#oof that's longer than i anticipated

[quirehappens]

a starter for @kleinstar

Boredom hit like a hunger pang after a full day without a meal, though Quentin's only outward reaction was an exaggerated sigh. His gaze cast around the foyer he was standing in, taking not of the unusual emptiness as he waited for the elevator. Considering Fibonacci's compact and downright bustling environment, the lack of prospective passengers sparked interest.

Turning his head to survey the only other person in the queue, Quentin forwent surreptitious glances in favour of an obvious once-over of the brunet. Unfortunately the stranger's appearance was minimally interesting, however that only made his preemptive planning more tempting.

Once the elevator arrived on their floor and opened up to reveal an empty carriage, Quentin walked in first and waited by the button panel as the other man entered behind him. As soon as the doors closed, he turned to the stranger with a cheeky grin and asked, "You ever been to the two-hundred-fiftieth floor?" His eyebrows waggled up and down. "Do you wanna go now?"

[reginrokkr]

𝐂𝐋. Concerning the previous post, I wanted to make a separate thing focusing on the Khraun-arya spiritual evolution, since, given its resemblance to Khaenri'ah in name, I find relevant for Dain. There are a few interesting points here that I think that have a plausible parallel with actual matters or events that are related to Khaenri'ah:

✧ The root of this evolution stage is split into two possibilities: one being that it's a direct continuation of the previous stage (N)atlantean and the other being that the souls of the Aryan —name given to those that are in the Khraun-arya evolution stage— are significantly older and that they incarnated the bodies of the Atlanteans which, in turn, rose from a subrace of the Lemurian.

While this isn't entirely 1:1 with what we know thus far in Genshin (unless more comes to pass that can be connected better with this), we know of the existences of beings such as Durin and Elynas whose lives didn't begin with the conception of physical bodies by Rhinedottir, but at an undetermined time prior back when they existed as immaterial souls in the bleak Abyss.

✦ This race is said to have been created by one of the most important Masters of the Ancient Wisdom, which are liberated beings that live in the etheric plane of the world.

This lacks a more in-depth parallel than the previous one, yet the knowledge part is highly suiting the society of Khaenri'ah, that counted with a vast knowledge that included what happened in the nations presided by Archons (and classified as forbidden knowledge, not to mistake as Forbidden Knowledge), dragons and matters of the Abyss however accurate or biased the latter were, as the Universitas Magistrorum is said to instrumentalize knowledge and twist it to Khaenri'ah's needs.

✧ They are described as being moon-colored.

This one is a favorite of mine that has me excited, as I tend to describe Dain as having moon-like beauty which, at the same time, is also associated with Nabu Malikata —goddess and seelie survivor—, hence with angelic themes that are connected to the seelies. Furthermore, there is also a race described in the Pale Princess and the Six Pygmies that lives in the Moonlight Forest kingdom and are said to have fair skin color, light-colored hair and bright blue eyes due to the lack of sunlight and for the nourishment of the moonlight. Ironically, this kingdom is described to be close to the Land of Night presided by the Night Mother, which could potentially be the Abyss. This might be a parallel to Khaenri'ah itself being close to the Abyss given some of its people's obsession with it and the fact that they could harness its energy as a source of energy to power the automatons and possibly the rest of the kingdom after abandoning the energy of the Ley Lines that was used before using the Abyss.

✦ Part of the race founded the City of the Sun.

Not much to say about this other than the resemblance with the Darksun / Eclipse dynasty that were one of the royals known in Khaenri'ah (I say one and not the as it is a dynasty and there could've existed more throughout the millennia since Khaenri'ah's existence).

✧ The ongoing evolution of this race is connected with divine's influence (the Lord of the World to be specific, which could be Phanes).

While ironic if we think about Khaenri'ah being an anti-gods nation, they worship the Abyss as one would a god and potentially a Black Serpent too, from which the royal guards would take their name after (while it's undetermined who this serpent is, a good candidate could be Ouroboros given its ties to alchemy and perhaps Irminsul too, as well as being a cosmic serpent and the Abyss being implied to be the cosmos at times, visual similarities aside). Moreover, it is safe to say that as they were part of the unified civilization, early Khaenri'ahns could be considered to be "primordial humans" in the sense that they are closer to what the first humans Phanes created were like, thus their bond with the divine regardless of how proud or not they are for that (whether this is what punctuates a higher purity of "Khaenri'ahn" blood or not, there is some sort of pride in that as there was an existent distinction between pure-blood Khaenri'ahns and those who are not).

✦ They are described as possessing an inexplicable intellectual level in comparison to other races / subraces, possessing a sacred spark.

Sans the sacred spark, this is self-explanatory as the Khaenri'ahns achieved feats that even gods replicated later on and even 500 years later, their technology is still unmatched for a great part (albeit potentially contested by Fontaine's, as it seems to have some resemblance to Khaenri'ah's down to the use of the pneumousia phenomenon, part of which could be linked to the Abyss).

✧ They were created before cataclysms to have and, are subjected to the destruction of the "failures of nature" and rise of a higher race in the future.

Tragic as this is, we have encountered instances in which the creatures of the Abyss such as Abyss Mages, Heralds, Lectors and the Iniquitous Baptist are considered transcendent ones, thus there seems to be a connotation of "betterment" in comparison to normal humans, specially if we're to take Jakob as an example of Neo Human whose alternative form is that of an Iniquitous Baptist, and René and Carter as Narzissenkreuz (each of them under different circumstances).

Lastly, but not least, it is said that the final stage of human spiritual evolution in Genshin is the freedom from the gods. This is what seems to be the course the story will take with themes of defying gods, the world and the fate, which the gods control.

[loslentesdepedrito]

Hi,

Hope you're doing okay! I was wondering if there will be new chapters for I'm your wife. I love that story and I'm anxiously waiting for the mext chapters!

Have a good weekend!

Sweet anon,

I apologize for the delayed response. It's been a while since I last logged into my account, but I wanted to address your message first. Unfortunately, I contracted COVID and have been in the process of recovering. Apart from being busy with life (🥲), my creative juices were just not flowing for the CH 5 graphic.

Before falling sick, I invested the majority of my spare time creating the graphic for 4K (it's a trio between Javi P/Reader/Tim R). As of five minutes ago, I finally finished the graphic! I still need to add some finishing touches, like the summary and warnings. My goal is to have it ready by Friday night EST - well, currently, EDT, I suppose.

I sincerely appreciate everyone's ongoing presence and support here. I'll be back later!

[cherry-titz]

HI GUYS @cherryjuiceblues here ! oof, this took me longer than i anticipated to finish, and for that i am sorry, friends! this is my installment to mine and @1800titz first collab :D if you haven't already read part one, written by titz herself, then you can do so here !!

some warnings before you read! following on from part one, this is dark harry. some very dark themes going on. and once again, as miss titz previously stated, harry is simply a faceclaim here. there is absolutely no intention to associate the real harry with this fictitious one !!

content warnings include: dom/sub themes, exhibitionism, light spanking/impact play, choking, name-calling, degradation, praise, threats of intending to cause harm (hitchhikerry is not a good man at all). generally, he's a bit meaner in this one!

word count is just under 11k (both of us had aimed to write a short and snappy 6-7k each but here we are LMAO) !! ENJOY :D

This bathroom is filthy. The slanted mirror swirls a little, in a thick, hypnotic puddle, as Y/N stares at the smeared reflection before her.

A new low, perhaps—this night, for Y/N (only competing with one other evening that springs to mind). In an unloved bar, in a dingy bathroom, fingers digging into grimy porcelain that no amount of suds from the muddy bar of soap could clean. (And, really—whose idea was it to have bars of soap in a public place?) Clenching digits in an attempt to wake up some from the wave of paranoia that skittered across her skin in the public eye of the bar.

Y/N swears her pupils fluctuate as she grounds herself in them. Recollects herself in this pigsty of an establishment. Forces some of the alcohol to evaporate off of her in waves as she sobers up to the thought of piss-stained tiles and sticky toilet seats.

Y/N doesn’t drink alone.

But she didn’t do hitchhikers either and look where that got her.

In a shithole—that’s where. In a shithole, on her lonesome, on a Monday night of all nights. Argued to be the worst day of the week to wake up, go to school, work—and most relevantly—get drunk. But she’d considered it important to force herself out—to maintain control over her actions whether they be sensible or not. It was rather unimportant to Y/N what day of the week it was. They’d sort of all merged into one since receiving the phone call—every day reduced to the same thoughts tick, tick, ticking inside of her head. Hours spent ping-ponging back and forth over every moment in which her life could have ended inside of that car.

She’d tried since; to phone him back. Each time met with the denying wall of a payphone. Y/N almost grew comforted by that failure—that safety of knowing no one would ever answer—until rationality kicked in and she blocked the number. A small, tiny ounce of power to hold.

And there’s a part of her, still, that doesn’t quite believe it. That surely friendly Harry—adorned in his soft sweatshirt, with his dimpled cheeks and yellow nails—could have only been laughing with his friends, all huddled around his phone that blasted on speaker, at the successful spooking of an unassuming girl. Despite the fact of all the evidence stacking up against him—that she’d heard only his breaths, only his voice, and the undeniable dead of night surrounding him. She needn’t even ponder over the possibility to accept it—lone stranger on the side of the road, in the dead of night, sleeping at a motel, so eager to manhandle and encourage Y/N’s struggle—

The door clatters, and then a body pushes it open, the heavy wood resisting some and disguising Y/N’s flinch at the sudden intrusion. She clears her throat, turning the tap on and pretending to wash her hands as she meets the eyes of a woman in the mirror, a small weak smile upturning Y/N’s lips, before she disappears inside a cubicle.

She’s retraced every single moment of that night. Looking back with shame and humiliation. Because (and it’s pointless to waste even a second on it now but) how silly—how stupid—does someone have to be; how lacking in common sense or respect for one’s self, to pick up a stranger on the side of the road. Harry was right to scold her over the phone, no matter the irony of it all. She might as well have served herself up on a platter for him to take. So easy, he’d said. 

So easy it hadn’t been fun, is all Y/N can assume.

The broken seal of the door reminds her of the outside world, shaking her head—an attempt to rattle her thoughts into submission, to collect herself and focus on the surface level image of her reflection. To remember the facts. That she looks pretty. Pretty and put-together—and ready to drown more of her sorrows in another cocktail mixed with her chosen spirit.

It’s as quiet as it was before Y/N slipped into the bathroom, a handful of lonely men scattered on opposite ends of the bar—the occasional group huddled around a table—or a couple sprawled against a sofa. The wall-mounted television has been switched on, subtitles an obnoxious fluorescent yellow as the news captures the attention of few desolate drinkers. Y/N doesn’t notice the extra body occupying a high-top table nearest to the bar, her back turned towards them, as she makes herself (comfortable would be an exaggeration) settled once again on a rickety, wooden stool.

She doesn’t notice. Not until she orders a Cosmopolitan and twists her clutch onto her lap, opening the zipper’s teeth, fingers pinching the familiar edge of her card just enough for it to peek past the confines, and is hastily denied by the bartender. He shakes his head, hands busy as he mixes her drink, nodding in some direction behind her as he says, “Gentleman over there paid for it.”

And that… that can’t be right. Gentle and man are two respected words in their own right but together? Y/N’s spine straightens and her muscles tighten. There’s no way she could know, but somehow she does—shutting her eyes, expelling a breath in preparation—as she twists around on her stool to see the man who she invited into her sedan all those days ago. There was nothing gentle about that night.

Or so she found out.

And he looks… the same. Of course he does.

Same chocolate-swirled curls brushing against the unperturbed smoothness of his forehead. Same strong line of his nose, same hard clench of his jaw dusted in scruff that she’d let him brush against her face as they’d kissed. Same plush lips that purse around the rim of a tumbler, cheekbones sharp as he tips his head back enough to allow the cool liquid to slick down his throat. Same rough, sinewy fingers—the subdued yellow of his nails (so far along the spectrum from the blinding fluorescence of the television subtitles) now chipped in a way that suggests it’s fashionable as opposed to scruffy.

All the same features and yet Y/N can’t help but picture them in a new, scathing light—those soft tendrils matted with thick, dark blood, splatters dripping down his temple and beading at his chin. Blush-tinted lips curled up in a sinister, satisfied smile—chilling enough to slow the blood in Y/N’s veins—and those hands; his fingers that had previously delivered so much pleasure, wrapping around the handle of a sharpened blade with the intent to inflict more than she could have bargained for—no sunshine yellow in sight. 

And the morbid image is hardly helped by the baggy garments that swallow his limbs, grey sweats and black hoodie selling one of two different visuals. Either that of a cosy boyfriend or a looming presence on a dimly lit street, late at night. Y/N’s brain opts for the latter.

Harry meets Y/N’s gaze with confidence—if he is surprised, or displeased, or worried by her presence then it shows none on his face. She watches the tick of his throat as he swallows the remainder of what looks like whiskey, before carelessly sliding the glass across the table in which he is slouching away from with arrogance, to meet its other empty friend as they clink together. His posture suggests complete ease—the sort of position you would take on a deep-set sofa—an ankle slung across a knee, an elbow propped behind you. Perhaps the type of arrogance only the person who had admitted their desire to murder you could have.

