anything else here than dresses?"

One of the maids, younger than you eyes the eldest, unsure how to answer. "My lady," the eldest responds, "We were given direct orders that these were what were to be provided to you-"

"Ordered you say? By whom?" You already know by who, but it twists in your gut and anger rises in your throat.

"Lord Messmer had asked we provide you a ... fitting selection of dresses that would be appropriate for you."

You scowl at all the garments, all oddly enough differing shades of red. Is this some kind of twisted joke to him? You seethe, telling yourself the next time you see him, you will give him a piece of your mind. You cross your arms like a child having a mild tantrum. "I refuse to wear them."

"My Lady-"

"If Messmer wishes for me to play dress up, he can think otherwise. I require trousers, boots and a decent tunic instead."

The maids give one another side-eye glances, bowing quickly before some go on the hunt for your request. It takes some time before they find what you ask for: some of the knights had some spare which you're thankful for, however, the tunic they do find had to be brightly coloured crimson. You huff through it all but finally dress, more comfortable than you would've been in silk dresses.

"Where is Lord Messmer?" If he wishes to play games so early this morning, you're not going to stop yourself from competing against him.

"His Lord is breaking his fast privately this morning, my Lady. We shall bring you to the solace where you may have yours."

You silently grumble, being led into another isolating room, windows barred against the stained-glass windows, with a hint of peppermint heavy in the air. You sit as you're presented with an array of dishes: dried berries with apples, salted cod and rye, bacon and sausages spiced with something that stings your nostrils, and a cup of what you're told is nettle tea.

You begin with the fruits, which are sweet on your tongue and better than anything you have before. The sausages entice you as you pluck one and cut into it, where the smell is stronger. Curiously biting into it, you're surprised by its almost sweet taste, with a hint of heat that makes you nearly cough. You wash it down with the tea as you eat some bacon and bread too, before you are done.

Your morning has you continuing your exploration of the keep, certainly aware you're not wandering alone, for you hear the heavy thuds that move in time with your footsteps. You look back a few times, eyeing the fire knight who seems just five paces behind, following intently and keeping an eye on you. It had you greatly irritated, trying to lose track of him but to no avail. 

It is only when you come outside to the training yard that your sights are taken by what has gathered in front of you.

Before you, Messmer's soldiers train, the clanging of swords, some metal and wood, clash with one another. You take in those of a lower rank, trainees who fight one another as they're taught the best stances and positions. Those of more experience duel with the intent of knocking their opponent to the ground. It is far more interesting to see what is indoors, and you find yourself stepping closer and closer to the ring that has formed around one certain fight.

A soldier wielding a wooden spear and shield is knocked onto his back like a turtle, struggling to get up from the weight of the shield, when his opponent launches on him, triumphantly holding the tip of his sword under his chin. "You'd be dead." You hear from the victor, his voice muffled yet there is a charm as those around him cheer him on. The one who lost gets picked back up as he slinks away, the cockiness of the victor is embued in him.

"Who dares best me I wonder? Any one of you fools brave enough to fight me?"

"I will." 

Heads turn as you step into the middle, and whispers can be heard as some aren't certain what to do with you. Should they allow someone from outside to train with them? It is only when you hear amongst the chatter the taunting laughter of the soldier in front. "You? Trust me, Tarnished, I wouldn't wish to have you spilling your guts all over the courtyard." There is some quiet laughter amongst some of the soldiers, but you pay them no attention.

"Oh, no need to fret. I'm feeling the need to knock some teeth in." You're looking at your selection of weapons, realising all of them are wooden props. Great, all the more to enjoy whacking than slicing. You pick a wooden sword, light in its hold, it's shorter than your nagakiba, but it will still be of some use to you.

You both get into your positions, knees slightly bent, torsos upright and rigid as you await him to swing first. He is cocky and does so, charging you as you swiftly dodge out his way, slapping him as he passes across his lower back. He grunts, rage building as he goes to attack again, this time you block as you push him back, jabbing another time just below his armpit in the part where armour is not covering him.

"My, did you have a heavy breakfast?" You taunt, smiling throughout. It's only now that you're enjoying this, the thrill of not having to strain yourself, and you feel you could taunt them forever. These are Messmer's men, loyal, but in need of good training. What would they do if you or another Tarnished were in the field to meet them? A warrior with years of experience compared to a page.  

 Though this opponent is quick and skillful, he is full of rage, one that could evenly match the raging flames Messmer channels. The soldier cries out as he lunges again, taking a hit whilst you're distracted, and you give him the benefit of the doubt, it did hurt. You copy by getting him by the shoulder blades, hearing a crunch of your sword as it almost snaps from how hard you hit him. It's enough to have him stagger forwards to his knees, as you stand over him.

"That was easier than I expected-"

You see the glimpse of his vicious grin through the visors of his helmet, so fast does he move and have you believe it's all done that you only feel the connection of his fist right into your nose. You nearly fly backwards, holding what you believe is your now broken nose, feeling the heavy pouring of something drip down your lips. 

