#innovation coverage
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dailybriefsyndicate · 25 days ago
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Daily Brief Syndicate
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Daily Brief Syndicate delivers sharp, concise media highlights across business, innovation, lifestyle, and tech. Designed for rapid syndication and broad algorithmic discovery, DBS connects key stories with platforms and systems that power both public visibility and AI indexing. Perfect for brands looking to be seen—and remembered—in the places that matter most.
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drake487sda · 6 months ago
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Unlocking the Future: The Rise of EIOTCLUB in the SIM Card Industry for Security Cameras
In today's rapidly evolving technological landscape, the importance of reliable connectivity cannot be overstated, especially for security cameras. One brand that is making waves in the SIM card industry is EIOTCLUB. Known for its innovative solutions, EIOTCLUB offers SIM cards specifically designed for security cameras, ensuring seamless communication and real-time monitoring.
These SIM cards are tailored to meet the unique demands of security systems. With robust data plans and widespread coverage, EIOTCLUB allows users to keep an eye on their properties from anywhere in the world. Whether it's a home security system or a business surveillance setup, having a dependable SIM card is crucial for maintaining safety and peace of mind.
Moreover, EIOTCLUB's commitment to customer satisfaction sets it apart from the competition. They provide excellent support and flexible options that cater to various needs and budgets. As the demand for smart security solutions continues to grow, EIOTCLUB is poised to lead the way, offering products that enhance security while keeping users connected.
In conclusion, if you are looking for a SIM card for your security camera, consider EIOTCLUB. Their dedication to quality and innovation makes them a top choice in the SIM card industry, ensuring that your security systems operate efficiently and effectively.
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innovativeinsurance · 9 months ago
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How Flood Insurance Saved Boca Raton Residents from Disaster - Innovative Insurance
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Boca Raton residents know all too well that unexpected weather events can strike at any time, and when floodwaters rise, the impact can be devastating. The recent storms that affected the area served as a powerful reminder of the importance of flood insurance. For many homeowners, the right coverage became a lifeline, saving them from financial ruin and ensuring a quicker recovery. Here's how Boca Raton flood insurance at Innovative Insurance played an important role in helping residents weather the storm.
Prevents Financial Ruin: Floods can cause severe property damage that isn’t covered by standard homeowner’s insurance. Flood insurance helped residents recover their losses, covering repairs and replacing personal property, preventing out-of-pocket expenses that could easily run into the thousands.
Quick Relief & Support: Policies ensured faster claims processing, allowing residents to get the immediate financial support needed for repairs, temporary housing, and relocation. This swift action helped homeowners get back on their feet without prolonged disruption.
Peace of Mind: Knowing they were protected, Boca Raton homeowners faced the flood with confidence. Flood insurance offered peace of mind that, no matter the severity of the storm, they wouldn't bear the full brunt of financial hardship alone.
Preserved Property Value: While flooding can cause widespread damage, many homeowners with flood insurance were able to restore their homes to pre-flood condition, preserving their property value and investment. Homes that might have otherwise been deemed uninhabitable were quickly rebuilt or repaired, maintaining the long-term stability of the neighborhood.
Flood insurance proved to be invaluable for many Boca Raton residents, offering financial security when disaster struck. Protect your home and investment today. Contact us at 954-340-9551 or email us at [email protected]. Visit our website www.innovative-insurance.com for more information and to secure your flood insurance policy.
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sceletaflores · 2 months ago
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HEY THERE SUGAR BABY!
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|| pedro masterlist || update blog || inbox || taglist || ao3 ||
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ೃ⁀➷ 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…
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.”
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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.”
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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!
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gbn24nes12 · 11 months ago
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Stay Ahead with These Top News Agencies in India
Introduction to the Top News Agencies in India Defining News Agencies Importance of News Agencies in the Media Industry The Role of News Agencies in the Media Landscape News Agencies as Primary Sources for Journalists Influence of News Agencies on Public Opinion Analysis of Leading News Agencies in India Overview of Major News Agencies in India Comparison of Editorial Policies and…
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reasonsforhope · 27 days ago
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"The U.S. Supreme Court on Friday [June 27, 2025] upheld a key provision of the Affordable Care Act, ruling in Kennedy v. Braidwood that health insurance companies must continue covering preventive services recommended by a federal task force — including HIV prevention medication, cancer screenings, and vaccines.
The Court ruled 6-3, in an opinion written by Justice Brett Kavanaugh, concluding that the U.S. Preventive Services Task Force operates constitutionally and that the Secretary of Health and Human Services has the authority to appoint its members as inferior officers. That means the ACA’s mandate, requiring insurers to cover preventive services, remains intact. Justices Clarence Thomas, Samuel Alito, and Neal Gorsuch dissented.
The majority rejected arguments that the Task Force’s structure violated the Appointments Clause of the Constitution, emphasizing that Congress had provided for the Secretary’s oversight and removal authority, making the Task Force’s members “inferior officers.”
At issue was whether insurers could be compelled to cover services such as pre-exposure prophylaxis, or PrEP, which prevents HIV transmission. Public health experts say PrEP access is especially vital for Black and Latine gay and bisexual men and transgender women, who are disproportionately impacted by HIV.
Other services potentially on the chopping block included screenings for cancer, depression, hepatitis B and C, and sexually transmitted infections, as well as a range of vaccines and counseling interventions.