She blinks at him, unable to startle back around in fear. Not in order to preserve any sort of upper hand—but from a complete lack of said immediate panic; that fight or flight response. She blinks as she sees the screen of her phone behind her eyelids; as she sees every unanswered call she dialled to that payphone. The ringing in her ear as she waited, and waited, and waited.

The reminiscence, the amusement in his tone—that switched as though controlled by one—to disappointment and disdain, to deliver a warning with such severity that only left Y/N with more questions. Why wait an entire week to call? Why tell her about his intention? How many times had he killed before? Why didn’t he kill her?

“—Police have found what they believe to be the body of twenty-five-year-old Ruby Wilcox…” Y/N doesn’t know why this specific statement is deemed salient enough to shove it’s way past all the other droning noise and embed itself deep within her head—but it is. As though Ruby Wilcox is her own name, Y/N feels a pit of dread churning around inside of her stomach, twisting and turning in a true derivation of discomfort, as she peers around to acknowledge that she’s heard correctly, skimming the subtitles with grave trepidation. The journalist goes on, “...reported missing six days ago…” but Y/N already feels as though she’s heard the story.

She turns back towards Harry, unsure as to why it feels necessary to do so—the moment their eyes met the first time, she should have bolted. Harry’s already looking at her, as though his eyes have never trailed away, and it’s telling—the quirk of his lips. The way his tongue darts out to wet them and he can’t contain the small bracket that they form into.

His left eye flutters closed in a wink as new droning voices of monotonous news presenters burrow deeper and deeper into Y/N’s skin. The fear is undeniable. It aches deep inside the marrow of her bones; a lingering, languishing throbbing that can only be attributed to embedded dread. But if Y/N can’t deny that she hasn’t run for the hills then she also can’t deny the way the fear dances atop her skin like little bolts of lightning. Displacing the panic with a desperate flush of rage—a desire for violence to be met with violence—in a less than chaste way.

The danger—it… excites her, it challenges her. To know why, and how, to learn the extent of what spared her life. To take more. It feels reckless; almost demanding of death. It feels belittling, and demeaning, and like everything every girl is ever taught not to do. Could Y/N really justify endangering her life for the perversity of something as insignificant as body-slumping sex? Could she ever look herself in the eye again?

…Did it matter?

It doesn’t seem to when Harry suddenly stretches his arms out above his head, cracking the bones from his strenuous period of sitting down, and pushes himself up from the creaking, groaning chair. It seems as though the decision is made for Y/N when she bolts to follow him without a second thought. Or she bolts in her mind—her body delivers a much more convincing performance of nonchalance—seemingly casual as she sifts through her clutch in a faux check of inventory.

And then, when Harry’s broad back faces her for long enough, weaving his way towards the steel door of the back entrance—that’s when Y/N jumps down from her stool, downs the entirety of her drink and relishes in the warmth that blossoms in her chest, and leaves the bar.

The heavy door screams on its hinges, slamming shut with a reverberating bang. Y/N peers left down the alleyway, dim light from a distant streetlamp casting shadows across gravel—

“Sneaky little thing.”

Y/N startles, whipping around to see her stranger (surprised but not understandably by logic) as he mutters, “No self-preservation.” Effortlessly cool, leaning against the exterior of the bar—rough brick undoubtedly frigid and scratchy. His jaw works incessantly, clearly nursing a flavour of gum that he can only just have popped into his mouth—and disgust gurgles in Y/N’s stomach at the sight of his demeanour—unsettling yet titillating, all the same.

“Y’following me?” he pushes forward off of the wall, height suddenly looming as his lip curls into a simper much less pleasant than that of the man she’d met last week. Though it fails to feel threatening, her mouth still runs dry, now faced with the opportunity to say… anything—to ask, demand, accuse to her heart’s content—but she… she can’t, too inundated by the possibilities as her brain splutters and jolts like an empty engine.

When Y/N doesn’t answer, Harry’s mouth crooks up, pulling back to reveal a deceptively pretty smile—before he purses his lips to blow a cool stream of breath directly into Y/N’s face. Her nose crinkles as the conspicuous scent of peppermint forces its way, no doubt into her brain—to associate peppermint with him for the rest of her life—may it be long or considerably shorter after tonight. “Minty fresh,” Harry smiles around a chew, impishly delighted by Y/N’s scowl. “Wha’s the matter? Don’t like peppermint?”

Sure—yes, sure, she likes peppermint but what level of absurdity— A humourless bark of a laugh fizzles between them, Y/N unable and unwilling to ignore the fatuity of the situation. Y/N could say so much, but it seems she chooses, “I prefer bubblegum,” clearing her throat to ignore the waver in her voice.

Harry nods earnestly—as though her taste in confectionery holds the same gravity as that of an embarrassing truth or a confession of crisis—jaw flexing on its hinges, “Mm, makes sense. Little—” his arm reaches out, finger uncurling to brush a knuckle against a loose strand of her hair, “bubblegum princess,” and Y/N wonders if he might be a little insane, body tight as the distance between them lessens. Distance that could only be described as valuable in such a situation, with such a person.

It strikes Y/N now, the difference in his temperament—gone is the charm of a man brimming with polite conversation to show his gratitude towards her—in his place stands the one who spewed filth inside the confines of her sedan. Shameless, smug, awash with a handful of complexes, she’s now sure.

Despite the blast of fresh air and biting peppermint encouraging sobriety, dregs of intoxication still prevalently linger in Y/N’s bloodstream. That boost of liquid courage she needs to say what she does, to be reminded of that vehement anger, and to ignore the pounding of her heart—the way it begs and pleads with her to go back inside—as her foot takes her a step forward. Her voice drops to a whisper as she tilts her head up, now intimately close, “Do you still think my eyes are pretty?”

And Harry laughs—the sound forced from his lungs as he fails to conceal amusement. “Christ, no shame…” he pauses, eyes darting back and forth between Y/N’s falsely confident ones, “‘f course I do, I meant everything I said... Everything.”

It’s those words that drive home the reality of the situation; a clear confession, a clear joy to remember—“I was going to kill you that night. Thought about draining the life from those pretty eyes the second you rolled your window down.”

Y/N’s tether to sanity unravels, hanging on by a mere thread as she throws her hands in front of her wildly. “I let you inside my fucking car!” The fury finally weaponised, despite the whiny defiance of her tone, that is only further fuelled by Harry’s wry smile, growing and growing. It sets something alight in Y/N; the defeating realisation of a true psychopath before her. Nothing she could say would allow sympathy to seep into his bones. 

Not that she demanded sympathy. What good would an apology do? An apology for what… scaring her? Disturbing her so deeply to her core that life felt bathed—drowned—in danger? The only real, tangible thing Harry had done to her was have sex with her and that— That was nothing to apologise for, no matter the embarrassment to admit as such.

So why… bother… Why bother to fight when he smells so inviting and the warmth of his body yearns to take the chill off of hers?

Harry dips down—peppermint again, mixed with the same pleasant cologne from the night he tainted her backseats, that had blotted itself in her memory unknowingly—eyes boring into her own. “You did more than that, pet,” an effort to get the words out without scoffing, “You let me fuck you inside your car. Begged me—”

She shoves demurely at his chest, coils of heat tightening at the memory, causing only the slightest of stumbles as Harry grips her hand to his chest and tugs her with him “—pleaded me—for it, in fact.” His breath fans across her face; close enough to still be warm and pebble her cheeks with goosebumps. Her lashes flutter innocuously—the perfect picture of doe-eyed and yet she has no intention behind it.

Y/N’s face is warm with the alcohol coursing underneath her skin and the tingling of Harry’s air dusted across it, that jacket of heat the only thing bracing her against the whipping breeze against her bare legs. Naturally, if it wasn’t for the existence of Harry, Y/N would feel perfectly content right now. Tipsy but not detrimentally so—surfing along the wave of intoxication with only an occasional plunge beneath the bracing waters. She feels good like this, most of the time. She feels confident, and sexy, and free of all of life’s burdens.

But now one of life’s more recent burdens is standing in front of her, simmering smile surely on the verge of snapping. Y/N wonders what she might do in order to make that happen—so be it, if that puts herself at risk. There's no such thing as risk when you’re a drink or two down. The anger feels subdued, the fear feels subdued—something in the back of her mind convincing Y/N of some faux sense of safety—however real or fake it may be.

“Didn’t you?” Harry nudges, sly fingertips catching her off guard as they tap sequentially against the curve of her waist, gently—subtly—manoeuvring Y/N’s body to rest against the harsh stone. She hardly realises she’s moving, too honed in on the whispering taunt of Harry’s voice.

Yes. She did.

But she doesn’t care to focus on that anymore—she doesn’t care to play the regretful part. Y/N has moved onto bigger and better things. She tilts her chin up, defiant in nature, as her tone takes on that of a snarky assertion, “How—how were you g’na do it? Tell me.” 

It doesn’t seem as though Harry needs a reminder; he knows what she’s referring to. He knows and he shows zero interest in humouring it—her perverse request. Tapping fingers trail their way up, up, up until they’re cradling her collarbones, vast palm spread out across her chest. 

He plays gentle, unknowing, as he shushes her, “It doesn’t matter…” he murmurs, hand slipping higher still until his long fingers can curl and wrap around her throat, the first indication of the whiskey having its desired effect clear when his eyelids flutter and syllables threaten to merge.

He doesn’t squeeze and it’s disturbingly unforeseen—the hold in which he keeps her in without pressure. But it’s not enough, and Y/N’s not satisfied with such an answer. No matter the desperation to surge forward and kiss him messily, or the eagerness to find out whether he’ll explore her mouth again or degrade her for his pleasure, Y/N doesn’t budge.

“Tell me,” she insists, voice teetering on the edge of too loud in the soulless alleyway. Her fist comes up in a weak thud against his chest, unable to display any other sort of physicality. “How were you gonna kill me, Harry—?” Her breath catches as he digs his fingers into the side of her throat—finally satisfied to see the edge of that smirk wiped off of his face. Piercing green holds her in place, sneer dominating her vision.

“Shut up—”

“When you were cumming inside me—?” 

“—Shut the fuck up.”

Y/N wheezes when he squeezes even harder, mouth dropping open in a masochistic smile—eyes half-lidded as the blood fights its way to her brain. The warmth of Harry’s palm against the column of her neck presses just as hard, taunting and tormenting her airways—daring her to breathe.

“What—did you—” a second of respite in which he loosens his grip, as Y/N inhales as much as her little lungs can take, “do to that—woman?”

He scoffs at her—almost annoyed that she would care enough to ask—that he even has to waste his energy thinking about it. “I didn’t fuck her if that’s what you’re worried about,” serrated ice in his tone, freezing over when he spits out, “sweetheart.” No attempt at denial, no reassurance of his innocence—just. I didn’t fuck her.

It comes barrelling out; the provocation, “Had to get your fix somewhere else, then,” Y/N accuses, swallowing underneath the weight of his hand. “Didn’t kill me so you had to hurt poor Ruby Wilcox, didn’t you?”

“—Don’t play detective, pet,” he expertly deflects, squeezing harder—disguising any sort of discomfort with the quirk of his lips, “it doesn’t suit you. Much preferred it when you were dumb around my fingers, barking f’me like a good girl. D’you remember that?”

Very well. Too well. Even still after learning the truth, Y/N had remembered it in great detail. “Why didn’t you kill me?” she whispers, numb now to the pads of his digits and the way they demand bruising against the delicate skin of her neck. Pointed indentations to aggravate with her own pressing fingers (assuming she lives long enough for them to form).

“Maybe I just wanted another taste,” Harry admits, eyes clear—surprisingly sincere despite the vulnerability of such a claim. “Maybe I wanted to hear about more of your bad dates—”

“—It wasn’t a date—”

“Maybe…” and Y/N starts to doubt that earnest expression, “maybe I got off on the idea of ruining something—of leaving this kind, sweet, generous girl… with something real to cry about.”

Something real? Something real?

“Why me?” She’s not kidding herself; there’s nothing special or unique that might have altered years and years of Harry’s personal psychology—but maybe, just maybe—Y/N might be given something to help her sleep a little better at night. A reason; valid or not, just something to roll around in the palm of her hands until she could make sense of it.

She’s granted no such thing.

“You stopped the car, Y/N,” he drawls in such a casual tone, sounding the same as the man who had told her his name, debated the importance of the rules of Uno, and breathed a sincere wish that she got home safe. “You let me in. I had nothing to do with it,” Harry promises. But it’s not a friendly promise, nor a reassuring one. It’s an assertion that leaves no room for interpretation, a cold, hard fact that can never be dissected. And unfortunately for Y/N, the fact of the matter remains that this is all her fault.

Cold fingers curl into the front of his hoodie, material scrunching between her digits. Harry tuts, “Hands off,” but Y/N only grips him tighter—knuckles tensing as she urges him closer towards her body by the baggy fabric. (When she’s sober she might berate herself for pushing him the wrong way.)

It’s discernible; Harry’s distaste—eyes sharpening as they slice into her own. He takes matters into his own hands, forcibly removing hers from his front and squeezing the delicate bones of her wrists as he presses them, less than gently, into the harsh bricks.

“Not so obedient today, are we?” Their hips dare to meet, twitches and nudges teasing the inevitable. Y/N can’t disguise the way she bucks a little, thin dress waiting to be bunched and moulded by bigger hands. She knows what he feels like—and it’s impossible not to yearn for it.