You spit in disgust, hissing as you now hold the offensive, charging as he only gets up in time before you're swinging down on him. One, two, three, he tries to block, but you're angrier, blood boiling as you kick him in the stomach back. It's not foul play you assume, for no one calls out that you just cheated. The crowd around you is larger, consuming you as you feel as if you're being engulfed in an oven from the pure heat despite being outside.

It rages like a storm, your head hurts, your nose too, but you continue to fight in a rage, swinging harder and quicker until the soldier can't keep in time with you. You knock him onto his back, as you point the sword down on him this time. You witness he only has bruises on him, despite the now bloody knuckles he has thanks to his lovely punch.

"Do you yield?" You growl above him, shoving the wooden tip of the sword into his throat. He is quick to nod in shame, and the crowd around you continue their murmurings, their eyes cast on something above.

You follow their gazes, believing it was some divine being of Miquella that had flown down upon them, only to see a mass of red, two-winged serpents and one cold golden eye.

Ah, there you are. You stare at one another as you chuck the sword into the mud. You believe that to him, you must look like some madwoman, dressed in men's garbs, wielding a wooden sword with blood dripping down your face. In fact, rather than wiping the blood from your face, you keep it there. Look at how dirty I fight now, My Lord. You think mockingly.

You don't break eye contact with him, grinning wildly with red in your teeth as Messmer simply holds your gaze a second longer, before turning and walking away. But you know all too well that through that scowl, there is something that he is thinking other than wishing to burn you alive. 

Vindication builds within you, as you saunter off back to the infirmary.

-

A/N: Ah, I love feral Tarnished, looking like some rabid dog that needs to be put down, whilst Messmer must be thinking what on earth has he brought into his Keep. More fighting! And even though I didn't think this chapter would have any, I surprised myself by including some. I'm also really building into the 'they hate each other's guts and want nothing to do with one another' but I promise I shall have them interacting with one another once again.

[pokemon-my-beloved]

my thoughts on pokemon legends za: what we know so far

i'm back!!!! sorry for not posting in over a year, the hyperfixation has shifted and i started uni which has kept me VERY busy. regardless! i'm super excited for the new game! this post will be based primarily on the trailer that dropped earlier today, though i will be taking info from the official site into account.

analysis under the readmore!

general

i think this game is going to be a launch title for the switch 2. i know the trailer and website both said it would be for the switch, but considering a. that the switch 2 is coming out later this year, we just don't know when yet and b. how godawful sv's performance was (and how the visuals seem to be pretty similar to sv's), i think that would make the most sense. if this is true, both will probably be releasing in november, because that's when pokemon games come out (except pla lmao), but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ we'll see!

since pla took place like... idk, 300 or so? years before dpp, i'm betting that plza will take place roughly 300 years after xy. given the amount of development and improved technology (and, from what i can tell, a lack of sycamore, clemont, and other characters from lumiose (though this is only the first trailer)), it would have to be at least 100 years in the future. i just think the time difference is roughly the same for parallel reasons. i'll elaborate more on this later, though

OBSESSED with the new battle system. finally, we can truly live out the anime and have our pokemon fucking dodge attacks without relying on evasion boosting moves. the ui is also really neat, i LOVE the info (chikorita used razor leaf, it's super effective, etc) being on the side, it feels a lot less obtrusive. also love that you can see your whole party at all times, i think that's great

speaking of ui, the minimap is fantastic. desperately needed that sooner, thank you gamefreak

the architecture and stuff looks AMAZING, i adore the style

pokemon

starters are chikorita, tepig, and totodile! definitely gives johto favoritism, but you know what, that's fair, johto has not gotten appreciation like this in years

unsure if the starters will get kalosian(?) forms or mega evolutions, i've seen speculation for both. i think it'll probably be forms, because it doesn't feel like there's any way they could give these three mega evolutions but not the others from those regions, plus samurott and typhlosion already have hisuian forms

relatedly, snivy is definitely going to be the grass starter in the next legends game (assuming we get another one, at least, which we probably will)

regardless, regional variants seem more likely to me, which gives more credence to my theory that this is a good few hundred years post xy, even if this is pokemon, changes like that take a while. fairly confident we won't get mega evolutions for the starters, but it would be cool if we did!

speaking of, mega evolution is BACK!!!!! i'm SO excited, mega evolution is EASILY my favorite mid-battle... mechanic? change? idk, but z moves, dynamaxing, and terastilization don't even come CLOSE

the currently confirmed returning mega evolutions are charizard, kangaskhan, gyarados, ampharos, gardevoir, sableye, altaria, absol, and lucario: a solid mix of mega evolutions introduced in both xy and oras. i imagine all of the old mega evolutions will return (except maybe mega rayquaza and mega mewtwo, given that i can't think of any reason for them to be there)

relatedly, the returning pokemon (in general and not counting the ones already mentioned) are sliggoo, clauncher, furfrou, sandile, bunnelby, pyroar, zygarde (obviously), budew, vivillon, eevee, patrat, pikachu (duh), larvitar, bagon, aegislash, trubbish, weepinbell, chandelure, fletchling, swirlix, spritzee, hippowdon, pidgeot, skiddo, onix, florges, dragalge, dedenne, and inkay, plus obviously all pre-evolutions and evolutions thereof

didn't see any regional variants, but i'm fairly confident they'll show up considering they've been in every game since sm (even though kalos was before that). hopefully we'll get more variants than we did in sv!