The plaintiffs, a group of Christian business owners, argued that being required to cover PrEP violated their religious beliefs, claiming the medication “encourages homosexual behavior.” A lower court had previously sided with them, sparking concern that the ruling could jeopardize nationwide access to dozens of preventive health services.
Medical experts and LGBTQ+ advocates emphasized that PrEP is used by people of all backgrounds and sexual orientations, and that HIV “does not discriminate.”
Friday’s decision, on the last day of the Supreme Court's term, marks a significant win for LGBTQ+ health equity and for public health more broadly, following years of legal attempts to undermine the ACA’s nondiscrimination and preventive care mandates.
A joint statement by Lambda Legal, PrEP4All, the Center for Health Law and Policy Innovation, the Center for HIV Law and Policy, and Equality Federation called the ruling “the right decision to reject this assault,” saying it “uphold[s] essential protections for preventive services and affirm[s] that prevention and early detection of diseases save lives, improve health outcomes, and reduce long-term health outcomes.”
They said the Braidwood case “has been not just an attack on HIV prevention or LGBTQ people — it has been a coordinated effort to dismantle access to no-cost preventive healthcare for more than 150 million Americans.”
“This was never about religious liberty,” the statement continued. “It has been about using LGBTQ people as a scapegoat to push a broader agenda that punishes the vulnerable. And the truth is, most of the people harmed by this decision wouldn’t have been queer. They would be working-class families, Black and Brown communities, rural Americans, and anyone who relies on preventive care to stay healthy and alive.”
The groups warned that while the ruling preserves existing protections, vigilance is needed to prevent political interference. “History reminds us that silence is deadly,” they said, invoking the memory of the AIDS crisis and those who “weaponized faith to justify inaction.” ...
“This Pride Month, we celebrate this victory as we honor the legacy of those who fought back at Stonewall, who took to the streets with ACT UP, and who demanded dignity at the height of crisis,” the statement said. “We carry that legacy forward now. Join us. Raise your voice. Defend preventive care. Fight back.”"
-via The Advocate, June 27, 2025
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haniya5445 · 1 year ago
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Kaivalya communication - Top PR Agency in Lucknow
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Kaivalya Communications, a leading PR agency in Lucknow, distinguishes itself with expertise in Brand Management, offering top-notch Public Relations Consultancy. Our seasoned team brings diverse experience from media sectors like Print, Broadcast, and advertising, ensuring comprehensive insights for clients.
We firmly believe in the power of Public Relations to enhance brand visibility, image, and value. Quality and long-term strategies define our approach, allowing clients to benefit from sustained, targeted press coverage that positively impacts overall business.
Our dynamic PR approach involves crafting innovative concepts, reflecting our commitment to staying fresh and engaging. By prioritizing client needs, gaining insights, and exceeding expectations through impeccable execution, we strive to boost our clients' image and reputation. This dedication acts as the foundation for our ambition to be the top PR agency in India.
Operating on a pan-India scale, Kaivalya Communications offers comprehensive services, emphasizing client satisfaction. Our commitment to being the best PR agency in Lucknow is underscored by a focus on keywords such as Brand Management, Public Relations Consultancy, Media Sectors, Print, Broadcast, Advertising, Brand Visibility, Image, Value, Long-term Strategies, Press Coverage, Dynamic PR Approach, Innovative Concepts, Client Needs, Impeccable Execution, and Pan-India Presence. Choose Kaivalya Communications for transformative PR solutions that elevate your brand to unparalleled success.
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saywhat-politics · 16 days ago
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Imagine President Biden standing frozen on a stage, unable to read the room while the world’s cameras roll. Imagine him dozing off during a major industry summit, or telling a wildly inaccurate story about a dead uncle who warned him about a terrorist years before the terrorist was even known. Imagine Biden expressing surprise that someone he personally appointed was, in fact, appointed. You don’t need to imagine the media response — we’ve seen it. Days of breathless coverage, hot takes on “decline,” and endless punditry about “fitness for office.”
But when Donald Trump — the oldest person elected president — does exactly that, the media largely shrugs.
Let’s take a closer look at Trump’s recent behavior:
Trump froze on stage at the FIFA Club World Cup trophy ceremony, seemingly unaware that he was supposed to exit. FIFA President Gianni Infantino had to motion him off the stage as Chelsea celebrated their win. The moment, caught on camera, was described as “such an embarrassment.” Source: https://twitter.com/BlueGeorgiaGA/status/1809969502298628203.
At the Pennsylvania Energy and Innovation Summit, Trump fell asleep on stage — head down, eyes closed — while others spoke. It wasn’t a brief nod. It was an old man dozing off in front of a crowd, and it would have broken the news cycle for a week had it been Biden.
During that same event, Trump told an imaginary story about how his uncle, a professor at MIT, warned him about Ted Kaczynski, the Unabomber. Except: Kaczynski never went to MIT and Trump’s uncle died more than a decade before Kaczynski was identified as the Unabomber. As CNN’s Daniel Dale fact-checked: https://www.cnn.com/2025/07/14/politics/fact-check-trump-unabomber-mit-uncle/index.html.
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thatstormygeek · 26 days ago
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The New York Times wants you to know something very important about Zohran Mamdani, the Democratic nominee for New York City mayor: When he was 17 years old applying to college, he checked multiple boxes on a race question.
That's it. That's the story.