Her words are airy—breathless from no exertion—heartbeat drumming in her chest with anticipation. “I assumed you…liked a struggle.”

“I do,” Harry hums, a smile edging back onto his face, as he dips down enough for his breath to kiss her ear, “...but where’s my easy little stray gone?” he pouts, leaning back to tilt his head in a way that suggests simple curiosity. “Girl I met two weeks ago was already open wide f’me by now… Wanna show me your tongue again, pet?”

And it’s juvenile—but Y/N isn’t sober and neither is Harry—when she sticks it out in a way similar to that of a snotty toddler as opposed to the languid reveal she gave him in her car. She pokes it out and scrunches her nose, almost amusing herself in the process. In what is a ridiculous display of immaturity that far from pleases Harry.

He grunts, “Yeah, that’s funny,” patting the side of her face. Hard. Not a slap but something that makes her cheek tingle and her jaw loosen. Even more so when Harry’s fingers squeeze either side and manhandle her face left and right—moving her as he pleases and reveling in the dipping of her eyebrows and the rounding of her eyes. It’s pathetic, really, how quickly she can be reduced to insignificance with just a little pawing.

But he underestimates her ever so slightly. She’s not quite finished it seems, when—through the mush of her mouth—she gurgles, “Are y’gonna kill me this time?”

The amusement that dances so often in Harry’s eyes fizzles out once more. “Shut up, Y/N,” he shoves closer, the blushing tip of his nose daring to brush against her bridge. “Don’t make me say it again.”

She practically preens, rocking up onto the tips of her toes, forcing their chill-bitten skin to brush. “Or what? You’ll make me?” The question floats between them like a perilous snowflake, not for long enough before she jeers, “How you g’na do it? You’ll finally get to watch th—”

Harry’s had enough of her voice, surging forward, desperately capturing the end of Y/N’s exhalation and coalescing it with his own. It’s rough, and it’s dirty—his fingers still controlling every purse of Y/N’s lips—hips finally clashing in a grinding of bones. He lets go of her face, encompassing hands tugging through her hair as he holds the back of her head. The only gesture of comfort he grants her away from the wall; not for long before those same fingers roam and dishevel—nails pinching just on the side of too hard.

Every subconscious twitch of her own fingers has Harry alert—any attempt of Y/N’s made to touch him in exchange meets her swift return of each wrist pinned to either side of her head—knuckles brushing sharp bumps of brick. A small noise seeps out of her mouth and into his own, vibrating against his lips and reducing Harry to a deep, acknowledging sigh.

They’re uncoordinated; desperation dominating precision and finesse. Laboured exhalations blanket their cheeks, noses squished and lips swollen. Harry’s hands float back up to her face, pressing coolly against the sides, spanning the entirety as his thumbs bracket their mouths. He holds her like he wants to consume her—crawl inside her skin, swallow her down—tongue boldly stroking against her own in contrastingly lazy flicks. A dizzying enmeshment of fast and slow, hard and soft.

Y/N’s neck aches from the angle in which she’s forced to meet Harry’s mouth, strong palms nearly pulling her off of her toes as he cups her cheeks with almost too much chivalry, too much romance. It would be all too easy to forget his confession, encompassed in his warmth, his scent—too easy to pretend it didn’t matter.

She sinks her teeth into his bottom lip, pulling back as they clamp and opening her eyes just enough to watch the flesh snap back into place. There’s no time to smile with sadistic glee before Y/N’s head is yanked back by the roots of her hair, slender fingers wrapped in tendrils and tugging. Hard. A gasp is ripped from the back of her throat, cold and sharp against her tonsils. And Harry gets to experience the twitch of his lips and the amusement of winning as Y/N’s back bends to accommodate the sudden stretch of her neck. 

He peers down at her parted lips, the slight tension in her brows from the strain, and her heavy arms that slowly droop down against the wall. Small clouds of mist pass between them—the cold air kissing their recycled breaths—soaking in the chill the longer they stay outdoors. The stray street light bounces off of one side of Harry's back, casting a glowing outline around his body as he blocks Y/N in against the wall. The irony of such an image. She shuffles her feet atop the gravel, aching from lack of movement—twitching when a thick thigh nudges its way between her own—soft sweatpants stroking her naked skin.

“Bite me again, sweetheart…” Harry taunts, voice scarily steady, “see what happens.”

A choked laugh escapes from Y/N’s chest, forced through her open mouth. A delightful invitation. She pushes as far up on her toes as she can manage, pulling against the force of Harry’s hand—reaching as far as his chin before she eases the tension. He smirks down at her, wandering fingers teasing the hem of her dress as his thigh warms between hers.

“Pity I don’t get to rip another pair of little tights,” he tuts, trailing a digit up the inside of her knee. “Trying to make the old men happy tonight, were we?” tugging at the material, tight against the tops of her thighs. “Hoping one of them might take you to the bathroom and let you call him Daddy.” He tuts again, “How sad.”

“Would you have?” she pouts, eyes bright with mirth. “Let me call you Daddy?”

“Would I have let you? Would I have given you permission? I don’t think so, pet.” He squishes her cheeks together again—demeaning, degrading—leaning back down to ghost his mouth across her puckered lips. “I don’t think you deserve to call me anything at all.”

Her lungs are tight; desperate for more than just a shallow inhale through her nose, borrowed from another. He’d slowly, ever so slowly, meshed their mouths together once more—stopping her from replying with anything other than a scalding kiss, tongues overlapping in an erotic embrace.

But Y/N finds herself impatient—and Y/N falls short in the realm of manners, greedy hands sneaking down when she gets the chance—palming at the thick outline through Harry’s sweatpants.

“Ah—ah, hands off,” he echoes, fingers tugging at her scalp again, forcibly expelling the breath from her lungs. “Ask nicely. I know you know better than that.”

“I do,” she pants, lips tingling with the imprint of Harry’s own. “I don’t think psychos…deserve nicely.” A dangerous blow. One he doesn’t take lightly—one that makes Y/N think she’s hit a nerve when he grits out his next command, jaw tight and eyes stormy.

“Turn around. You’re pissing me off,” not granting her the option to do so herself before his spanning hands are forcing her waist in a squirming prod until her front meets the wall. She wants to push back but Harry is consuming all the space behind her, chest expanding against her shoulder blades. The heat against her ass is dizzying, tunnelling all of her thoughts to places dissolute.

Harry spits his next words, anger palpable, “Fuckin’ brat,” pulling her against his crotch by the small of her waist. Y/N gasps, ears momentarily filled with nothing but white noise. “I let you go and the universe brought us back together, isn’t that something?” A pause; clearly waiting for her snarky response but he gets nothing. She’s too overtaken by the buzzing between her thighs. “I thought so,” he sighs, “but you’re being such a little bitch tonight.”

A pathetic whine crawls its way out of her downturned lips, wisping between them like a sad trail of smoke. Her head feels thick, like she wants to let it fall back and rest upon Harry’s shoulder. What was she annoyed about again? It feels futile. 

The harsh emphasis of ‘bitch’ echoes in her ears about five beats after he’s gritted it out. And it burns deep within her abdomen, a searing coalescence of shame and arousal. “...Not a bitch,” she mumbles, eyes fluttering closed as her hands brace against the wall—willing herself to stay upright; to focus on anything but the heavy bump against her backside. But it is futile, because the insult doesn’t land the way it’s supposed to—it doesn’t upset or offend—and that’s when it becomes clear to Harry that the wall is crumbling. That his charm remains absolute.

“Oh, baby,” he coos, voice lathering her skin like thick globules of honey, “still so easy,” lips kissing the shell of her ear as his breath seeps into her hair, coating and warming. “My little bitch, how about that? Do you like the sound of that?”

She wants to shake her head but it’s too heavy, clogged with the fog of Harry’s voice—every nerve tingling as he glides his palms over her hips and down… across her pelvis and curling around the edge of her dress, teasing it, bunching it up just enough to dance his digits over her mound. Y/N’s hips twitch in anticipation, giving away what her words don’t say.

“Y’want my fingers…” an electrifying brush over her clothed clit, “here?” She exhales a shaky breath, trying to push back into him—it’s the only thing she can do, with her fingernails threatening to dig into stone and her forehead sure to come away with its imprint. Her heartbeat throbs between her thighs and a swallowed whimper seeps out of her mouth. “Got to hear you say it, pet. Say you want me to play with your hot, little cunt.”

“Mhm,” is all Y/N can manage, hoping—praying—that for once it might be good enough.

It’s not.

“Mhm,” Harry echoes, the pressure on her clit disappearing and the bulge nudging against her ass harder. Y/N pushes back—Harry pushes forward. A cant of his hips and a teasing reveal of more and more of her skin, the skirt of her dress manipulated high enough to brush across the small of her back and reveal the breadth of her underwear; less salacious than the purple thong Harry had admired previously. A soft white cotton and frilly pink decorating the hem.

“These are sweet, pet,” he mumbles. But it doesn’t fill her chest with warmth; it fills her with trepidation—waiting for the other shoe to drop—for Harry to tear them or rip them, defile them or taint them. But he never does. He doesn’t do anything aside from stroke his thumb across the hem of her panties, up and along the seam. Y/N exhales, trying to sway her hips in order to sway him but it seems he needs no persuasion.

“I’m waiting,” he scorns—much to Y/N’s distaste. Because waiting is not a luxury that either of them can afford right now. Time… Privacy… Two valuable assets that are not provided by the dimly lit alleyways between dingy bars and the rest of the population. The steel door barely a metre beside Y/N could swing open at any point—revealing a disgruntled worker tired after a long shift—or an impatient pedestrian could decide to try their luck exploring a shortcut and happen upon their preoccupied bodies. And surely there must be a view from a window somewhere, anywhere.

So Y/N says what she knows he wants to hear. “Please,” a whisper—unpossessing of the desperation Harry often desires. But she’s not finished. “Please. Please play with my— my…” his fingers drag down across the gusset, prodding at her fluttering hole through the thin material that’s far from dry. A motivating caress that wobbles Y/N’s voice, “—M-my hot, little cunt.”

Shame bathes in her skin, cheeks blooming with an imprudent heat. But Harry laughs at her compliance, no matter how pathetic or meek. He thuds the width of his fingers over her clit suddenly, Y/N’s knees buckling with the unforeseen impact but Harry grips onto her waist, holding her against the warm wall of his body as his fingers push at her underwear. 

The wetness is embarrassing, thick and glossy through the cotton. Harry seems to take pride in it, spending too long nudging his fingers over the slick at her hole instead of focusing where they both know Y/N wants. And then a slip to the side, fingertips prodding at the flimsy hem—manoeuvring it over and out of the way, just enough for the shame to coat his skin.

They’re cold against the radiating heat from between her thighs, pulsing and rolling in waves throughout her insides. A jolt; a twitch, the width of Harry’s chest against her back.

“Hold them—fuck, you’re sopping—hold them f’me,” he instructs, Y/N’s shaking fingers obliging before they even know what for, slinking down the front of her body and shucking the gusset of her panties aside enough for Harry’s liking, “Y’always get this wet or is it just f’me?”

And Harry must know the answer—well acquainted with her pussy once before—asking the questions he knows will satisfy him most. “Jus’ you.” A pathetic admission—even more so when Y/N realises it’s not even a lie.

She’s never been more sure of something. Not by her own hand, not by another cock; never has she been so ruined. “No wonder everyone you fuck bores you.” 

Yeah… she had insinuated that—she’d yearned for it to hurt, for it to be interesting—inadvertently matching Harry’s sick sense of pleasure. Because here she was, wetting his fingers—the same fingers he’d taken so much away with—and yet they felt so good.

“You need a bit of danger, baby?” Harry cups over her tightly. “Yeah?”

“—Mhm—”

He smiles, leaning forward into the back of her hair. “Need to pick strange men off of the side of the road? Need to fuck them in alleyways?” His palm grinds along her clit in slow, torturous circles, the tips of his fingers daring to dip inside of her but never breaching. “You gonna let me fuck you, pet? Gonna squeeze that cunt over me again like a good—” he retracts slightly, heavy hand slapping over her pussy and rendering Y/N immobilised, “—fucking—girl?” Each smack jolts her body, knees buckling, crumpled mouth whimpering.

“Ye-yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, please,” her tone borders on watery, thick with overwhelming urgency—coaxing him to warm his fingers inside of her—pleading with her grabbing hand as it reaches behind her and palms at the front of his sweats. And he’s told her no once… twice before already… so it’s only fair that he slaps down on her again. Harder. Louder. The sound of Y/N’s cry echoing out, just teetering over the edge of too pitchy. He doesn’t bother to smother it.

He’s terse, words forced through the gaps of his teeth as he grits, “Stop fucking touching me. Just…” he sighs, warm breath tickling the shell of her ear, “Jus’ be a… good… little hole, yeah?”

Yeah. Yeah. She can do that, she can— “Okay,” the breath trails out of her lips, wispy and frail, body tightening up when she feels… feels his middle finger circling the outside of her cunt—silently pleading for his touch—“O-okay,” she mewls again, dumbstruck as he pushes in—up to the first knuckle, and then the second, and the third.