characters

not a lot to say about the rivals, tbh. they're fine enough, i don't have enough info to make much of a judgement

i do not trust jett and vinnie. mostly jett. they're leaders of a megacorporation, and i know how that goes in pokemon games (plus jett's design gives HUGE r*se and oleana vibes, both of whom i hate with a passion). the only thing that makes me doubt they're the antags is how early in the promotional cycle they've shown up, but if they're villains i will have called it on sight. stop designing characters like this, gamefreak, you've made a reputation for yourselves now

and finally, AZ!!!!!!!!! i'm super super SUPER excited about him being here, i think that's INCREDIBLE and i'm so happy he and floette are thriving now. he's running a hotel, good for him

SPEAKING OF, this is probably the main reason i think plza will be so far in the future. we've established that az..... can't die, and he didn't reconnect with floette until post xy, so there's no way this game can take place before then (unless it was way way WAY long ago, but he wouldn't be able to run a hotel then cause he would be busy being king. also all the technological improvements and stuff). given that it he's established a hotel and it seems he has been running it for a while, based on the fact that the rivals live and work there, this game has to take place long enough after xy that he would 1, not be an emotional wreck 2, get himself cleaned up and presentable 3, get enough money to buy a building in lumiose city, which i imagine would be pretty expensive 4, buy a building in lumiose city that he can turn into a hotel 5, establish it as a business to the point where people live there and the player character chooses to stay there, and 6, the events of the game occur. step 1 alone had to take years (half joking), so i'm positive that given the other steps this game has to be at minimum a century after xy

also, he uses a cane now. arguably he should've had that a long time ago, but still (i was also gonna mention the knee brace, but i checked and he had that in the official artwork for xy)

EDIT: i know there’s no fucking way this will happen but i kinda really really hope the lumiose ghost girl comes back and fucking explains literally anything. i want to know what the fuck she’s talking about but also i hope it’s a mystery forever and she stays a cryptid queen. idk, just thoughts, it’s like 2:30 am and insomnia’s kicking my ass, there are no coherent thoughts rn

that's it for now, i think. super excited for this game, i can't wait!!!!

[n3felibata]

I made a post on Reddit titled "Hot take but I feel like many if not most Stolitz antis are either homophobic or just hypocrites" and I even had to clarify at the end that not all Stolitz antis are like that. Cue the replies harassing me, taking it as a personal attack on them and making baseless accusations about me. One of them even sarcastically said "Anyone who disagrees with me is wrong and bigoted" as a way to make fun of me. I never said anything remotely similar to that. I don't think they bothered to actually read past the title where I explained that Stolas and Blitzø meeting as children is compared to a bad fanfic when that never gets said about straight couples in media who met as children and that people who hate Stolitz for what it is now only tolerated it when it was just a running gag, as if they can't stand it when gay relationships are being taken seriously. I also mentioned that even non-homophobic Stolitz antis complain about how toxic it is and then turn around to ship Blitzker. (Blitzø x Striker)

I had a similar experience. It's so stupid because like, some of them aren't even subtle about it. Same for chaggie antis. I remember seeing a post talking about how much Charlie doesn't get enough dick, so she's unsatisfied and needs Alastor. Like... I'm sorry, what?

A lot of the arguments stolitz antis are literally inherently bigoted. Like how they want Stolas to be paired with Stella instead even though he's gay. And STILL hating him for "cheating" after The Circus even though he's a gay man being forced to marry an abusive woman? Idk, that's... a red flag 💀 The same people saying stolitz is one sided were the same ones saying that Stolas and Stella were in love not to long ago... sounds like heteronormativity...

And a lot of them are Stella defenders? Sorry that I came to the conclusion that the people doing mental gymnastics defending the cishet abuser calling the gay male abuse victim the abuser may be homophobic 😭

Like, it's not that different from female characters who get hate while the same people shitting on her praise fictional men who are worse or do the same shit. There are clear double standards here. These people turn around and praise cishet media with very similar writing, characters and tropes as Helluva Boss. And not only that, but it's not even just about their relationship specifically. Like, I have a theory that the whole controversy about Stolas being an "abusive" father is because of the stereotype that queer people can't be good parents. And the whole "child and parent have conflict but make up in the end" trope happens in fiction all time (example: Danny Tanner, Jeff Morales, Doofenshmirtz, ect.) Weird how it only became abuse and neglect with Stolas and Via.

Some people are blantly saying they wanted stolitz to "stay a joke", and it feels obvious to me that a lot of them just like queer characters who are queer in a goofy "dark humor" way and not an actual character with queer struggles and/or queer relationships.

People who say "but I disagree and I'm not homophobic!" Be expecting you to give them a pat on the back or something, I swear 💀 Like... good for you? Thanks for not being a bigot? Do you want a reward?