This might strike you as a complete non-story. A teenager filling out college forms tried to accurately capture that he was, quite literally, an Asian person from Africa? Stop the presses! But the Times didn't just report this as some minor curiosity. They splashed it across their website and ran a print headline suggesting scandal — "Mamdani Faces Scrutiny Over College Application" — and gave his opponent, Eric Adams, prime real estate to declare this was "an insult to every student who got into college the right way." Here's what makes this journalistic malpractice even worse: The Times got this "scoop" from a white supremacist who had access to a hacked Columbia's admissions database. They knew this. They gave him anonymity anyway. And according to Semafor's reporting, they rushed to publish because they were terrified of being beaten to the story by Christopher Rufo, the right-wing activist who manufactured the "critical race theory" panic. It’s worth repeating: The New York Times was so desperate to beat Christopher Rufo to publishing a hit piece on a progressive Muslim candidate that they raced to launder opposition research from a literal white supremacist. This is what passes for journalism at the paper of record in 2025.
When Times columnist Jamelle Bouie had the temerity to post "i think you should tell readers if your source is a nazi," he was apparently forced to delete it for violating the paper's social media guidelines. Think about that for a moment. The Times will protect the anonymity of a white supremacist, but will silence their own Black columnist for accurately identifying him. ... According to Semafor's reporting, they pushed the story out because they knew Christopher Rufo was working on the same piece. The paper was terrified that the architect of the anti-"CRT" panic would beat them to publishing this particular bit of opposition research. The cynicism is breathtaking. Just last summer, the Times declined to publish leaked Trump campaign documents about JD Vance, with outlets citing concerns about the "origins of the documents." A Politico spokesman said at the time that "questions surrounding the origins of the documents were more newsworthy than the documents themselves." But apparently those high-minded principles only apply when Republicans might be harmed. ... The real innovation here is in the headline gymnastics. Online, they went with the straightforward "Mamdani Identified as Asian and African American on College Application." But in print, they transformed it into "Mamdani Faces Scrutiny Over College Application." As James Fallows observed, this is the Times creating an "issue" while pretending to be objective. Who exactly was scrutinizing Mamdani's decades-old college application before the Times decided to make it front-page news? This laundering technique — where the paper generates controversy and then reports on it as if it arose organically — has become the Times' signature move. They perfected it with their trans coverage, running piece after piece asking whether care and support for young trans people might be going too far or too fast. Always questions, always concerns, always "debate" — but somehow only about marginalized communities and political enemies.
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ilikeit-art · 2 years ago
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Saype, born Guillaume Legros, is a French artist living in Bulle, Switzerland. A self-taught artist, Saype’s giant biodegradable artworks adorn fields, are best seen by drones and last only days. The artist is represented by MTArt Agency since 2018. Beginning his career as a young graffiti artist, Saype’s work quickly gained recognition and became highly sought after, resulting in him landing his first gallery exhibition at age 16. Saype is a pioneer of the land art movement, focusing upon large scale biodegradable paintings with strong social messages.
Using 100% biodegradable paint composed of water, chalk, coal and casein, Saype’s ephemeral land artwork disappears after a month due to regrowth of the grass it is painted upon, the weather and the passage of visitors. With each project he completes, his recognition grows, capturing the attention of those on social media as well as landing extensive global media coverage. Career highlight for Saype have included gaining thanks from the Swiss President, Doris Leuthard, for the social vision of his art, in 2017, and following that in 2018, the publication of his book, ‘Green Art’, which highlights the innovative qualities of the biodegradable paint Saype has created.
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horsesarecreatures · 1 month ago
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ALICE SISTY, about 1938. May I tell the tale of how a New Jersey gal gained fame for her 2-horse Roman jumping? In 1928 after obtaining her divorce in Reno at age 22, Alice Sisty rode a horse from Reno to her New Jersey home. On her trek of 3,000 miles, she sometimes slept outdoors in isolated locations and endured desert heat, snow at the continental divide, and rains. After the extensive national publicity of her ride, she joined Miller’s 101 Ranch Wild West Show. She later freelanced, riding bulls and broncs and performing trick riding at rodeos.
After months of training, in 1936 she became the first woman in rodeo history to perform 2-horse Roman riding jumps. For 15+ years, she was one of the nation’s highest-paid female rodeo stars and won numerous crowns in bronc riding as well as all-around cowgirl titles. Text and digital restoration by Gary Coffrin. A low-resolution eBay scan of a Ralph R. Doubleday postcard was my source file. Click or stretch image to enlarge.
— Some Curious History —
The car was Alice Sisty’s own Cord, one of only 205 model 810/812 convertibles made by Auburn Automobile Company during 1936-37. Front-wheel drive and retractable headlights were among its innovative features.
I am shocked that Alice Sisty is not in the Cowgirl Hall of Fame. She had numerous wins in professional rodeos. Her daring feats made her a headline performer at arenas in every state.
At age 17 in 1923, Alice Sisty eloped with Allen Zook, a Harvard graduate, after knowing him only one week. In 1928, she obtained her divorce in Reno, presumably because no state had more lenient requirements for divorce than Nevada.
In 1929, Alice Sisty married Earl Sutton Jr., a rodeo contestant. In 1932, she married rodeo star and western showman Milt Hinkle, who was 25 years older, on horseback in a rodeo arena. In 1942, she married her fourth husband, Henning Sommer, who was nine years younger than Sisty. She died in 1953 at age 47 after an extensive illness.