“There you go,” it’s gentle, almost nurturing; far too soft for the stolen secrecy of an alleyway. Y/N keens, knuckles tightening around the gusset she’s still holding onto for dear life—empty hand flying down to cover Harry’s own. Delicacy coalescing with rigidity. She begs for his finger to sink deeper, to curl and to soothe—to be cajoled by another—to carve its path inside of her.

Harry wiggles it tauntingly, chest puffing out with a frustrated exhalation. “Give me your hand—come on—” he’s rough as he twists it behind her back, away from his skin and exposed to the cold air, “keep it there, stop—bothering me.” She’s not even rewarded with his bruising grasp around her wrist, just the aching chore of correcting each slip down her back as her arm tires.

His ring finger squeezes beside his middle, tip teasing Y/N’s achy hole, soft pads pressing into the spongy front of her walls. He scissors his fingers inside of her slowly, rubbing with virility as the backs of his index and pinky slap into the plush flesh either side of her wet cunt. And then he gets faster, grunting senselessly through every twitch and clench of her pussy. He finds that spot—and then he abuses it—Y/N unable to support her own weight when her knees start buckling and her tired bicep suffers behind her back.

“Can’t handle it, pet?” the cadence of his tone matches each punch of his fingers inside of her—the pit in Y/N’s stomach edged and taunted with every curl against her gummy walls. “S’it too good? Got you shaking all over th’place with just m’fingers.”

She thinks she garbles something unintelligent but it’s impossible to be sure when all the blood is rushing between her legs.

Harry murmurs, lips catching the shell of her ear, “I think you’re a little slut, baby,” biting down on her lobe with contrasting care. “Letting me ruin you in a dirty alleyway… Outside where anyone could see you—see your drippy pussy soaking m’hand.”

“Yes,” a sigh slips—agreeing to nothing in particular—an expression of pleasure, a plea for more.

A dark laugh stretches taut between them, powerful as his fingers speed up, palm slapping against her clit with each thrust. It vibrates and buzzes, twitches and pulsates. “You’re g’na cum for me, pet. Right now.”

It’s a simple demand. One that manhandles Y/N to the very edge—it dangles her over as the drop below taunts her. It beckons her like a siren call. Harry nudges her spot again, and again, and again—coaxing it, consoling it. Every curl of his fingers, every thud of his palm. It fills her up, breath catching, head falling back on her neck. And then she falls, plummets, cascades down—jaw dropped in a silent cry as her cunt convulses seismically around Harry’s fingers—clamping near violently. He rubs her through it, stroking her walls in heavy thrusts as he slows and forces her to feel it all.

“There you go, good girl. Filthy girl.” His hand glistens with her slick, pulling strings away with it. Y/N mourns his fingers, his warmth when he pulls away. Her hole flutters and her body suddenly feels cold—isolated and alone.

He exhales, “Fuck—put your hands on the wall, bend over a bit—that’s it,” crouching down, perverse in the way he inspects the glistening between her thighs. At least, that’s what Y/N assumes he’s doing as he nestles in closer to her cunt, close enough for his breaths to wash over her shaking form. 

One heavy forearm pins the skirt of her dress over the rounds of her arse, his free hand coming up to spread her open with the precision of a man who has much more time than either of them currently do. Y/N doesn’t see the way her slick creates ribbons between his fingers after he nudges at her opening and pulls away to scrutinise them. She doesn’t see the way his throat bobs as he tucks his digits past his blushing lips and laves his tongue around them salaciously. She only hears the muffled hum, and the harsh breath leave his nose as the man beneath her drools around himself.

“Sweet little thing,” he pants, voice gruff—gravelly—when he finally brings his fingers back to her centre. He pets at her, thudding the thick of them against her quivering cunt unnecessarily; from a want to render her even less stable on her aching legs. “Absolutely drenched f’me, aren’t you. Does that scare you, sweetheart?”

A whimper climbs out from Y/N’s throat, delayed in her response. Answering of the wrong question—the one she would lie about if she were sober. She needs more—she needs something more… something all-consuming. 

“Fuck—fuck me—now,” she pleads, hips pushing back as her neck cranes to catch a glimpse of the man below her.

He rises to his full height. “That’s not how you ask.”

“Please. Or I’ll… I’ll—”

“You’ll what, pet?”

“—I’ll tell everyone…” she whines, trailing off when her words reach no conclusion.

“Yeah? You’ll tell everyone. You’ll go to the police?” She’s nodding mindlessly, head weighing her down. “And what will you say?” tone turning petulant and shrieky, “‘I let him defile me, officer. I let him stretch me out on his big cock, officer. I let him do whatever he wanted, officer—’”

“Please,” her voice is thick, full with a sob—and a wave of panic washes over her at the possibility of not having him at all. 

“Don’t know if you deserve it now,” drumming his fingers across the small of her back. “Threatening me, huh? Silly girl.”

No reasoning comes to mind—nothing smart or clever to wield as a rebuttal. Just a slew of pathetic sounds; only possibly attractive to someone yearning for power—someone like Harry. Her body answers for her, still desperately twitching and searching for his own and being rewarded with nothing. He stays stoic, mild palm smoothing along the expanses of her chill-bitten backside.

“Tell you what…” he starts, a sly smile morphing the sound of his voice. “You be quiet f’me, yeah? You be quiet and I’ll give you what you want. Don’t w’na hear a single fucking thing else from this bratty, little mouth, you understand?”

A trick—an attempt for her to slip up before they’ve even begun. She nods frantically, teeth clamped together, lips equally as shut. She’s ready to offer more than is wise, for him to fuck her—ready to give herself up completely just so he’ll quell that ache. The nerves of their exposition are really starting to buzz along the surface of her skin.

“There you go, not so hard, is it?” She shakes her head no, enthralled by the soft sound of skin rubbing against thick cotton, fingers slipping underneath elasticated waistbands. “Good,” Harry murmurs, so quiet that Y/N wouldn’t have heard it if it weren’t for her heightened senses. And then again, even softer, swallowed around a gruff exhale that she can only assume is in response to curling his fingers around himself. “Good girl.”

She feels him tug at the gusset of her panties—haphazardly skewed across her centre, unable to conform without the curl of Y/N’s prying joints keeping them astray. Harry stretches the stitches easily, forcing the fabric to adhere to his perversion, as his thumb strokes the skin adjacent to where she would really feel it.

The corner of a condom wrapper flutters to the floor out of Y/N’s periphery, landing by her achy feet, as the image of Harry tearing it with his teeth flashes behind her eyelids. He rolls it on silently—and for a moment she wishes she could see—picture the length, the girth that had scripted her deepest desires so dominantly.

He smooths his hand up, underneath her dress, shuffling in closer behind her as he nudges the head of his cock against her slick cunt. Y/N’s jaw drops open in a silent whimper—catching the noise, suffocating it in her throat before it ripples out around them. Sweat gathers in the palms of her hands, irritated against the rough brick wall when they’d much rather be buried in his hair. Her forehead dips down, willing Harry to do something… anything.

He strokes up and down her clit, smiling at every overstimulated twitch, dipping down to smear arousal. He teases her, letting the thick of his tip stretch her entrance before he pulls back. Once, twice, three times… And then he sinks in, fingertips creating divots in her hips, holding harder with each inch that he carves out inside of her. When his pelvis cushions against her ass, he sighs—a long exhale of breath—followed by a rumbling from within his chest, “Perfect little pussy.”

Y/N can’t help the little whimper that falls from her lips, brows scrunched, dipping towards the centre of her face. Either Harry has a change of heart or he doesn’t hear her—too enraptured in the feeling of every vein and ridge perfectly filling the space surrounding him; as though created just for him, his cock.

He doesn’t move, perfectly still—embedded deep inside of her convulsing pussy—feeling her out. Mentally (though physically too). Waiting and waiting, regarding her presence with a slight jerk of his hips that already press demandingly into her backside. Waiting for those words to fall off of the tip of her tongue, with a protesting or begging cadence, and redirect his little game. A game Harry doesn’t even know the rules to—the only importance serving in his right to manhandle Y/N every which way; however he may please. A single plea, or a frustrated curse… that’s all he needs.

But she holds on. She stays silent and her hands stay slipping down the bricks. Enough so to have the opposite effect; to rile Harry up, to have his digits curl tighter into her skin and pull out all the way—feel her clench around him in an effort to keep him inside—and then rock back into her. Harder. The thud of their flesh meeting rippling out around them. 

Y/N doesn’t think that’s very fair; physically forcing the sounds from her larynx—punching the air from her lungs in such a way that makes it impossible for her silence to remain. She cries out, quiet enough to suggest a desire for modesty but loud enough for Harry’s lips to curl up nefariously.

“What did I say?” His hand clamps around her mouth, fingers brushing her eyelashes if he stretches them out far enough. The grip forces Y/N’s neck to stretch, trembling body elongating as Harry straightens her out and melds her into the wall. Her forearms squish into her biceps and her chest flattens indelicately. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say he was trying to cast her into the bricks, grout and all.

His hips snap back into her.

“Fuck,” Harry moans wantonly—exaggerated as he amuses himself with the pleasure of her newfound silence—“that’s sexy,” teeth grazing her ear. “So much hotter with your mouth shut, you know that?” She opens it just to spite him, tongue laving over his palm. His hips slap harder against her in return, eager to manoeuvre and curl his digits along the flesh of her tongue—eliciting a harsh gag from her unprepared throat. 

It perturbs him none when she presses her teeth into his skin, clamping gently at first but losing the capacity to be anything when Harry slinks his other hand around her neck. The blood fights for its strength, struggling and forcing its way through to her brain as the periphery of Y/N’s vision darkens. There’s nothing scary about it—and if they weren’t outside she might feel a semblance of peace.

“You prefer it like this, don’t you?” Harry gruffs against the side of her face, lashes threatening to kiss over her temple. “Jus’ w’na be treated like a silly—little—slut.” His thrusts punctuate each word, short cries forcing their way between his fingers. Drool gathers in the well of his palm, shameful rivulets smearing against Y/N’s chin.

“Don’t you?”

“Mhm—Mhmn—” she garbles something thick, tongue heavy in her mouth—battling against the extra weight of Harry’s intrusive digits. She swallows around them. 

He’s everywhere—soft clothes baggy on him and swamping her frame as he swallows her up—sure that if someone were to simply glance down their alleyway she would not be seen. Heat plagues her, rolling out of her pores in thick, murky waves—the kind of heat she suddenly fears she will always be cold without. The presence against her back, the stoicity of his figure. 

Her noises topple out.

Sad, desperate, pathetic little whines—snappy with the way Harry pummels into her. No one would have to ponder for long to dissect the cause of such sounds. Flesh smacking, fabric chafing, laboured breathing.

“Yeah. Yeah. I know,” fingers tighten around her throat. “Shrieky thing, you are. Can’t stay quiet to save your life.”

The insinuation is not lost on her, no matter the delirium that she’s submerged under. And Harry relishes in it; of course he does.

He slurs, “Would you die happy? Right now? Right now, baby?”

And Y/N knows she’s deeply flawed when his words scratch a spot. When she doesn’t recoil in disgust, attempt to pull away and run—but instead melts even further into his grasp. Nodding in jerky nudges of her head. She’s not giving him permission to stop the beating of her heart but she supposes it doesn’t matter either way. 

Harry rips his hand from her mouth, trailing saliva down the front of her dress, squeezing his thick forearm between her abdomen and the wall as he searches cruelly to overstimulate her. She’s been so easy thus far, soft and pliable no matter Harry’s propensity for writhing. But when he skims over her clit, that…—that’s when she starts to struggle. To will her body away from the torturous pads of his fingers.

This only encourages her tormentor, deft digits pulling up the hood, allowing no room to hide as he applies direct pressure and tightens the barrier of his arm as her body spasms out of control. A sob rips from Y/N’s chest, loud enough to be deemed inappropriate—and no matter how much pleasure he might find in those sounds, she’s teetering on the brink of becoming dangerous. The grasp around her neck loosens, fingers slipping up to push past her lips again; the only effective method of muffling her at all. 

Y/N keens with the weight in her mouth, relishes in the way her lips have to wrap around his big, masculine fingers. “Fucking tight, pet,” Harry grunts, ministrations messy and uncoordinated as he rubs over her clit, bumping into his shaft with every thrust. And she is—clamping down so hard her muscles yearn to loosen. They yearn to melt into a softness, into a safety, into a slumber. But her brain is running away, and Harry’s not slowing down, the tip of his cock abusing the spot he already petted at so perfectly with his fingers. 

And he knows she’s nearly there, smiles into the crook of her neck and lets his teeth bite into her flesh for just a second.

But just as her orgasm starts to topple over the edge, he stops. He leans back, pulling her hips so her bum juts out and her back arches again.

“Come on, I’m tired, baby,” he teases, a slither of playfulness lost to the tightness in his voice, hips dragging to a still. “Long day of slaughtering.” Y/N is too far gone to find the joke inappropriate. To even register anymore that this whole affair is inappropriate. “Work for it a little,” Harry leans back, eyeing up the place in which they meet, shining in the glow of the streetlight. She’s still for too long, trying to process where his movements have gone—confused pants turning the ends of Harry’s lips.