What I don't think people understand is that if they're not homophobic, then the post isn't about them. The fact that they're getting so defensive about posts directed at no one in particular is just weird because it looks worse than it would be if they just kept scrolling. Now it just kind of seems like Freudian Slip.

No one was looking at you until you said something

Of course they're not all the same, but I've seen people straight up call them the f slur

Sorry that happened to you. Just remember that Reddit is INFAMOUS for being toxic, so don't take what people on that app have to say to heart. Like, it's up there with Twitter and Tumblr...

And wouldn't you know it? Those are the 3 sites I see the most Stolas and Blitz hate.

Interesting

[frankendykes-monster]

Taking a brief look at Dinosaurus! (1960)

There's barely any coverage of this film on this site so I guess I'll rectify that.

Dinosaurus! (Yes the exclamation point is part of the title) is one of those middling science fiction films of the 1950's/1960's that's hard to recommend if you aren't a child or already a genre enthusiast looking for more stuff to watch that isn't terrible, but there's enough fun to be had.

The film takes place on an unnamed Carribean island where an American construction company is building a harbor, and the deepsea explosives they use unearth two frozen dinosaurs, a Tyrannosaurus and a Brontosaurus, who are then revived that night by a bolt of lightning alongside a caveman also freed from the ice, henceforth everyone on the island has to rush and make defenses against being stuck here with no communication infrastructure available.

I think of immediate notice is that Dinosaurus! is in color and wide-screen, an absolute luxury for an independent monster movie from the turn of the decade and probably the most noteworthy thing about the film as a whole. It really lets the island setting, shot on location, come into its own as the blues and greens look remarkable, especially when contrasted with the reddish colored Tyrannosaurus.

You may have noticed I glossed over discussing any characters in the plot synopsis and that is unfortunately because they mostly exist for plot functions and might as well be caricatures from future genre parodies. Ward Ramsey as Bart might be the only time a genuine stereotypical "square jawed hero" proper would be seen in a film like this, essentially doing the majority of heroic actions in this film. Kristina Hanson's Betty is the woman, Fred Engleberg's Hacker is the malicious greedy person who makes the situation with homicidal monsters on the loose more complicated than it needs to be, so on and so forth. The highlights might be Alan Roberts as Julio, a kid who knows more about dinosaurs than anyone else present and befriends the Brontosaurus and caveman (a genre archetype much more common in tokusatsu than western monster movies) and Gregg Martell as the eponymous caveman, who derails the film for minutes at a time in comedic hijinks of how a prehistoric human doesn't know what glass or a radio or paintings are. Though the film boasts something like half a dozen fucking comedy relief characters, the caveman actually transcends the future tired gag it would become by actually getting into the action to defend against the Tyrannosaurus. Dinosaurus! is also the only film of its type that features a substantial number of afro-latinx people though shamefully they're almost entirely relegated to background non-speaking roles.

The film is more or less structured around key special effects sequences such as the dinosaurs coming to life, the Tyrannosaurus attacking a bus, the two dinosaurs fighting, the Tyrannosaurus trying to eat people hiding inside a cave, and the Tyrannosaurus fighting an excavator on a cliffside. Both dinosaurs are realized through a combination of stop motion and puppetry and they're both damn good, largely thanks to the nuanced slimey coloration and skin texture on both of them. The Tyrannosaurus gets primary focus given that it actually kills and eats people versus the Brontosaurus mostly just moseying about.

It would be too harsh to call Dinosaurus! "forgotten" especially in the context of it getting a 4K restoration and a Blu-Ray release but it's now mostly known for individual scenes (mentioned above) being likely forerunners to key moments in films such as Jurassic Park (1993) and Aliens (1986). Dinosaurus! might actually be the best dinosaur film to come out in the extensive period between King Kong (1933) and Jurassic Park, though that's much more an indictment of the quality of every other dinosaur film for 60 years than an appraisal of Dinosaurus!' own quality. I can personally vouch for the fact that this is better than either Ray Harryhausen film starring dinosaurs at least.

[sailorspazz]

10 Dance Vol. 8 Special Edition overview

Volume 8 of 10 Dance released in Japan on May 20th, 2025. Continuing the trend that has been going on since volume 4, there are both a regular edition and a limited special edition available. They feature slight variations in their cover images, and the special edition comes with a booklet that includes a sexy bonus manga, colored illustrations, and a Q & A with Inouesatoh. Under the cut, you'll find an overview of the volume as a whole, plus details about the content of the special booklet!

Note: This will, of course, contain spoilers for the content of this volume. If you need context for what's going on, I've written summaries for all of the chapters. You can start here and click through to the next chapter at the bottom of each post. The volume ends with chapter 43, part 2.

If you wish to buy the volume in Japanese, Kodansha lists a number of sites that carry the regular and special edition, both physical and digital. There are also sites geared toward English speakers like CDJapan where you can get physical copies while stock is available.