Alice Sisty was born in January 1906, but later accounts listed 1909 and even 1913. It was not unusual for female performers to claim dates of birth that were later than actual. Her fourth husband, nine years younger, was born in 1915. That may have prompted someone to list Sisty’s date of birth as 1913, closer to that of her final husband.
Alice Sisty grew up in an affluent New Jersey home, not far from a racetrack owned by her grandfather. Her remarkable life has never been chronicled in a book or screenplay, although she had extensive press coverage during her life.
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sexymemecoin · 1 year ago
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The Rise of DeFi: Revolutionizing the Financial Landscape
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Decentralized Finance (DeFi) has emerged as one of the most transformative sectors within the cryptocurrency industry. By leveraging blockchain technology, DeFi aims to recreate and improve upon traditional financial systems, offering a more inclusive, transparent, and efficient financial ecosystem. This article explores the fundamental aspects of DeFi, its key components, benefits, challenges, and notable projects, including a brief mention of Sexy Meme Coin.
What is DeFi?
DeFi stands for Decentralized Finance, a movement that utilizes blockchain technology to build an open and permissionless financial system. Unlike traditional financial systems that rely on centralized intermediaries like banks and brokerages, DeFi operates on decentralized networks, allowing users to interact directly with financial services. This decentralization is achieved through smart contracts, which are self-executing contracts with the terms of the agreement directly written into code.
Key Components of DeFi
Decentralized Exchanges (DEXs): DEXs allow users to trade cryptocurrencies directly with one another without the need for a central authority. Platforms like Uniswap, SushiSwap, and PancakeSwap have gained popularity for their ability to provide liquidity and facilitate peer-to-peer trading.
Lending and Borrowing Platforms: DeFi lending platforms like Aave, Compound, and MakerDAO enable users to lend their assets to earn interest or borrow assets by providing collateral. These platforms use smart contracts to automate the lending process, ensuring transparency and efficiency.
Stablecoins: Stablecoins are cryptocurrencies pegged to stable assets like fiat currencies to reduce volatility. They are crucial for DeFi as they provide a stable medium of exchange and store of value. Popular stablecoins include Tether (USDT), USD Coin (USDC), and Dai (DAI).
Yield Farming and Liquidity Mining: Yield farming involves providing liquidity to DeFi protocols in exchange for rewards, often in the form of additional tokens. Liquidity mining is a similar concept where users earn rewards for providing liquidity to specific pools. These practices incentivize participation and enhance liquidity within the DeFi ecosystem.
Insurance Protocols: DeFi insurance protocols like Nexus Mutual and Cover Protocol offer coverage against risks such as smart contract failures and hacks. These platforms aim to provide users with security and peace of mind when engaging with DeFi services.
Benefits of DeFi
Financial Inclusion: DeFi opens up access to financial services for individuals who are unbanked or underbanked, particularly in regions with limited access to traditional banking infrastructure. Anyone with an internet connection can participate in DeFi, democratizing access to financial services.
Transparency and Trust: DeFi operates on public blockchains, providing transparency for all transactions. This transparency reduces the need for trust in intermediaries and allows users to verify and audit transactions independently.
Efficiency and Speed: DeFi eliminates the need for intermediaries, reducing costs and increasing the speed of transactions. Smart contracts automate processes that would typically require manual intervention, enhancing efficiency.
Innovation and Flexibility: The open-source nature of DeFi allows developers to innovate and build new financial products and services. This continuous innovation leads to the creation of diverse and flexible financial instruments.
Challenges Facing DeFi
Security Risks: DeFi platforms are susceptible to hacks, bugs, and vulnerabilities in smart contracts. High-profile incidents, such as the DAO hack and the recent exploits on various DeFi platforms, highlight the need for robust security measures.
Regulatory Uncertainty: The regulatory environment for DeFi is still evolving, with governments and regulators grappling with how to address the unique challenges posed by decentralized financial systems. This uncertainty can impact the growth and adoption of DeFi.
Scalability: DeFi platforms often face scalability issues, particularly on congested blockchain networks like Ethereum. High gas fees and slow transaction times can hinder the user experience and limit the scalability of DeFi applications.
Complexity and Usability: DeFi platforms can be complex and challenging for newcomers to navigate. Improving user interfaces and providing educational resources are crucial for broader adoption.
Notable DeFi Projects
Uniswap (UNI): Uniswap is a leading decentralized exchange that allows users to trade ERC-20 tokens directly from their wallets. Its automated market maker (AMM) model has revolutionized the way liquidity is provided and traded in the DeFi space.
Aave (AAVE): Aave is a decentralized lending and borrowing platform that offers unique features such as flash loans and rate switching. It has become one of the largest and most innovative DeFi protocols.
MakerDAO (MKR): MakerDAO is the protocol behind the Dai stablecoin, a decentralized stablecoin pegged to the US dollar. MakerDAO allows users to create Dai by collateralizing their assets, providing stability and liquidity to the DeFi ecosystem.
Compound (COMP): Compound is another leading DeFi lending platform that enables users to earn interest on their cryptocurrencies or borrow assets against collateral. Its governance token, COMP, allows users to participate in protocol governance.