“S’feel good?” Hands aid hips slightly—just enough to gain momentum, as Y/N fails to question why she’s suddenly the one fucking him—only chasing the return of the blissful prodding of her insides. Harry’s eyes are glued to her pussy, stretched deliciously around the thick of his cock, dragging back and forth with each nudge of her over him. The soft of her ass meets his pelvis and he delivers a squeeze in return, fingers destined to leave their presence known as he manhandles the flesh. Pulling and indenting, the other hand hanging heavily by his side as his gaze trails over Y/N’s bending body.

He deigns to let the saliva in his mouth pool in the hollow of his tongue, lips pursing as a line of drool drips down onto her puckered hole—the sudden sensation making Y/N convulse around him—twitch and gasp, stutter her hips and still for a moment. Harry thumbs over her carelessly, moving his thumb down to the stretch of her cunt around his prick; an unnecessary wetness. Somewhat possessed by the image below him, removed of all purpose except this one.

“Did I tell you to stop?”

Y/N shakes her head, a squeak ripped from her throat when Harry’s palm comes down on her ass, the sound reverberating through the silence of the alleyway. “N-no,” she cries. No, he didn’t. He never told her to stop.

“So keep fucking moving, sweetheart.” She nods mindlessly, head shaking up and down as her hips pick back up—thighs burning quicker with the exertion of it all. Her forehead scrapes against the wall, eyes squeezing shut with concentration as she focuses on the in and out, back and forth—every stretch against her walls dizzying—every nudge inside of her rendering more and more of her body to jelly.

She wants that feeling back; the one where she’s constantly on the verge of cumming. But there’s too much to focus on—her hands digging into the bricks, her thighs shaking, her clit untouched and overstimulated at the same time.

“I don’t have all fucking day—” Y/N would scoff if she could but the frustration spikes, “—come on. Fuck’s sake—”

Harry loses his patience, pulling out completely in a jarring sequence of motion, leaving Y/N panting—struggling to stay afloat if she were treading water. He physically turns her around and hoists her up as though she is made of nothing—slinging her thighs around the bumps of his hips.

And this is the first time she’s seen his face in… a while. The first time since he’d started dismantling her with his fingers, his cock. Y/N’s heart jumps, the stoicity in which he displays; unsettling and erotic simultaneously. She lifts her heavy hands, moving with the weight of a thousand tonnes, but Harry is quick to catch them. He yanks them overhead, grazing the stone, incarcerated within the circumference of his hand.

It hurts. The wall scratches up the delicate skin of her back, through the flimsy material of her dress. It hurts but it’s grounding—Y/N only thinks about the way her flesh will serve as a reminder of Harry, of this bar, and of this alleyway.

“Gonna make me do everything myself, hm?” gripping around his shaft, painting it across her slit with a harshness that makes Y/N shudder. He’s disrespectful, sliding in indelicately, rough palm yanking down the front of her chest to smooth over her neglected tits, squeezing and moulding between his fingers.

Y/N’s already there, she’s sure. The pit at the bottom of her stomach tightening, her eyes clenching shut, head falling back unceremoniously despite the view she has below her. Harry’s grunting, low, gravelly sounds that enmesh with her own whimpery exhalations.

“Fucking look at me—look at me,” pinching digits squish her cheeks together. A smirk tugs at the corners of Harry’s mouth, tongue darting out to wet his lips when Y/N stares at them. “Let me see that pretty, slutty face.” Her brows quirk when he rocks in particularly deep, eyes flitting around—unsure of what to look at first. Harry’s own face is flushed; perhaps the only indicator he can even feel her at all. That and the size of his pupils—the shortness of his breaths as they wash across her face.

She holds his gaze, mouth ajar with soundless cries.

“You’ll always be my filthy—plaything,” pressing in so close their noses touch. “Even after I’m… long gone—and… you’ve got some other man’s cock inside you,” his breathing shallows, “you’ll always have been mine.” Y/N doesn’t doubt him, she doesn’t even try. Not when he punctuates every word with a thrust so deep it lingers and blossoms inside of her, spreading through each limb and tingling in her fingertips.

Harry’s hand manhandles her face from side to side, grip immovable.

“When you go running back to—Cody… and he can’t fuck you properly… and all you’ll wish for is me—but you’ll hate yourself for it, won’t you, pet?” He pouts, eyes rounding out in a faux sense of sympathy. “For wanting a cold-blooded killer to make you feel good.” 

He hammers the final nail into the coffin, lips brushing her own in a sadistic contradiction, voice only a whisper when he says, “You’ll never feel this good again.” 

Y/N sobs audibly this time, cunt clenching from his words alone. She thinks he could talk her over the finish line entirely. The promise is dreadful, and it weighs heavy despite how perfectly it nuzzles against her sweet spot. But then he drops her cheeks and snakes those same fingers down, circling easily over her swollen clit. She convulses, weak wrists tugging against the constraints of his hand.

Harry’s close, desperate now to reach his peak. He sinks his teeth into her bottom lip. “Go on. Cum. Cum on your stranger’s cock.”

It’s a wonder Y/N doesn’t crumple to the floor as she cums—but somehow her thighs stay gripped around Harry’s hips. If anything they tighten, squeezing up to his waist, yearning to crush him between her as he pushes her over the edge again and joins her himself as he releases rope after rope into the condom, hips rocking all the way through. He’s moaning a slew of real pretty noises, and Y/N can’t help but pulse at every single one—orgasm begging to last forever—forcing her eyes open no matter the struggle, so that she can really see what he looks like.

It’s devastating—when he smiles. Pleasure written all over his face as his thrusts slow down, cock still dragging through her but no longer with a purpose. And Y/N finds it disorienting; the happiness in which she could be convinced he is feeling. As if it were all a joke—some twisted roleplay—that they were simply playing a fun, little sex game, of all things.

He pats her hip when he slides out, too gentle for Y/N’s post-orgasmic haze. She’s tired now. Too tired to be out at a bar, alone. 

Harry encourages her legs from around his waist. “That’s it, down you get, good girl.” Her legs wobble as her feet meet the ground, the centre of her thighs vibrating and pulsating. She only somewhat sees him tying the condom and tucking it back into the wrapper.

“Do you need some help getting home?” Y/N feels like crying. Of course she does. But not from him, never from him—that would be even sillier than letting him fuck her. And then fuck her again.

“N-no,” her voice dry and scratchy.

He’s not convinced but he doesn’t ask again. He simply crouches down and searches for the hem of her underwear under her dress. Y/N thinks he might fix the gusset back over the mess of her pussy but he doesn’t. No, he wiggles them down her thighs and lifts up each shaky leg to retrieve the fabric and twirl it around a slender finger.

“Let me have these, yeah, pet? A little trophy, hm?” Something screams from within Y/N to be scared. But she’s tired now. “It’s only fair… don’t y’think?—if I can’t have what I truly want.” She wishes to wonder why he can’t, but the thought doesn’t form fully. Perhaps he’ll kill her now, after all. She’s fulfilled her brief, performed her duties.

But he’s already taking a few steps back; a distance that feels gargantuan in her current state. She blinks, and then blinks again, mindless fingers fixing clothes and brushing hair from her face. The cold suddenly hits her like a freight train, bare legs littered in goosebumps.

Harry sighs, like he’s considering something in his head before shucking his hoodie from his body and letting it hang between them. An offer. “Keep it warm f’me,” he murmurs, eyes insistent. She takes it with a shaky hand, and hurries to drown herself in his second-hand heat. 

He’s already beginning to walk away by the time her head emerges from the fabric, eyes flitting in a panic as they focus back on his shrinking frame. Y/N is offered one final glimpse when he angles his head back to see her, a small smile upturning his mouth. His words fill no hole, quell no worries, heal no wounds. They add insult to injury, smirk morphing his tone.

“Why don’t you… go back inside, yeah? Have another drink for me.”

Y/N’s feet feel stuck—glued to the gravel, too scared to take her eyes off of him for even a moment. But he nods his head towards the door, silently repeating his assertion. “Go on.”

Slowly, she heads back into the bar, the heavy door squealing on its rusty hinges. She sits back down on her previously claimed stool.

She waits. 

The stranger never follows her inside. Y/N never notes his silhouette in her peripherals on the other end of the bar, yellow-polished fingertips stroking over a rocks glass as the two pretend not to know one another.

He never comes in and… maybe it’s for the better. 

Y/N never sees him again.

[linkyu]

Damn so okay yeah judging by the catalog number, that's actually the original 1979 Japanese release! Which is extra cool because as far as I know, this album was never distributed outside of Japan at the time![1] Considering that Japanese music import wasn't very big yet in the US, this specific album must have had an interesting story!

Anyway, you mentioned that you couldn't find anything about this album, and yeah, there's not much info about those! So here's what I know about it (which admittedly isn't all that much):

In 1978, CBS/SONY Records (now Sony Music Entertainment Japan) wanted to celebrate their 10-years anniversary. To commemorate the occasion, they launched the "CBS/Sony Sound Image Series" and commissioned half a dozen of albums from many jazz-funk/city-pop artists; each album would depict a certain location through its music, but in a jazzy, lounge-y way. The AEGEAN SEA is part of that series.

Quick note for anyone unaware: the Aegean Sea is the sea between Greece and Turkey, and IMO this album manages to hit the mark really well on several of the tracks. The opener tracks specifically, Aegean Fantasy and Atlantis, really feels like a jazz fusion composition of the local music.

Reception-wise, it seems this album was unfortunately slightly eclipsed by Pacific, the first album in he series, which had much bigger names attached to it (Tatsuro Yamashita, notably). I imagine this is why it's harder to find info about this album specifically.

ANYWAY, for anyone interested, here is the full series:

Pacific

New York

The Aegean Sea

Island Music

Off Shore

Memories in Beach House (by Seaside Lovers)

I have not personally listened to all of those (yet), but for the ones I've listened to, I can attest that, if you recognize the names of the artists involved, then you know exactly what to expect.

[1] There was a re-release of this vinyl in 2019 for the EU market, and possibly some of that could have been briefly imported into the US through PolyGram Records, but this would have had a different catalog number (V25AH506) so that's how we can tell it's not that one (actually it would also have a barcode, too, and this one doesn't)

Hi! This may sound like an odd request, but would you be able to share a picture of the back of the AEGEAN SEA case?

I'm an editor on MusicBrainz and I'm trying to figure out if you found the 2019 EU release or something new that we don't have documented at all (which is possible! the archive is far from complete).

Either way, what a great find!

Here's the front, back, and insert that came with it

[screams-in-writing]

Had to split this ask up into screenshots in order to answer each bit of it more easily (some of it got longer than expected), and to do a little bit of writing at the end.

It’s probably because I enjoy the thought of flustering Mr. Puzzles, because it seems like he’d have great reactions due to more than likely being touch-starved/ so focused on his chosen goal that Puzzles might be taken aback/in disbelief that there could be someone interested in him not only as a friend but as a romantic partner as well. But I do feel that as soon as Puzzles is more used to that kind of interaction and feels that he could possibly deserve it, he’d be more open to showing genuine affective instead of teasing and disregarding feelings to try and distance himself from being hurt.

But to the next part; Yes yes yes, especially when Mr. Puzzles lowers his voice. He most certainly would, at this point, be on better terms with the reader if he feels that he can go through with such an idea and he’d be all in. He probably even wear that lip biting face from the new episode when he thinks about it because I feel that would be funny and possible concerning to anyone around him if he’s not thinking about flustering the reader when alone.

Debating whether to have it become a joke about him staying at the abandoned house just to make it sound so much more ominous and dangerous than it it is meant to be. But at this point int he relationship mr puzzles would be more easily be able to get the reader to come with him to ‘hang out’ which normally in-fic would eventually be them watching some movies that mr puzzles hadn’t seen, helping with scripts for the podcast the reader is a part of above the cafe reader (and Mr puzzles) work at or when they’re trying out a relationship just, cuddling on the sofa while doing their own thing but mr puzzles soaking up the attention and physical contact like leaning against one another or holding hands. Makes him giddy to have all that attention to himself.

And it’s 💯 effective for him to do that, since at this point, the reader knows how dramatic mr puzzles can be, so the door being locked abs the lights going out isn’t as intimidating as if would have been, say, the first few weeks of knowing him. Reader doesn’t know what the man’s planning but as soon as puzzles starts using that low voice of his reader doesn’t care what’s planned as thoughts go bye bye. pls, continue to serenade me with your lower voice puzzles, and those occasional growls at the ends of words. There’s No getting away or avoiding admitting that puzzles voice does affect reader. Especially when the touches begin andter mr puzzles does make certain reader is good with the scenario happening and oof man’s gonna go all in with his voice, just to see what happens, and oh, does puzzles like the effect that he can have on you. He’ll definitely want to do this again. It’s delightful to be on the control side of the flustering.

Static fuzzy kisses and nuzzles with the screen of the tv my beloved. Man’s being able to be charismatic and charming with the confidence back due to the reader’s positive response toward him. It’s exhilarating and can see why the reader likes to fluster him. And mr puzzles would sure take his time up to this point. on one hand, it’d be hilarious to have reader just fall down out of pure shock because what in the world was all that? where was the shyness and uncertainty from before??

Here’s just a lil bit more, since I’m already giggling and kicking my feet over the ask alone and the thoughts that it got me thinking about it.

-

Mr. Puzzles was very close to you, the static tickling your skin, the warmth of the screen nice.