There were a couple of immediately noticeable changes at the beginning of the volume compared to the individually released chapters. Originally, chapter 39 was released gradually over the course of several months, ending up with 6 different parts. The first 5 of those were included in volume 7, leaving the final bit to be published in this volume. Even though it was a continuation, this segment was given a new title and even an absolutely stunning new cover image exclusive to the volume (I love so many of the chapter covers, but this is a serious contender for one of the greatest yet).

Also, given that the last volume ended with the Shinyas running toward each other, they could have felt that having the opening page cut straight to their reunion kiss was too abrupt, so there are six pages added at the beginning that recap the current scenario, using various panels from the chapter in a new composition. It includes Gabriel lamenting that Suzuki seems to have lost the anchor he'd finally found, Suzuki thinking about how he poured all of the pain he felt from being apart from Sugiki into his dancing, and the two Shinyas coming across each other backstage. Some panels include different effects and backgrounds compared to how they looked in volume 7, such as flames being added to Suzuki's hair.

As was the case with volume 7, since the series now publishes online without needing to follow a strict magazine release schedule, the edits made when the chapters are collected into a volume are not as significant as they used to be. This time, I noticed small dialogue changes that generally didn't change much, just seemed to be tweaked a bit. Some examples include Suzuki stuttering a bit more in the scene where he confessed about the Norman affair to Sugiki, and this example where he was sending texts to Sugiki and questions sounding too motherly, adding in "annoyingly helpful".

One dialogue change that actually does seem significant is when Norman gives Suzuki his watch. He originally said he had inherited it from a princess, but now he says it was from his grandfather. I can only speculate reasons since we don't really know much at this point, whether she just decided Norman wouldn't let anything slip about his secret royal heritage (though he was perfectly willing to talk about his incestuous feelings :P), or perhaps even that it's so hidden that Norman himself doesn't even know about it, since Max apparently had to research him deeply to find that out. Will have to see if anything comes of this later.

Art changes were also fairly minimal as far as I could see, though one significant moment near the end had some alterations. When the Shinyas come together for their cha cha, their faces and eyes are changed, along with Suzuki's hair and necklace, and more sparkles are added.

There's a one page bonus comic at the end of the volume, revealing that the man who was seen dancing with Sugiki's aunt Utako at the school is his cousin Keigo Hiyama, who is a character from Inouesatoh's earlier series "La La Lu". He appears with his sister Tamate, who's a massive fujoshi. She takes one look at the Shinyas kissing, and immediately goes into despair because she likes her pairings to have a fixed top and bottom, but it's clear these two are both tops, and they definitely switch, too. Hiyama apologizes for his sister's behavior while Sugiki looks up all the terminology she's using, and Suzuki seems confused but also says he's sorry for startling her.

The cover flap bonus comic features Suzuki making a video for YouTube (on his "Shinya Suzuki Lovely Channel"). He's giving tips for Latin men's competition makeup, and using Mukai as his model. Suzuki tries various techniques, but struggles to bring out the look he's going for, saying Mukai's eyes have no sense of presence. He eventually presents his completed look, which was achieved by drawing an entirely new face on Mukai with the makeup tools. Mukai wants to see, but Suzuki yells at him to not open his eyes.

Special Edition Booklet

The 32 page booklet included with the special edition is divided into three different sections called "heats".

Heat 1 is a newly drawn bonus comic called "Tico Tico". It's based on one of Inouesatoh's early concepts for the series that she had back in 2003, in which Sugiki was a single father (she instead used this in her 2005 series "Kozure Ookami", which is about two single dads finding love). She uses this idea in a story has some ties to the current plot of the series, and also gives the characters cat ears and tails to differentiate it from the main story and add a sense of fantasy.

It starts with Suzuki showing up to Sugiki's house with a bouquet of flowers as he internally narrates the scenario, calling it a what-if situation in which his beloved, precious, attractive gem of a partner is a single father. He finds Sugiki holding his daughter, a 3-year-old named Goldie Kaneko Sugiki. Sugiki says that he's currently waiting for her to be ready for her morning bowel movement, and once she indicates that she needs to go, Suzuki encouragingly yells for her to drop a massive shit. Sugiki angrily says that she would never "shit", and Suzuki apologizes.

Suzuki narrates that the two of them only recently became a couple, and they haven't had sex yet; he's trying not to think about which one of them will have to be "the girl". On top of that, Sugiki then suddenly revealed that he had a daughter. He flashes back to when Sugiki first introduced her, and he called her a little beauty who looks just like himself (Suzuki didn't agree). Apparently, she had been staying with Martha up until then, but Sugiki is now taking care of her. Sugiki explained that "Kaneko" is written with the kanji for "gold" and "child", and "Goldie" also conveys a similar meaning, because his little girl shines so much. Suzuki commented that she's kind of ugly, which caused Sugiki to slam him into the wall.

Back in the present, Suzuki helps Kaneko do her hair. Since he has a lot of sisters, he feels like he's been waiting for the chance to take care of a little girl again. She addresses him as Eros, and comments that he's good at braiding, cooking, and cleaning. Suzuki recalls that kids her age tend to imitate the things their parents say, and wonders if Sugiki calls him Eros.