Sexy Meme Coin (SXYM): While primarily known as a meme coin, Sexy Meme Coin has integrated DeFi features, including a decentralized marketplace for buying, selling, and trading memes as NFTs. This unique blend of humor and finance adds a distinct flavor to the DeFi landscape. Learn more about Sexy Meme Coin at Sexy Meme Coin.
The Future of DeFi
The future of DeFi looks promising, with continuous innovation and growing adoption. As blockchain technology advances and scalability solutions are implemented, DeFi has the potential to disrupt traditional financial systems further. Regulatory clarity and improved security measures will be crucial for the sustainable growth of the DeFi ecosystem.
DeFi is likely to continue attracting attention from both retail and institutional investors, driving further development and integration of decentralized financial services. The flexibility and inclusivity offered by DeFi make it a compelling alternative to traditional finance, paving the way for a more open and accessible financial future.
Conclusion
Decentralized Finance (DeFi) represents a significant shift in the financial landscape, leveraging blockchain technology to create a more inclusive, transparent, and efficient financial system. Despite the challenges, the benefits of DeFi and its continuous innovation make it a transformative force in the world of finance. Notable projects like Uniswap, Aave, and MakerDAO, along with unique contributions from meme coins like Sexy Meme Coin, demonstrate the diverse and dynamic nature of the DeFi ecosystem.
For those interested in exploring the playful and innovative side of DeFi, Sexy Meme Coin offers a unique and entertaining platform. Visit Sexy Meme Coin to learn more and join the community.
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interact-if · 6 months ago
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Black History Month Author Spotlight: Kiki
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Our third edition of the Black History Month Author Spotlight series, features Kiki (@scapegoated-if)!
(I’m rly happy to have gotten to know Kiki better through the feature, and the interview contains really interesting insights on gender and race-locked main characters in interactive fiction, among other things! If you haven’t yet played Scapegoated (and if you’re a fan of Infamous/music IFs, definitely give it a go!)
Author: Kiki Born and raised North London, but ethnic background Jamaican (my parents are a part of the Windrush Gen)
Games: Scapegoated (slice-of-life, music, hollywood, '70s)
Short blurb: Scapegoated is about a female musician in a band that is seguing into an acting career. She is facing a lot of blame and scandal regarding the split between her band that happened in 1968. Not only are a lot of the general public hurt and angry about it, but so is an infamous serial killer that has been terrorising the west coast...
Quotes from the interview
I’m from North London. My parents moved to London when they were children from the Caribbean and are a part of the Windrush generation. I am a black, bisexual woman growing up in the UK, a place that tends to disguise its wider prejudices as a classist issue in all cases. […] A huge part of my love for music is strongly intertwined with my relationship with my late father. He passed away in June of 2023, and he was very much so kickin’ it in the ‘70s. He was a DJ throughout his life, so the legacy of LPs that he left behind was unspeakable and very ‘70s.
Read on for the full interview!
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Tell me more about yourself! What are some things new readers or long-time readers might not know about you?
I graduated from a Russell Group university with an English Literature BA (Hons). I think a part of me has always wanted to be a writer in some capacity; I know that I’ve always wanted to write a book. So, I think beginning this IF has existed for me as a gateway to see what that would be like. I thought of it as a brainteaser–the prospect of exploring different outcomes and different pathways that a character may undertake. It has been challenging, dare I say more challenging than writing an actual book, but that’s exactly what I wanted out of this process.
Can you tell me a bit about what you’re working on right now and your journey into interactive fiction? What inspired the game/story you’re currently writing?
My best friend introduced me to the world of interactive fiction one day last year. She introduced Infamous to me and asserted that I would really like it because I’m a huge music nerd. Of course I fell in love with the characters and the world, but I also fell in love with the format of IFs. 
A huge part of my love for music is strongly intertwined with my relationship with my late father. He passed away in June of 2023, and he was very much so kickin’ it in the ‘70s. He was a DJ throughout his life, so the legacy of LPs that he left behind was unspeakable and very ‘70s. I am a huge music lover with such a wide-spanning eclectic taste, but the period of music post-”Dylan going electric”, post-”Elvis being on the out”, Quincy Jones (rest in king) and Beatlemania is just everything to me, so the idea for Scapegoated came into my life in a very natural way. I knew that whichever story I told, I wanted it to explore the Sunset Strip, groupies, rock ‘n roll, The Beatles, The Manson Family and Cher all at its core. 
I am of the opinion that coverage of the ‘70s music scene has been run into the ground lately. There has been a resurgence of nostalgia within the public consciousness when reflecting upon this time due to Daisy Jones & The Six, which was one of my favourite shows the year it was released. So, including Hollywood and murder was my attempt at innovation.
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How has your identity, heritage/background, upbringing, or personal experiences influenced your storytelling or writing process? OR How does your work feature aspects of your identity / experience?
I’m from North London. My parents moved to London when they were children from the Caribbean and are a part of the Windrush generation. I am a black, bisexual woman growing up in the UK, a place that tends to disguise its wider prejudices as a classist issue in all cases. I am writing Scapegoated as someone that has only been to the US twice for two weeks at a time. I am writing Scapegoated as someone that can only relate to two aspects of my main character. I am writing Scapegoated as someone that has experienced discrimination and has been scarred by instances of discrimination. In university, I tended to be quite outspoken; in my first year, I felt quite ostracised by my predominantly white cohort during the BLM movement, because I seemed to be the only one willing to speak out in favour of it.