You don’t think he anticipated that you’d end up collapsing onto your backside. But it had been so unexpected for him to suddenly be so forward like this, and you end up lying flat on your back. Flushed, you couldn’t help but let out a breathless laugh. “My, falling for me this time around, my dear? How flattering!” Mr. Puzzles looked pleased with himself for causing such a reason. Then, with a surprisingly hooded look flashing across the screen, Mr. Puzzles lowered himself to the floor, lanky limbs bracketing you on the floor. There was space for you to wiggle away should you need. “Shall we have a repeat preformsdw of that? For prosperity?”

You wordlessly reached up to seize his shoulders to encourage Puzzles to lean over.

“I think I much like this; to fluster you in return.” A low, low chuckle as Puzzles whispered sweet nothings to you as he leaned in indulgently for another ‘kiss’, pressing the edge of the screen gently against your cheek. “I enjoy it a lot.” Mr. Puzzles voice ended with a low growl to it.

“Stop that.” You tried futility as you swatted his shoulder.

“No, I don’t believe I will.” Mr. Puzzles teased lightly as he rested his metal tv head alongside yours, a grin taking up the screen. His hands lightly trail along your shoulders as you lightly grip his in response. “That blush really suits you-“ The screen pressed to the side of your head, the low growling tone back, deep and pleased. “-when I put it there myself.”

[icallhimjoey]

I'm the anon who asked to be stuck with joe in the elevator And this is exactly what I wanted and even better!!!! So sad that there's only one more chapter but so excited for them!! HE'S SO SWEET

felt right to use this ask for the last part ❤️ thanks for the initial request! and im glad you enjoyed! Wordcount: 4.9K

---

Between Floors and Feelings

part one - part two - part three - part four - part five

You were warm. Shielded. Safe.

Dreaming, and sort of... floaty, in a space where there were no worries, and everything was soft and cozy and heavenly peaceful.

There was one little zing, something bothering you, and it came from your lower back. It was far away enough to ignore. You could easily pretend it wasn’t there. Not real.

A lot of things weren’t real, but it wasn’t like you were bothered.

You weren’t awake but weren’t asleep, felt the pull of sleep combined with the sense of waking up. Felt fucking great. You got to stretch it too, make it last longer, and it was a little like you got to snooze without your phone’s alarm going off every 9 minutes.

It smelled nice where you were, and you kind of wanted you bury yourself inside all of it more. Inside of where you were. Inside of how you felt.

That little zing slowly came more into focus, and you noticed it didn’t just come from your lower back. It was your neck too, accompanied by the dull ache of your numb butt cheeks.

Someone softly groaned next to you, and the sound that was made could’ve easily escaped your own throat. Because ugh was exactly right.

You guessed you’d only been asleep for maybe 30 minutes. What with the way you still felt exhausted, sleep heavily pulling on your every limb, desperate to drag you back in.

The aches became too overpowering, urging you to move. You shifted, only slightly, but it was enough to make the restriction you felt all down your side tighten. You got squeezed a little more into this nook, and whilst incredibly warm and inviting, it hurt whatever was sore already.

So you also groaned, but it was softer than what had come from beside you seconds earlier. Just a small hum that notified you were awake.

Sort of awake.

Opening your eyes was more difficult that you’d anticipated, and you realised that you’d slumped back so far, you had sunken down way further in your sleep. Your asleep-self had been able to shield her eyes from the harsh fluorescent lights inside Joe’s jacket.

Joe’s jacket.

Joe.

Your head snapped upright and turned to look at him. The quick movement hurt the way any quick movement would after sitting or laying weird for a bit, but luckily it went just as quickly as it came.

Joe was waking up as well, slowly, eyes all squinty as he also seemed to adjust to waking up in a sore body.

You looked at each other a second with lazy grins before both of you seemed to suddenly realize that your close proximity was weird for two strangers who had met maybe two hours ago.

Tension shot into your body, and you straightened up in a bit of a jump. You felt your spine click from the sudden movement and winced.

“Oof,” Joe’d heard it too, and before you could even reach for it yourself, Joe placed a warm palm on where he thought the noise had come from. “That didn’t sound good,”

“Serves me right for sleeping sat up in a tube station lift,” you said, voice still thick with sleep but clearing up a little more with every word you spoke.

You bent a shoulder down, and then the other, twisting your back a little and it made you pinpoint exactly where the pain sat. You moved a hand to touch it, and instinctively, Joe’s hand moved down towards it to help out.

Like he hadn’t helped enough yet.

Not that you were complaining.

You’d just woken up in the arms of a man who let you nap on him for twenty minutes. A stranger. One that shouldn’t be considered a stranger after the wild ride the night had taken you on, but still.

He pushed a thumb in a little and it made you sit up straighter, arching your back as you stretched it out.

“Hmh,” that felt nice.

“Careful with your neck, you, um… hung into it quite heavily,”

You brought up a hand to rub the side of it as you rolled your neck slowly to stretch all sides. Joe’s hand stayed put on your lower back until you turned your head to look at him. With a shy smile, Joe broke contact, and for a moment, you just looked at each other.

“Good nap?”

“Too short,”

“We've slept for two hours,”

What?!

Jesus.

You checked your phone and found out he was right. You also still didn’t have service and your battery was dangerously low.

“My God, that felt much shorter,”

Joe opened his mouth go say something, but you got interrupted by the intercom suddenly springing to life. Unprompted, the lift filled itself with the static that made the both of you flinch and duck into your shoulders because, what the fuck?!

You both looked at the intercom before turning to look at each other again.

It was more confusing than it was scary, but it still shot a healthy dose of adrenaline into your system.

You saw how Joe's eyes darted around before he looked up towards the ceiling, and he carefully questioned, “William?”

William?

You detected a sneaky smile.

“We don't have any bread!”

Oh. The ghost. He barely made it through his joke without laughing. You would've laughed if you weren't hyperfocused on the soft crackling, the intermittent pops and bursts. It made Joe get up to listen closer. He pressed the emergency button again, for good measure.

You waited.

Joe's mention of bread made you think of the banana bread you had at home. Fuck, you could really go for some right now.

It seemed ages before anything happened. It was just a lot of white noise, but then, all of a sudden, a voice.

“Attention, this is an emergency message for those currently stuck in the lift. We want to assure you that your situation has been noticed, and help is on the way.”

You and Joe looked at each other with big eyes, and you scrambled to get up and get your ear closer too. Not that it made much difference, but you weren't going to fucking miss any of this.

“Please remain calm and know that our trained professionals are already working diligently to ensure you will be rescued shortly. Your safety is our top priority, and we are doing everything possible to resolve this situation swiftly.”

Stood opposite each other, bent over slightly to make sure your ears were as close to the intercom as you could get them, you copied Joe's stance and folded your arms too.

You rolled your eyes when they asked you to remain calm - remain calm. Joe scoffed for the same reason. You had been in there for hours, had had a whole panic attack, nearly pissed yourself, even fucking slept for a few hours... these people pretended you'd only just gotten stuck.

This lift felt like home now. It had its own bedroom - the side on which you'd slept. Its own toilet - where that stupid bottle was stood. There even was an office, with an intercom where you called people. All designated areas for different things, and it made the lift feel a lot bigger than it did when you'd just gotten on.

You remembered how you'd felt like the small space was suffocatingly tiny. Kind of felt stupidly massive now, for a lift anyway.

“Our rescue team has been alerted, and they are mobilizing to reach your location as quickly as possible.”

Joe snorted, and you were close enough to feel the puff of air on your face. You silently giggled at Joe's frown, finding small moments to communicate with looks as you listened. Clearly Joe thought their 'as quickly as possible' seemed terribly slow. You'd been asleep for two hours and Joe hadn't pressed the emergency button once throughout. What had suddenly made someone spring into action?

“In the meantime, we kindly request that you avoid any unnecessary movement within the elevator and refrain from attempting to force the doors open. It is important to conserve your energy and remain patient until help arrives.”

“Pfft, patient,” Joe repeated and inhaled sharply. You'd been plenty patient.

“We apologize for the inconvenience and assure you that every effort is being made to resolve this situation promptly.”

A short silence fell, and you waited for more information. The pause took too long, you thought, and you expected the static to stop, like it had done countless times after the button had been pushed. It was clear that whoever was on the other side of the intercom was reading a standard message specifically written for a passengers-stuck-in-lift-situation from whatever worksheet they had been handed.

But then, in a much more informal tone, they said, “Sorry it took ages, Frank said it was ghosts messing with the system until we checked the CCTV footage and saw two people go in and never come out,”

It made you and Joe give each other funny faces.

“Ooh, Frank's in trouble,” Joe said softly, making you huff a laugh.

“Once again, please remain calm and trust that you are in capable hands. We will get you out of the lift as soon as possible. Thank you for your cooperation and understanding.”

The message ended on a professional note, and soon after, the white noise of the intercom died and silence took over once more.

It was just past 4 a.m. and in just over an hour you knew the station would open its gates anyway. You'd practically been in there all night. Not quite, but it kind of counted like all night. Joe would agree, you were sure.

“Promise me one thing,” you broke the silence.

“Hmh?” Joe perked up.

“If anyone asks, that bottle was in here already,” you looked at the bottle that held your urine, still in its own little corner, still taunting you the way it had from the moment you'd placed it there.

It made Joe chuckle silently.

“What bottle?” Joe joked, immediately going with it, pretending it wasn't even there. He also didn't look at it, which you appreciated. You knew because when you turned to look at him, you found him looking back at you.

“Thanks,”

“What happens in the lift, stays in the lift.”

Oh, you liked that. What happened in there could stay in there forever.

“Well, if that's the case,” you started, stepping back towards where you'd sat before, back against the doors. “I've got some confessions to make.”

This piqued Joe's interest, eyebrows shooting up, “Oh?”

Joe sat down below the intercom, back against the side, diagonally opposite you. If you both crossed your legs, your right knee would fight his left knee for space.

“Nothing too crazy, but, since being in here, twice I've wondered about how much money it would cost me to have someone murdered.”

You weren't joking.

“Wha- me?! Oh my God, I'm not going to tell anyone that you peed into a bottle!” Joe sputtered, all in shock and all defensive. You were reminded of Joe's profession and thought, yea, that makes sense, he's theatrical enough.

“Jesus fucking Chr- no, not you, you idiot,” before you were even done speaking, Joe's facial expression had broken into a grin, letting you know that he knew who you were talking about.

“Shut up,” you tried to hide a smile. Couldn't.

“I wasn't saying anything. Any other confessions? Now's the time, apparently,” Joe joked, and without any real warning, the news of rescue being on the way had turned the mood fun and playful.

Things were suddenly looking up, even though you felt gross and tired and your back still didn't feel great. Neither did your feet. You were starting to get real hungry now too.

You thought a second of what else to confess. What else to get out of your system to then stick to the wall-panels of the lift, to leave in there forever. Something embarrassing, but not more embarrassing than fainting and pissing into a bottle in front of a stranger.

“See this tooth?” you tapped a canine. “Fake. Knocked it out when I tried to jump rope with my arms like King Louie does in The Junglebook.”

Joe let his cheeks puff out in a bad attempt to keep a belly laugh inside. It got out straight away.

“Had to tell a room full of doctors what happened, which I could barely do, because my whole mouth was bleeding and I was, you know, missing a tooth,”

Joe was fucking losing it, mouth open in wild laughter, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, and you kind of loved it. Your mind raced and found more embarrassing shit to share.

“And last week, I was late to work because I lost my phone, and I live in a studio so there's not many places for me to lose it, but I spent a good fifteen minutes turning the place upside down until I thought, you know what, I could just call myself, and so I did... with my phone, that I had been holding, the whole fucking time.”

Joe was bent over, shaking into his shoulders, doing his best to stifle the giggles and compose himself. Felt good, making him laugh like that.

“Yea, no, um...”

“I'm not finished. It wasn't until I was twenty-one that I realised that Cruella De Vil is literally cruel devil. Her name's cruel devil, I was shocked when I found out and my parents made fun of me for it.”

Joe seemed shocked too, or pretended to be anyway, said, “Oh my God, try twenty-nine!” and made explosion noises as he shook his palms near his head. Mind blown.

You both laughed until it died out. And then, Joe raised a careful eyebrow to coax one more confession from you.

All right. You could do one more.

You squinted your eyes in thought for a second, hesitating if you really should say what you were about to say, but then Joe bit into his lower lip as he grinned, and you couldn't not share.

“My best friend has a one-year-old I think is ugly- there! I said it!”

Just like he had before, laughter burst out of Joe and the way that filled you up with joy was wild. It felt similar to how sunbeams affected you when you felt them warm your skin. You saw Joe's face contort as he tried to think of how to react to any of the information you'd just shared, but you didn't leave him enough time.

There were two people in this lift.

“Okay, your turn,”

And that caught him slightly off guard, but only for a second. Oh, Joe could play. He sat up, crossed his legs and rubbed his hands together before folding them and pressing them too his mouth.

He narrowed his eyes in thought and you could feel the giggles already forming in your chest. Joe hadn't even said anything yet, but just from his facial expressions, you knew this was going to be good.

“I, um...” Joe started, and you could practically taste the hesitation. But he was smiling, so you waved a hand in circles which meant, go on then.

Before Joe spoke, he shuffled closer.

“I think you're very funny,”

Oh.

“I think that for a theme party dressing up as a bride is a great costume,”

Oh, shit. As your smile faltered, Joe reached and picked up a hand from your lap to hold between his own.