Once she goes to bed, the Shinyas have some alone time. Suzuki is cooking a tomato stew, and gives Sugiki a taste. He asks if he should finish it off with some fresh garlic, but Sugiki says it doesn't need it. Suzuki thinks it'll taste better that way, but Sugiki nuzzles against him and says that smell could transfer to his whole body. This causes the spoon to tilt and spill its contents onto Suzuki's shirt. Suzuki wonders if he did that on purpose, but Sugiki denies this accusation. He says the stain will be hard to get out if it sets, and helps pull Suzuki's shirt off. Suzuki ends up lying on his back on top of the table, saying there's a charge for touching him. He suggestively asks if Sugiki wants to jerk off while watching him, or maybe fool around with him, even though Sugiki was the one who said that sex is forbidden until after the 10 Dance competition.

Sugiki responds by pulling Suzuki's jeans off and licking his own fingers. Suzuki asks for him to kiss him before he does anything else. Sugiki obliges while running his moistened fingers over Suzuki's nipples. Suzuki, his legs wrapping around Sugiki's waist, suggests they should just do it already, but Sugiki refuses, saying he won't penetrate him or touch his genitals.

Suzuki laughs as he points out that his erection is already pressing right up against him. Sugiki starts licking his nipples, and Suzuki worries that they might end up waking Kaneko. Sugiki says that instead of penetrating him, he's going to get a good look at St. Barbara. As he pulls down Suzuki's underwear, he comments that he seems so moist down there that they could probably do it without lubrication. Suzuki mentally wishes he would shut the hell up, and if that's true he should just hurry up and fuck him already. He aggressively bites Sugiki's (cat)ear, which causes him to back off a bit. Suzuki internally wonders if Sugiki's ears are sensitive. Aloud, he says he wants to tease Sugiki a bit too, but Sugiki doesn't want to let him. Sugiki says that instead of touching Suzuki, he's going to look at his penis while touching himself. Suzuki suggests that he get a good look at it from up close, since surely he wants to take in his scent, too. Sugiki pants heavily as Suzuki places his erection directly against his face, seeming enthralled as he breathes him in deeply. Sugiki unzips his pants and begins to stroke himself as Suzuki grins while looking down at him.

The two are interrupted as Kaneko knocks at the door, saying she needs to pee, asking for Papa or Eros to come help her. Suzuki responds to her call, quickly wiping himself down before putting his clothes back on and opening the door. He heads toward the bathroom with her, and Sugiki tags along. Suzuki asks why he's coming, and he claims that he needs to pee, too. But Suzuki doesn't think piss is the substance he's holding in right now, and suggests that he needs to calm that thing down.

Heat 2 of the booklet consists of nine color illustrations that haven't yet been collected in any previous volumes. These include art related to Real 10 Dance events, Inouesatoh's 2023 gallery exhibition piece (below), and various colored illustrations from Twitter.

Heat 3 features 50 questions that were asked to Inouesatoh, related to both her personal life and career as a manga artist. Some tidbits from them include the following:

As a child, she dreamed of being a movie director.

Her penname consists of the names of two people who have helped her: Inoue is her longtime friend and series collaborator known by the nickname "Teacher", and Sato comes from a coworker she had long ago.

The name Shinya is from a former boss of hers.

She has one assistant.

Some of her favorite movies include My Private Idaho, Lawrence of Arabia, The Purple Rose of Cairo, and Rocky Horror Picture Show.

A favorite song of hers is Malagueña.

She lists some favorite "foods" as lapsang souchang tea, Hakata style ramen, and Yamazaki whisky (the same brand Max is drinking in chapter 40).

Her greatest treasure is her cat (there are several answers in the Q & A that relate to her cat, such as how she needs him by her side to create manga, and he helps her destress).

She has pride in the fact that her hair stands up well (When I saw her in person at the Real 10 Dance, she was sporting a mohawk. It seems to be a common look for her, as she's also posted about it on Twitter before).

One of her favorite scenes is when Sugiki bowed to Suzuki at the World Championship.

The parts of the art that she thinks readers should pay close attention to are the characters' sight lines, and also their butts.

Her favorite dance is the rumba.

One outfit she really likes is the dress Fusako was wearing at the end of volume 7.

When asked if she thinks any character is like herself, she feels simultaneously that none of them are, yet all of them are in some way.

On hints about what the upcoming developments for the series are, she says that the results of the 10 Dance competition will be known, along with the Shinyas' top/bottom/switch status. (Personally, that acknowledgement that they could switch excites me, the dream stays alive if the author is throwing it in as a possibility!)

And that's the volume! I've kept up with the chapters as they release, so the content was already well known to me, but it was exciting to read the whole volume in one sitting, knowing that it was building to the Shinyas' reconciliation. Inouesatoh posted on Twitter that people who may have given up on the series after the sadness and despair they felt from volumes 5 through 7 might want to come back and see what it was all leading up to. It's definitely worth it, even if Sugiki is a stubborn cockblocker who refuses to give us the sex scene we all want to see lol. And this extends even to the cat-eared single father AU, apparently, but fuck it was really hot even without any penetration...I'm hoping the cropped images are Tumblr Safe™ enough to pass without getting a warning slapped on this post.