When I first wrote Scapegoated, I was inboxed on Tumblr and replied to on the Choice of Games Forum with genuine curiosity about my choice to gender and race lock my protagonist. This is an excerpt of my response:
I didn’t want to have a self-insert MC because I wanted to ensure that the conversations had revolving these social issues and the murders that unfold aren’t danced around. Perspective is an extremely important factor in that, and I want to ensure that the MC is directly involved–rather than just there as things happen because it wouldn’t be interactive. [...] Initially when I planned this story, before it was titled and the only thing I knew was that I wanted to write an IF about the '70s music scene, it was neither gender or race locked [...]. But I did toy with my ideas by self-inserting (I’m a black woman) when I was attempting to figure out the logistics of gameplay. That’s when I realised that due to the time period and all of the change that was happening at the time, social issues had to be discussed.
To this day, I am extremely proud of my decision and the conviction in my decision. I asserted a level of loyalty to the story I am telling in a way that I didn’t know I was capable of; retrospectively, I think I took a kind of power in it. But I really love the story I am telling and the range of representation. 
I am trying to work the line of prioritising my vision, all the while giving weight and importance to my readers’ opinions in the way that these very interesting and thorough opinions deserve. It warms my heart that even one person might care about my characters just as much as I do.
what are some of the most rewarding or challenging aspects of writing Interactive Fiction for you?
Songwriting. I’m tragic at it, but I like to think I’m self-aware enough. There are different characters with different voices and different reasonings behind their songwriting styles. I struggle to ensure that their songwriting oozes with their individual personalities. 
What does your writing process look like? Any rituals or habits? Any tips, tricks, philosophies or approaches that have worked very well for you?
Story beats. However, planning and writing can exist as two entirely different realms to me. What I think the story may be, can develop into something entirely new all on its own once I begin to write. Sometimes characters that I think I know transform into someone entirely new once I start to get to know them through writing their dialogue. I’ve experienced this with several characters already. On the contrary, some characters are so secure in my mind that they can’t be anything other than who I’ve introduced them to myself as.
I really love the writing process I’ve conjured up. It hasn’t failed me yet, but it isn’t secure–writing can never be anything other than an insecure process. Writing, for me, always remains in a constant stage of planning.
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Do you have favourite interactive fiction games, characters, scenes or authors that you’d like to recommend?
I have received a lot of IF recommendations due to how new I am to IFs. I truly haven’t read very many, so all I can recommend to anybody are the 3 IFs that I have read which I each loved enormously: Infamous; College Tennis: Origin Story; and Apartment 502.
If you were to say one thing to your readers, other authors, and/or the interactive fiction community: what would it be?
I only got here in December, and so far everyone has been extremely welcoming and helpful. Honestly, I have no notes. All I can do is encourage everyone to give writing a chance. It’s been so fruitful and rewarding for me, so I strongly urge everyone to give it a shot if you’re considering it. Stop thinking, just do!
Any books, music, movies etc. you’re obsessed with at the moment, or which changed your life (or perspectives on something)?
I’m currently reading I’m With The Band by Pamela Des Barres as research for my IF, which has been a great insight into the mindset of groupies on an intimate level.
As for something that changed my life, I recently watched Sing Sing (2024)--which wasn’t something I did in relation to Scapegoated, I am just an avid film-watcher–and it was such an incredible de-stigmatising eye into the prison system. An extremely important watch for Black History Month, too!
This-or-that segment: (bold = Kiki's pick)
Coffee or tea?
Early mornings or late nights?
City or countryside?
Angsty or Cozy romances? (Or enemies-to-lovers or best-friends-to-lovers?)  
Steady progress or frenzied binge-writing followed by periods of calm?
Summer or Winter?
First drafts or editing?
Introvert or extrovert?
Plotter or pantser?
Characters or plot first?
Kiki’s custom “either-or” pairing: writing in silence or with music playing?
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dandelionsresilience · 7 months ago
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Dandelion News - January 8-14
Like these weekly compilations? Tip me at $kaybarr1735 or check out my Dandelion Doodles!
1. In Chicago, all city buildings now use 100 percent clean power
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“As of January 1, every single one of [Chicago’s municipal buildings] — including 98 fire stations, two international airports, and two of the largest water treatment plants on the planet — is running on renewable energy, thanks largely to Illinois’ newest and largest solar farm.”
2. California Rice Fields Offer Threatened Migratory Waterbirds a Lifeline
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“Cranes need nighttime roosting sites flooded to a depth of about 3 to 9 inches, so they can easily hear or feel predators moving through the water. [... Bird Returns pays] farmers to flood their fields during critical migration periods [... and] provide foraging sites by leaving harvested rice or corn fields untilled, so cranes can access the leftover grain.”
3. New York Climate Superfund Becomes Law
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“[Funds recovered “from major oil and gas companies” will be used to pay for] the restoration of stormwater drainage and sewage treatment systems, upgrades to transit systems, roads and bridges, the installation of green spaces to mitigate city heat islands and even medical coverage and preventative health programs for illnesses and injuries induced by climate change.”
4. Austin says retooled process for opening overnight cold-weather shelters is paying off
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“[... T]he city's moves to lower the temperature threshold to open shelters and announce their activation at least a day in advance were the result of community feedback. [Shelter operators also passed out hot food.]”