“I think you smell very nice,”

You frowned slightly. Lies. You were carrying a whole evening's worth of tears, snot, panic sweat as well as just regular sweat, urine, tube grime, and lift filth. There was no way you smelled nice still.

But Joe kept going.

“I think that what happened to you tonight- last night, isn't what you deserve at all, and isn't a reflection of who you are as a person,”

Joe squeezed your hand and you were growing more uncomfortable by the second.

“I think it's not so bad being stuck in a lift with you,”

Obviously, it was. You had really put Joe to work in that metal box you were stuck in. He was clearly just being nice.

“I think it's cute how this is clearly unbearable to you,”

“Yea, please stop,” you were surprised by how your voice trembled and were quick to clear your throat.

“One more,” Joe said and he leant forward, like he was going to share a secret. You instinctively copied him, leaning in a little more yourself too.

“You're pretty,” Joe forewent the I think and stated it like it was a fact, and it made you want to pull your hand back from his grip. Joe didn't let you though, and made it worse by also reaching for the other. He held on and when he felt you try to pull both back, he only tightened his clasp on them. Your grimace made him chuckle.

“Gorgeous, charming, stunning–”

“Stop, you said one more,”

“Beautiful.”

You fought your hands free and Joe laughed as your whole body recoiled. You overdid it a tad, but you really did feel all awkward at his nice words. It's not like you knew each other, so half the shit he was saying didn't feel like it could be true, no matter how sincerely he had sounded.

“Jesus, you're acting like a girl has never peed in front of you before,” you joked, insinuating that the peeing was what had enthralled him. It made Joe laugh again.

“See? Funny!”

That made you snort.

“And charming,” Joe said, and that, in turn, made you scowl, so then he continued, “All right, all right, I'll stop.” and to replace your hands, Joe's palms found both your knees, pinpointing them with ease one more despite all of the skirt covering them.

So, maybe you were a bit delusional, but... there was something heartfelt, something real genuine about the way Joe looked at you.

You studied it for a second, to make sure you'd really seen it right.

Joe was already sat very close to you, had leant in and had somehow gotten even closer as he had gone through his confessions.

Without much thought, moving on autopilot, you placed your hands over Joe's and you saw him glance down at them as his grin grew wider.

Uh oh.

Joe had nice lips.

Shit.

No, but, he really did. You'd lie if you said you hadn't noticed them earlier, but, not like this you hadn't.

You also decided that the length of his facial hair was perfect. Just a little scruff, nothing too intense, but, you know... just looked nice. From where you were sat you could see individual lighter and darker hairs and the spots were hair didn't grow.

Your eyes traveled up.

Freckles.

They were so tiny, from a normal distance, you'd have never seen them. Now, focusing on them, you saw there were so many, all constellated over his cheek bones. His nose. In between his brows, disappearing under his curls.

When your eyes finally found his eyes, you were taken aback by how they were looking at you, boring into your soul like they could see all of the secrets you kept inside.

“Hi,” Joe whispered, smiling, and it felt so incredibly intimate, you wanted to never look into his eyes again whilst simultaneously never wanting to look away ever again.

“Beautiful,” Joe barely even said it at all, you were able to understand him from his mouth movement alone.

You opened your mouth to say something back, but words left you entirely. Joe called you beautiful and you wanted to say, should see me on a good day. Should've seen you at the beginning of the night. Or two weeks ago, when you got your hair and make-up done professionally.

But alas. Joe called you beautiful now, and he really fucking meant it.

What do you say to someone when all you want to do is kiss them?

Turns out, nothing.

Instead, you just stare at their mouth until they get the hint.

And Joe got it all right.

One of Joe's hands left your knee to find a new place to touch around your neck, fingers around your jaw, pulling you closer a little. His large hand felt incredibly soft and you pinched your eyebrows together.

Joe moved closer and let his nose touch yours, let it nuzzle, and Jesus, fuck, this was one of those moments you wanted to live in forever. Mouths close, not kissing, but sharing breath, heads tilted and noses circling.

Your breath shuddered as you placed a hand onto Joe's chest, and you heard little noises escape Joe's throat before he sighed contently.

Who was going to be the one to give in first?

Who was going to tip their head and press their lips onto the other's?

You kind of wanted it to be you, but, you enjoyed this moment of almost too much. Right here, things weren't complicated. Right here you could claim nothing really happened, and there was a false sense of safety there.

Until suddenly, it just wasn't enough, and when seconds passed and your noses circled with lips so very nearly brushing without Joe really doing something, you decided you were going to be the one to break the barrier.

Except, you decided too late.

Because, the very moment your mind told you, fuck it, let's go, the whole lift jolted. Like someone pulled on the cables a little and let the whole thing drop again, and the loud creaking of metal echoed in the lift shaft. You were lucky you were sitting down, or you would've definitely lost balance and would've fallen over.

It scared the living daylights out of you, and any tension that had hung thick in the air before was replaced by fear and sheer confusion. Because, what the fuck just happened?!

You only had a few seconds to look around, look up, mostly, because that's where the loud noises were coming from. Then before you really understood what was going on, the lift started moving in small shocks.

Up.

Up to where the exit was and where you'd be able to get out through the doors you were sat against.

The higher up you got, the further away your little moment seemed to you, and now, both on your feet, really itching to finally get out of this death trap, you started hearing voices.

“Everything all right in there?”

“Yea, we're all right,” you answered.

“Please step away from the doors as much as you can,”

“Mate, there's doors on either side,” Joe looked behind him, then back to the doors where the voice had come from.

The lift stopped, and you knew you were right at the top.

“These ones, step back from these ones,”

And after some prying, some technical difficulties, and eventually, four gloved hands pushing the doors open, you were freed.

“Oh my God,” one of the paramedics that was waiting to check each of you over said when he saw the both of you.

Rude.

“That's one hell of a wedding night,”

Oh. Yea, you supposed you kind of looked like a fucked up bride and groom if you didn't have any context.

“Oh, no, that's not what, we're–” Joe started, but you cut him off, scoffing and going, “Ugh, yea, t'was the worst!”

You snuck a look at Joe and saw him grin. Blush a little too. He didn't correct you as you were being lead into the back of the ambulance that was waiting outside.

Tube staff took both yours and Joe's details, and after having both your vitals checked, a staff member came up to you holding the bottle that held your urine, and at the same time, you and Joe both said,

“That was in there already.”

Paramedics declared you were fine. Shaken up and in need of fluids and sleep, but ultimately fine.

Just before you were sent on your merry way, you saw how the lift that kind of felt like it was your lift now, was being taped shut with black and yellow caution lines.

Out of service.

You kind of hoped it would be for a while.

Suddenly being out on the street, everything felt larger than it ever had before. You were free to go wherever now, and it was stupid how that now felt scary and uncertain. There were other people here and nothing was predictable now. It took you a second to think it over before you told yourself you were being silly and it was time to part ways with Joe.

You turned to face him, to say goodbye, but then Joe gestured towards Bow Street and said, “You're this way, right?” before using a hand on your lower back to push you along. You fell into step together and sighed a small breath of relief.

Joe was walking you home.

It wasn't far, but it was enough time to at least have your goodbye be a little more than a simple, well, that's it, see ya.

It was starting to get light out, and for a few steps, you were both silent.

Then, Joe spoke up.

“Did you know Covent Garden's haunted?”

You smirked, looking down at your feet as you walked. “Oh? Is it?”

“Hmh, yea. You see, there's this... tallish actor,”

You looked to your side to see Joe also had his eyes down, looking at where he was placing is feet as he walked down the pavement with you. Your corner came closer at an alarming speed and you wished you lived further away.

“And he sort of, roams the streets in the early mornings, looking for bread,”

“Ah,” you joined the bit. “I think I've heard of him, did he die in 1890-something and is his name William?”

“No, different guy,” Joe shook his head, but couldn't hide the smile. “This one's alive still,” Joe glanced at you, and added, “Or so I've heard.”

You caught on.

“Does um... does this tallish actor roaming the streets of Covent Garden happen to like banana bread, do you think?”

You tried your best to sound sincere and curious, but your face was absolutely giving you away.

“Hmh... I don't know, he might,”

“It's home-made,”

“Then definitely yes,”

You felt Joe's hand touch yours, and before you knew it, your fingers intertwined together and for the last few steps to your front door, you walked down the street in a green vintage suit and a ridiculously dirty wedding dress as you held hands.

“Good,” you said, squeezing.

“Good,” Joe said, squeezing back.

And you knew that technically, if you asked the clocks of London, you'd only really met a couple of hours ago.

But if you asked one of the Covent Garden tube station lifts, you'd practically lived half a life together already.

Suddenly you thanked the stars, which were fading fast as the sun started taking over, that you'd walked in on your boss and ex-boyfriend when you had. It shouldn't have happened sooner, and it shouldn't have happened later.

Stopping in front of your door, you reached up a hand to the electronic keypad to punch in the right combination to unlock the door, but before you could, Joe swiped in and took hold of it with his. With both your hands in his, he manouvered you until you had your back against the door and he closed in.

Back to where he was before.

Back to where the both of you were before.

Nose to nose, eyes too close to properly focus on one another and you swallowed thickly.

Fuck.

Was Joe going to swirl the tip of his nose around yours for too long again? Were you going to have to count the seconds until you could no longer stand it aga–

No.

You didn't. Joe didn't.

Joe leant in and kissed you. Pressed his lips onto yours, slotting them into place perfctly, and he breathed in deeply as one of his hands loosened in your grip and came up to cup your cheek.

Lips brushed, and Joe pulled back slightly, only to dive straight back in with more frevour. More hunger. No tongue. Just soft lips, swirling noses, heads tipping and fingers brushing. You kissed like that until it left you breathless and Joe pressed his forehead against yours, eyes still closed, savouring this moment because he too wanted to live in it forever.

After all of the events that lead up to this moment, this was it.

This was it, you thought.

This was the most romantic thing that had ever happened to you.

If you asked the disappearing stars, they'd tell you were right.

Joe pulled back and smiled at you, giving you room to turn and punch the numbers into the system to let you inside. You bit your lip as you looked over your shoulder, leading Joe inside by a held hand, and the streets saw you vanish as Joe shut the door behind you.

If you asked the paramedics, you were too tired and fragile for your heart to be beating so fast.

And if you asked that one tube staff member, that was definitely piss in that bottle.

If you asked your tired body, you were in desperate need of some horizontal time on a soft surface.

But if you asked the sun, the day was only just beginning.

the end

---

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[purplecritter]

Dragon Age: Vows and Vengeance (Ep. 7)

Official episode transcript here

My notes while I was listening under the cut… Spoilers ahead!

I am always so uncomfortable with these types of “surgery” scenes. Could never be a combat medic

So they plan to pack the wound with a “poultice of mud, moss, and herbs”... DAO Warden drinking health poultices is cringing right now :’)

The dramatic thunders are paid actors

Ngl “Blood of the Black Rot” sounds like Blight. Taint if you will. Plus there’s no cure, and darkspawn blood isn’t like oil but it does look quite viscous idk

Okay merchant Ramiro (adds to the notebook of “characters to look out for in Veilguard)

Aww I like Lillemar

I did not anticipate Emmrich having company other than Manfred so this Rolet is a surprise idk why

Okay Emmrich is OPTIMISTIC we love a man that trusts in nature (Nature will absolutely destroy those horses sorry dude)

Mkayyy so a fortnight = two weeks, to get from Antiva past the whole Free Marcher to (near) Hunter Fell (between Nevarra, Tevinter and Orlais basically). Good to know!

The way Emmrich talks is satisfying? Does that make sense? Pleasant voice!

Oooh I wonder if Manfred is a literal spirit of Curiosity or if that was more of a figure of speech. [Spoilers for Tevinter Nights] In “Down Among the Dead Men” Audric is a spirit of curiosity but I don’t recall any other case where we closely interacted with one of this kind, it’d be neat if Manfred was one even silent as he is!

Earthquake mention 🎉

Emmrich what do you mean “by jove”?! Who is Jove here💀

“I don't mean to sound dire, but best you search your heart for something to believe in” okay foreshadowing I see you

Manfred disliking being given nicknames was not on my bingo card but I like it. Number 1 nemesis of Varric’s as soon as they meet

I don’t know why Rolet was with Emmrich and at this point I’m too late to ask

“Things have gotten strange in the lower crypts ever since the incident in the Silent Plains [...] There was quite an explosion in a cave a few weeks back. Its effects have reverberated throughout the area, compromising bits of the Veil” 👀

why do the lineages always have to be patriarchal

Yeah not there’s no way this “Pascal De La Forsa” guy isn’t a vampire or something. His vibes are rancid, as they say

“Almost sounds like the Fade out there, no?” better hope Nadia can learn the Warden’s way of closing Fade rifts by waving their weapon around because I have a feeling it’s not going to stay “almost” for much longer

“Oh no, personally, no. Just the tales I've heard. I imagine it's similar. I'm really just thinking out loud.” this was Solas every time you asked him about things he shouldn’t have known lmao

OOf the sister is even less subtle about not being human 

“Perhaps a little spirit is just what you need” uh huh I see what you did there

“Spirit fire of midnight suns, through my spire of ill and ire, the wretched blood he blessed, not mired” ← Emmric’s incantation to heal Drayden

“Cetus bile” blegh. Anyways Cetus is (drum roll please) a sea dragon! Wonder if they’ll get a spotlight in Veilguard 👀

Demon to Nadia: “Now I see why he wants you” cool cocol cool so either Elio got a reputation since getting possessed or he’s not talking about Elio here? 