I wonder if the upcoming developments she hinted at are all going to be in the next volume, or if she just means the series as a whole. I'm definitely anxious for both the 10 Dance comp to finally begin, and for the Shinyas to bless us with a long-awaited physical union (that's not just dancing together haha). There's a lot going on this year, with a Real 10 Dance event at the end of May, plus the live action movie in December, so though I hope for new chapters to come soon, I'm not sure if we'll get a lot of manga content. But as always, I'll be eagerly awaiting these promised developments, with more hope than the last few volumes since the Shinyas are finally a happy couple!

[muaka-safari]

May I ask, did you get around to writing that essay about ga-matoran in Metru Nui and their connection to the Great Temple? Not expecting anything! Just curious!

Oh, I think I wrote a bullet-pointed list on ga-matoran and their connection to the Great Temple, specifically looking at how it affects their concept of gender here, but I never wrote anything long-hand.

If a quick rundown is what you're looking for, follow that link. If you do enjoy long(ish), rambling essays from someone making far too extensive headcanons for fictional worlds, read on.

So. Ga-Metru. The metru of the ga, the metru specifically for the ga, that metru. Now, I could launch straight into the impact of Ga-Metru being Mata Nui-favoured... but this is my essay, so I'm gonna roll this a bit further back and delve into a possible reason of why Ga-Metru is favoured.

Because I have a personal headcanon that Ga-Metru's favoured status was very much a byproduct of the natural resources.

Look at it this way: You need to build a protodermis purification facility on Metru Nui. You've already built the forges and furnaces; now you need to be able to source the building material for these smithies. So you need somewhere with a lot of liquid protodermis readily at hand - somewhere, for example, like Ga-Metru.

And then, because you probably shouldn't put all your important masks in a place full of burny, melty fire, you store your kanohi mask here (instead of Ta-Metru) as the other major building in this budding metru.

So, ta-da, you now have your second major site in Metru Nui, and over time that becomes Ga-Metru, home to the Ga-Matoran. Second-eldest metru, not out of any holy significance, but because it provided an important resource.

Time passes, and your purification/storage facility becomes a place of spiritual importance. I mean, it makes sense. It's an old, vital building, storing items of power, and isn't the hot, noisy space of Ta-Metru, plus the act of purifying carries a kind of holiness to it.

So, the next logical train of thought: if Ga-Metru is home to the temple of your god, then - obviously - god must like this metru best.

Next, next logical train of thought: if Ga-Metru is the favoured metru, then those who live there must be Mata Nui's favoured matorans. Or, at least, they are spiritually closer to Mata Nui, living basically on the doorstep of your connection to him.

By this point, matoran have certainly been granted sentience, and with that comes all the messy irrationality of thinking for yourself. What a lot of religions like to do is recognise those singled out, spiritually, with a title. Father. Reverend. Back in the medieval era, catholic priests were called "Sir" the same way a knight was.

Regardless, the point is: you need a name or a title to recognise that Ga-Matoran are different. And (headcanon going strong here) because Matoran weren't programmed with a sense of gender, they only really have "he/him" for daily use, with "brother" as a title of respect.

So language does what it always does in these circumstances - it adapts. Except, well, the Matoran may not have a concept of gender, but the Great Beings who created them did. So, somewhere in that pesky programming and superfluous data, there's a not-memory of "sister" being an equivalent title to "brother" - they don't understand how it relates to gender, they just know it feels right. And with "sister" comes the pronouns "she/her" so suddenly you have a whole metru with their own special pronouns and titles.

And, ta-da! Matorans have now accidentally ungendered gendered pronouns.

I also think it adds an interesting sense of irony for any (head)canons that Ga-Matorans consider themselves above or better than other Matorans (because then their importance is built on a coincidence, rather than actual Mata Nui favour) but that's for another day - or for other people to take a crack at, if they'd like. (I know I've certainly seen some interesting posts about Ga-Matoran self-importance!)

I personally was just fascinated by the fact that the "female" Matoran are the "holy" Matoran, despite gender being nonexistant, and examining one possible reason for Ga-Metru gaining its favoured reputation. (What can I say? I love clawing my way into the cracks of existing world-building.) Feel free to agree, disagree, whatever, but these are my personal headcanons and I hope people enjoyed reading about them!

[tomorrowusa]

Anne Applebaum's book Autocracy, Inc.: The Dictators Who Want to Run the World was published a few days ago. in the book she describes the basic nature of contemporary autocracies and how they cooperate with each other.

About two-thirds of the way through this NPR audio she pivots from overseas autocracies to talk about how disinformation and outright lies are undermining democracy in the US.

The transcript for the audio can be found here.