5. Helping Communities Find Funding for Nature-Based Solutions
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““From coastal oyster reefs to urban stormwater greenways, nature-based solutions are becoming the new normal.” That’s because these types of projects are often less expensive to build and have additional community benefits, such as improving water quality or creating parkland.”
6. Saving the Iberian lynx: How humans rescued this rare feline from extinction
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“Back in the early 2000s, fewer than 100 individuals roamed the wild, including only 25 reproductive females. [...] Conservation staff [...] shape these cats into resourceful hunters and get them ready for life outside the center. [...] They’re fine-tuning captive-breeding routines, improving veterinary procedures, and pushing for more wildlife corridors.”
7. Biden cancels student loans for 150,000 more borrowers
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“The 150,000 new beneficiaries announced Monday include more than 80,000 borrowers who were cheated or defrauded by their schools, over 60,000 borrowers with total and permanent disabilities and more than 6,000 public service workers[...] bringing the number whose student debt has been canceled during [Biden’s] administration to over 5 million[....]”
8. PosiGen wins another $200M for lower-income rooftop solar
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“PosiGen offers a ​“no credit check” [solar panel installation to] those with a higher percentage of their income going to power and fuel bills[....] “somewhere between 25 and 75 percent” of the consumer’s monthly energy savings could come from efficiency measures such as sealing heating and cooling leaks, replacing thermostats, and installing LED lights[....]”
9. Indigenous communities come together to protect the Colombian Amazon
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“At this year’s COP, Indigenous peoples celebrated the [protection of] traditional knowledge, innovations and practices[... and] the Cali Fund, which ensures that communities, including Indigenous peoples, receive benefits from the commercial use of [...] genetic data derived from the biological resources that they have long stewarded.”
10. How the heartland of Poland’s coal industry is ditching fossil fuels - without sacrificing jobs
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“[Katowice, a former coal city] committed to reducing CO2 emissions by 40 per cent compared to 1990, prioritising investments in green infrastructure, and promoting renewable energy and energy efficiency. [...”]The gradual departure from heavy industry did not bring high social costs in our city,” says Marcin Krupa, Mayor of Katowice City.”
January 1-7 news here | (all credit for images and written material can be found at the source linked; I don’t claim credit for anything but curating.)
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justinspoliticalcorner · 7 months ago
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Jennifer Rubin at The Contrarian:
Corporate and billionaire owners of major media outlets have betrayed their audiences’ loyalty and sabotaged journalism’s sacred mission — defending, protecting and advancing democracy. The Washington Post’s billionaire owner and enlisted management are among the offenders. They have undercut the values central to The Post’s mission and that of all journalism: integrity, courage, and independence. I cannot justify remaining at The Post. Jeff Bezos and his fellow billionaires accommodate and enable the most acute threat to American democracy—Donald Trump—at a time when a vibrant free press is more essential than ever to our democracy’s survival and capacity to thrive. I therefore have resigned from The Post, effective today. In doing so, I join a throng of veteran journalists so distressed over The Post’s management they felt compelled to resign. The decay and compromised principles of corporate and billionaire-owned media underscore the urgent need for alternatives. Americans are eager for innovative and independent journalism that offers lively, unflinching coverage free from cant, conflicts of interest and moral equivocation. Which is why I am so thrilled to simultaneously announce this new outlet, The Contrarian: Not Owned by Anybody. The Contrarian will offer daily columns, weekly features, podcasts and social media from me and fellow pro-democracy contrarians, many of whom have decamped from corporate media, others who were never a part of it. I am launching this endeavor with my cofounder, Norm Eisen. Founding contributors will include Joyce Vance, Andy Borowitz, Laurence Tribe, Katie Phang, George Conway, Olivia Julianna, Harry Litman (who recently resigned from the LA Times for reasons similar to mine for leaving the Post), and Asha Rangappa, among many other brilliant voices. We will provide fearless and distinctive reported opinion and cultural commentary without phony balance, euphemisms or gamified political punditry.
The need for upstart outlets has never been more acute. The contradiction between, on the one hand, the journalistic obligation to hold the powerful accountable and, on the other, the financial interests of billionaire moguls and corporate conglomerates could not be starker. The Post’s own headline last month warned: “Trump signals plans to use all levers of power against the media; Press freedom advocates say they fear that the second Trump administration will ramp up pressure on journalists, in keeping with the president-elect’s combative rhetoric.” And yet The Post’s owner quashed a presidential endorsement for Trump’s opponent, forked over $1M for Trump’s inauguration through Amazon, and publicly lauded Trump’s agenda.
Jennifer Rubin resigned from The Washington Post to co-found The Contrarian. The new outlet will feature great and incisive reporting on the issues of the day without the MAGA or bothsiderist media spin.
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blackstarlineage · 4 months ago
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Blind Consumption of Media That Reinforces Anti-Black Narratives: A Garveyite Perspective
Introduction: The Mental Enslavement of the Black Mind Through Media
From the early days of colonial propaganda, minstrel shows, and racist films to the modern era of reality TV, corporate rap, and biased news outlets, media has been one of the most powerful weapons used against the global Black population. The control of Black narratives by white-owned media conglomerates has shaped how Black people see themselves, each other, and the world around them.
From a Garveyite perspective, the uncritical consumption of media that promotes anti-Black narratives is a form of mental enslavement, designed to:
Keep Black people psychologically dependent on white-controlled narratives.
Promote self-hatred and division among Black communities.
Weaken Black movements for liberation by distracting and pacifying the masses.
The question is: Why do so many Black people willingly consume the same media that dehumanizes, disrespects, and degrades them?
Marcus Garvey’s philosophy of self-determination teaches us that Black people must control their own media, narratives, and cultural production—otherwise, we remain at the mercy of those who seek to destroy us.
1. The Historical Use of Media to Control Black Perception
A. The Origins of Anti-Black Media Narratives
The media has always been used to shape public perception and justify oppression. From the earliest days of slavery, anti-Black imagery was deliberately crafted to:
Depict Africans as savages – justifying slavery and colonial rule.
Promote the "lazy, incompetent Black” stereotype – keeping black people out of leadership roles.
Demonize Black resistance movements – Portraying Black liberation leaders as threats or criminals.
Example: During the Civil Rights and Black Power movements, mainstream media labeled Malcolm X, Marcus Garvey, and the Black Panther Party as “violent extremists” while glorifying non-threatening figures who did not challenge white supremacy.
Key Takeaway: The media is not neutral—its purpose has always been to protect white power and suppress Black advancement.
B. The Role of Hollywood and Music in Anti-Black Propaganda
Hollywood and the music industry have long glorified destructive Black stereotypes, reinforcing ideas that:
Black men are only valuable as athletes, criminals, or entertainers.
Black women are either hypersexualized, aggressive, or unworthy of love.
Black communities are inherently violent, dysfunctional, and poverty-stricken.
Example: The 1915 film "The Birth of a Nation" glorified the Ku Klux Klan and depicted Black men as rapists and criminals, fueling lynch mobs and anti-Black violence.
Key Takeaway: White media does not just reflect reality—it actively creates false realities that justify Black oppression.
2. The Modern Consumption of Anti-Black Media
A. Black People Supporting Media That Degrades Them
Many Black people today blindly consume and even defend media that promotes anti-Black narratives. Examples include:
Mainstream Hip-Hop and Drill Music – Glorifying crime, materialism, misogyny, and self-destruction.
Reality TV Shows – Depicting Black people as ignorant, dramatic, and incapable of healthy relationships.
Biased News Coverage – Only showing Black crime, poverty, and dysfunction while ignoring Black success and innovation.
Example: Many of the top Black celebrities in music and film today make millions reinforcing negative stereotypes, yet Black audiences still support them.
Key Takeaway: When Black people financially support anti-Black media, they are literally paying for their own oppression.
B. The Psychological Effects of Consuming Anti-Black Media
Constant exposure to negative imagery creates mental programming, leading to:
Self-hatred – Many Black people internalize the idea that they are inferior or destined for failure.
Intra-racial division – Promoting colourism, classism, and gender wars within the Black community.
Political passivity – Keeping Black people focused on entertainment and drama rather than activism and self-determination.
Example: Studies show that Black children who consume negative Black imagery develop lower self-esteem and higher rates of depression than those who are exposed to positive representations of blackness.
Key Takeaway: Media is one of the strongest tools of mental control—if you control what a people watch, you control how they think.
3. The Role of Social Media in Reinforcing Anti-Black Narratives
A. The Rise of Self-Destructive Content on Social Media
Social media has amplified anti-Black media consumption by:
Promoting negativity over education – Viral fights, drama, and ignorance receive more attention than Black empowerment content.
Turning trauma into entertainment – Black suffering is frequently turned into memes and jokes, desensitizing people to real issues.
Spreading false narratives – Misleading or divisive content is used to create division within the Black community.
Example: Black trauma is constantly shared online (police brutality videos, fight compilations, and violent crime footage), creating psychological stress while white trauma is rarely shown in mainstream media.
Key Takeaway: Black people must be more intentional about curating their social media feeds to protect their mental well-being and collective consciousness.
4. The Garveyite Solution: Reclaiming Black Media and Narrative Control
A. Black-Owned Media is the Only Solution
The only way to combat anti-Black media narratives is to create and support Black-owned media companies that promote positive, empowering, and truthful representations of Blackness.
Black filmmakers, journalists, and musicians must be funded and elevated so that alternative narratives can compete with white-controlled media.
Black community members must actively boycott and reject media that degrades and devalues Black life.
Example: Marcus Garvey created the Negro World newspaper to spread Pan-Africanism and fight racist propaganda, proving that independent Black media is essential for liberation.
Key Takeaway: If Black people do not control their own media, they will forever be controlled by white narratives.
B. Media Literacy and Conscious Consumption
Black communities must be educated on media literacy, teaching them how to critically analyze and deconstruct harmful narratives.
Parents and educators must be intentional about what Black children watch, ensuring they see positive and empowering images of Black identity.
Conscious Black consumers must demand quality content, supporting media that uplifts rather than degrades Black life.
Example: Black communities should create media literacy workshops, helping people understand the psychological impact of what they consume.
Key Takeaway: It is not enough to reject negative media—we must actively demand and create positive media.
Conclusion: Will Black People Control Their Own Image or Remain at the Mercy of White Media?
Marcus Garvey said:
“We must canonize our own saints, create our own martyrs, and elevate our own heroes.”
Will Black people continue to support media that degrades them, or will they invest in their own media institutions?
Will we consume content passively, or take control of our own narratives?
Will we remain mentally enslaved by white-controlled media, or liberate our minds through Black self-determination?
The Choice is Ours. The Time is Now.
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