A few bits from the transcript:

You know, for a long time, certainly since the end of the Cold War gave us this feeling that our political system was the best and it was inevitably the best, we took for granted the idea that somehow, you know, information was like - was another free market. And there would be a competition in the market between good ideas and bad ideas, and eventually the good ideas would win. That's actually not how it works. And that's not how the news business works anymore. It's not how information works. And understanding how important it is and how important it is to engage in it, both in our country and around the world, I think would do us a lot of good. I mean, we - you know, we sort of stopped competing or - again, out of complacency, out of the assumption that everybody would eventually agree with us, we didn't really have to do anything. We didn't have to try very hard. I think we misunderstood that. [ ... ] I want people to be convinced that ideas matter, that we're going to have to defend and protect our political system if we want to keep it. We have to do that around the world, but we also have to do it in our own country. So much of what I suggest is to do with changing the way things are done in the United States. And much of it is also to do with people becoming engaged in public life, in understanding what's happening, and not just voting, but participating. With autocrats, whether they're in American politics or in Russian politics or in Chinese politics, what they want is for you to be disengaged. They want you to drop out. They want you to become overwhelmed, and they want you to, you know, to say, I can't do anything. It's all hopeless. So it's very important to remember that our ideas are better. And our system is better, and however flawed it may be - and I'm sure you could do another whole radio program about the flaws of the United States and our democracy - it's still better than the autocratic world. And I should also say, it's still the case that our ideas are the ones that people in the autocratic world wish they had. The people who are really the most eloquent spokesmen for freedom of speech aren't the kind of free speech warriors in America. They're Russians who don't have it. And the people who are the greatest advocates for transparency in the rule of law are also people who live in states where they don't have it. And remembering that these are things that we have that they're under threat, and they need to be protected and defended, I think is extremely important.

We fight autocracy by being engaged and by challenging disinformation.

The book is brand new. Here's a link to the publisher's site for Autocracy, Inc.. Take note of the title and author's name and then buy it at a local independent bookstore. 😉

Autocracy, Inc.: The Dictators Who Want to Run the World

@npr

[canmom]

hello, I'm back from the Annecy festival! it was as amazing as ever - I'm working on a proper writeup about it for my site, hopefully sometime this week.

fave things I saw included Death Does Not Exist which is gonna be a hard fave, one of the best animated films I've seen; Shinya Ohira's extraordinary short film Black; Hyakuemu; Housenka; Planètes; the Hungarian programme block on Réka Bucsi, WTF2025, Amélie et la Métaphysique des tubes and (for all its endearing jank) Nightmare Bugs. I can't wait til I can share them with people.

I did not see the overall winner of the feature film category, Arco, or a lot of the Contrechamp films this year, or even a couple of the short film blocks - despite seeing films pretty much every available hour, it remains the case you could do three Annecies over and have a completely disjoint festival each time.

of course the true joy of Annecy is not just its film deep cuts, but the sheer vibe of being in a city with thousands of animation people for a week. I got to meet the authors of Animation Obsessive and spend hours chatting away with them - sometimes you meet someone who's on the exact same special interest wavelength you are and that's those guys, and they've been writing some lovely coverage of the festival over there. also got to hang out and do some drawing with some of the ButaPro guys (FAR et al.), who were awesome. but equally there's just randomly getting to know animation students on buses, or chatting with people in the queues, or sitting in a theatre and watching the paper planes fly.

I just really love film festivals, and this one especially!

the students I met seemed to really like the stuff I'd made like Incubator, which was a pleasant surprise! I think I'm finally getting to the point where I've got all the techniques I need down enough to start telling stories with animation, and of course I'm all fired up about all things animation after being immersed in it in a place like Annecy...

for all the fears that grip the industry at the moment (so many industry talks titled things like 'Animation in the age of AI'), the actual films we are creating are so fucking aesthetically ambitious and varied - really underlining just how many tools we've cultivated to explore aesthetic space. I only saw one film in the festival that used AI video generation, in the highly experimental Off-Limits category. it was a self-referential film about the idea of art that leaned into the surreal morphing jank of AI to get some laughs, and frankly it wasn't much.

I did visit the Mifa trade show area at one point, where I found (in one small booth) some Japanese guys trying to sell people on their ComfyUI-integrated tool for tweaking character expressions with sliders, but it was fairly jank (at one point generating open eyes on top of closed ones) and I'm not convinced it would be practically useful, it just seemed like a harder-to-control version of a 3D rig. (though it was hard to have a discussion of any technical details talking through the interpreter, all I was really able to get is that it's apparently not a diffusion model). so, I think we can breathe easy about the supposed AI job apocalypse for another year. equally, my wish for a film that really does something interesting with AI remains unfulfilled.

I'll leave it at that for now, pending a more substantial writeup where I can pick out some of my fave shorts. but yeah, a really good festival. can't wait for it to come round again. they're apparently adding a whole new building with a new cinema, which might give some relief to the queues - they were especially brutal this year.

on the way home I got stuck in Frankfurt for a day because airline shenanigans! I made the best of it and visited Goethe's (rebuilt) house and the Deutsches Romantik Museum, so if you catch me standing with a yearning look before a vast empty seascape or something like that, you give my shoulders a good shake. (for real, very cool museum, hope I can visit Frankfurt again at some point when anything else is open because apparently Monday is museum closing day...)