^ Maeror apparently. 

“O-NAY, AH-TAY. O-NAY, AH-TAY. SCAH-TOE, TOW-BRAY” ← chanted by demon to open Fade rift

NAAAH THE RING WAS WITH THE TEMPLAR DEMON!! Nadiaaa get awayyy

Yeah much as I hoped in the first couple episodes that Elio could be saved. I don’t think that’s likely at all anymore lol

[laurelnose]

@heartoferebor OOF okay so I technically started with PawPaw Studio’s pattern because it nails the square little face, but it doesn’t include any ventral fins and the body shaping is weird, so ... well, the pattern definitely inspired me, we’ll leave it at that. I didn’t anticipate ever wanting to replicate my own hubris so I uhhhh didn’t take notes. fortunately (?) for you I finished a lot of the details Yesterday so I have written up my mods from memory. I think what’s under the cut is everything I changed. Maybe. Good luck?

I used a super bulky chenille and an 8mm hook. Use whatever you need to get an appropriate stuffie gauge. I did everything FLO except working into the sl st stripes which I also did BLO.

Worked the mouth insert about 15-20 rounds longer, with final round being blue/white before starting increases (this is not structurally critical, make yours however deep you want)

I approximately doubled the number of rounds in the head section. Just keep adding rows of dots until you feel the head is sufficiently long.

Work two sections after the head straight w/o decreasing, then work eleven following sections with decreases. For decrease rows work [sc1 blue, dec, work to last 3 blue scs, dec, sc1], rep in white for belly. The second and sixth rounds of each section (sl st rounds not counted) are decrease rounds (dec by 8 sts total each section).

Work the fourteenth section with decrease rows on the second, fourth, and sixth rows.

Final section: Work no spots. Work two dec rows immediately after sl sts. Work two rows dec’ing every st around, then close up hole.

Sections 10-12 I worked flat (cutting yarn and restarting from right side every row to preserve in-the-round texture) and rejoined to work in round on the following sl st round; this let me install an invisible zipper so when he’s five years old and his stuffing’s gone flat he can be restuffed. This also helped make final stuffing easier.

I offset the 2×2 spots from section to section rather than lining them up. The repeat is [4 blue, 2 white], so on the next section it’d be [1 blue, 2 white, 3 blue].

Work all fins with joined rounds, NOT spiral rounds. At this scale the row offset produced by spiral rounds is almost half an inch and 100% matters.

Upper caudal fin lobe: Rounds 25-26 should be worked including spots following established pattern; work 8 additional rounds after r26 increasing as established: three solid, two spot, three solid.

Lower caudal fin lobe: Rounds 20-21 should be worked with spots; work 3 solid rnds after this, increasing as established.

Anal fin is exactly like second dorsal fin but all in white.

Pelvic fins:

MR 6

[Inc, sc 2] x2 (8 sts)

Inc 8 times (16)

Sc 6, inc 4, sc 6 (20)

Sc around

Do not cut working yarn. Sk 7 sts, join new length of yarn w/ sl st in next sc, inc 2, sl st, f/o new length of yarn.

Continuing with original working yarn and working over top of added sts in r6, inc, sc 8, inc 2, sc 8, inc (36)

Sc 11, inc 2, sc 11 (38)

Inc, sc 11, inc 2, sc 11, inc (42)

Sl st 6, sc 8, inc 2, sc 9, sk remaining scs and join to first sc of this row

Sl st 3, sc 15, sl st. F/O

Fold the fin in half and seam the lower section of the fin together. Leave rows 10-11 unseamed. Stuff gently.

Claspers (optional):

Make fsc row with a smaller hook if necessary to avoid flaring.

Fsc 14.

Sc 14.

Sc 14.

Make turning chain, sk first sc, sc 9, turn.

Sc 8, sl st. F/O.

Fold short part of claspers over and seam into a tube, stitching final row to base of fsc and closing the tip. Jam the ends inside the tube but leave unstuffed otherwise.

Anal fin should be attached to belly directly underneath second dorsal fin. Posterior tips of the pelvic fins should be level with or slightly past the end of the first dorsal fin. Seam only the open parts of the pelvic fins to the body, leaving the tips free. Once pelvic fins are attached, take the claspers and flatten the single-layered portion against the base of the pelvic fins, towards the center of the belly. The opening to the folded part of the claspers should be up against rws 10-11 of the pelvic fins. Seam the single-layered portion to the pelvic fins as flatly as possible so it blends in, closing up the opening of the tube as you go.

[fullscoreshenanigans]

Okay, since you're asking for, well, asks:

What would you change to make Andrew a more compelling villain? How should his arc have been dealt so we, as the fandom, would be more fond of him, despite Andrew killing of at least two fandom favourites?

Swap him out with Isabella and give me the Isabella pursues the kids AU that S2 teased to facilitate the Grace Field escapees having a talk about the trauma she put them through that I crave or have him take Phil to Lambda.

Joking aside, almost anything that makes his conflict more personal with characters as individual characters rather than them as a monolithic group of cattle children would work for me, or giving him a personality beyond "Peter's lackey from the Ratri branch family with a one-dimensional hater boner for the cattle children."

I'd like him to stick around longer to simultaneously build up a greater antagonistic dynamic with the kids and show them strategizing how they'll neutralize him in an environment they aren't as familiar with, but are still knowledgeable enough about so the reader is privy to most of the elements in play and can deduct how at least some of them factor into the plan ahead of time, and then look back on any they missed without feeling cheated because they were introduced earlier rather than in the moment. Something along the lines of the kids luring him to a location the search party visited while looking for the Seven Walls.

Alternatively, an area they actively avoided because of rumors, like what evanescent puts forth here in always a riddle inside my head (aesop’s kin).

Comes with the potential bonus of providing more insight into demon world culture on top of adding a factor of risk of both sides trying to utilize the area to their advantage while trying to avoid succumbing to it themselves, especially if they ultimately decide to keep the group together as opposed to splitting up until the threat is dealt with.

I'd also like to see Andrew deducing Phil is a child of interest, either before he arrives at Grace Field due to his score and whatever else might be in his file or while he's at Grace Field and picks up on any odd behavior. Something for the reader to follow along with to build up tension and give us insight into both his personality and reasoning in a more lowkey setting to build anticipation for when he's in a higher energy one like confronting the escapees. It was most likely to save on page space, but him showing up at Grace Field only to do nothing with the encounter but use the fact he talked to Phil to taunt the Grace Field escapees in chapter 111 was such a letdown. Him doing something to Phil besides killing him offscreen makes for a more immediate threat than one of the many kids at Grace Field the audience might be aware of but doesn't have nearly as strong of an attachment to maybe getting shipped out at the two-year deadline. It also shows him taking some initiative on his own prior to the escapee confrontation when up until that point we just see him following Peter's lead.

Him following along the escapees' trail from Grace Field and stumbling across the coordinates to B06-32 Ray left carved in the tree would also be something deliciously angsty to taunt them with in their first encounter, chiding them for being sloppy. There's no guarantee they wouldn't have eventually been found anyway and no one really blames Ray for it given the circumstances, but still, the guilt of leading them to the location sooner rather than after they were long gone and putting Yuugo and Lucas into the position where they had to sacrifice their lives for them, oof.

Further rambling under the cut that turned into a semi-tangent:

Isabella is my favorite villain for, among other things, how intertwined she was in the children's lives. Very high personal stakes with a betrayal from someone who almost all of them believed was a normal, loving mother, to say nothing of the anguish Ray's biological connection to her brought him.

Leuvis made things more personal with Emma by going after children she saved earlier in the day to taunt her and affirmed to her face they were fundamentally opposed in their goals, making conflict unavoidable. He also killed Lucas and Yuugo's friends, forcing them to live separately with that guilt for over a decade.

Legravalima forced Mujika into hiding for 700 years after having her entire clan slaughtered, and she had an interest in the full score trio as the most delicious meat that was forbidden to her, making her one of the two key figures responsible for Norman ending up in Lambda that leads to a dramatically charged meeting between them in the imperial capital. It's a bit more distant of a connection, but it's workable for me when combined with her acting as a vehicle for criticism of systemic exploitation to maintain centuries of hegemony and how it inevitably implodes on itself. I half count Sonju here because their confrontation is also charged when they finally do meet, but it's never alluded to at all prior to this so there's zero build-up, and even in the "Two Destinies" story from the third light novel we don't see them interact.

Peter is the thirty-sixth Ratri to uphold the promise, giving some twisted credence to his assertion he is the father of the current generation of cattle children. He took advantage of Legravalima's greed to become the other key figure in Norman ending up at Lambda (though we don't get to see them interact much. We knew he was in conflict with his brother, the man who sought to end the Neverland despite knowing how critical it was to maintain the balance between the two worlds and how he should view it as an honor, since he was introduced. Again I have to fall back on the symbolism of what his defeat represented—his entire identity founded on a purposefully manufactured hierarchy and how he couldn't comprehend existence outside of that rigid mindset, of there not being an inherent inferiority to the cattle children that made their fate as food deserved—since on its surface his suicide is highly unsatisfying. Roughly a hundred chapters of build-up, and he just conveniently offs himself. No final stand, pathetic or grand, that pushes the characters to act or challenge something about themselves (yet again giving a shoutout to @salsae's vowsverse for having Emma shoot Peter and how for better, not only explores the toll that takes on her, but also how it affects the people around her).

Andrew's mindset is essentially the same as Peter's, so there's some symbolism in his wrath consuming him and contributing to his demise, but it's devoid of Peter's familial conflict. His meeting with Phil is framed in a sinister light that makes it reasonable to worry about his safety, but Shirai states in the mystic code book he never intended to do anything with it beyond using the meeting taking place as a way to briefly taunt Emma.

He also lacks the long history Leuvis had with Yuugo and Lucas. You could argue this speaks to how there's a disconnect between the upper echelons who profit off the exploitation of those at the bottom and the banal mundanity of it all, and how his death in the jaws of a wild demon was indicative of the indifference of the universe, but to me it feels empty when earlier villains gave us conflict that was simultaneously symbolic and personal.

(Mystic Code Book Chapter 4 | December 2020 Exhibition Interview)

The children maintaining their "whiteness"/innocence would have been fine by itself if it was preceded by a more prolonged pursuit that would at least give us a peek into Andrew's past and personality while also showing the children carefully crafting plans ahead of time like they did in previous arcs so we could follow along with them and build up anticipation due to being provided with all the potential elements in play.

Instead, he shows up at the bunker when we as an audience have spent very little time in it and only learned about its intricate tunnel system during the raid, he blows it up, and then he shows up again instigating a hostage situation. After the enormous blow of losing Yuugo and Lucas interspersed with the deaths of children who were meant to stress the gravity of the situation (but with their lack of focus it's frustratingly obvious they're cheap canon fodder; we don't even get their names until the chapter 119 bonus sketch) on top of all ten members of the Goldy Pond crew surviving Goldy Pond despite some suffering injuries that could have justifiably killed them, there's a lack of tension for seasoned readers when Alicia and Dominic are on the chopping block.

Such a frustratingly disappointing character who doesn't even have a fun personality to make up for it.

[thequeenofsastiel]

A Comprehensive LianYi Meta, Part I

So I made the mistake of rewatching the parts of Cutie Pie with Lian and Yi(okay, I only just finished ep 8, but THERE WERE REASONS) and have come away from it a LianYi truther. More specifically, I'm pretty certain that Yi, at least, has the feels for Lian, so this meta will mainly focus on his emotions, because oof, he was showing some jealousy that I didn't pick up on at first.

Let's start with their first interaction in ep 1. Yi came into the room while Lian and Kuea were having it out over Lian's fairly appalling behavior towards Kuea, and, after Kuea stormed out, Yi questions Lian about the fight. And at one point, he says:

He's equal parts dismissive and combative. I get the impression that he never took Lian and Kuea's engagement seriously, and is extremely bothered by the idea that Lian does. I think in part this is because he hates the idea of Lian sacrificing his happiness, but I also think he's bothered by the idea of Lian being taken.

Then, in ep 2, Lian calls Yi to ask if Yi knows where Diao is. Yi complains about Lian calling him just to ask for Diao(which itself is a pretty strange thing to do--if you're trying to find someone then calling someone close to them is a common first step), and then he adds:

This is a strange thing to get defensive about. I think in part it's because he's trying to emotionally distance himself from Diao(even as he compares his relationship with Diao to Lian’s relationship with Kuea as if they're the same thing) but I also get the vibe that he's a little bitter about how close of attention Lian pays to Kuea.

Then Lian calls him useless and hangs up on him:

This would probably annoy or piss off most people if their friend did that, but Yi doesn't look annoyed:

He looks extremely hurt. Most people wouldn't react this way if it was just a friend who was obviously annoyed about something else behaving like this. Lian called him up, wasn't actually interested in talking to Yi, and snapped at him before hanging up. This clearly messes with Yi's head in a surprisingly intense way.

In ep 4 we have the famous(in my mind) moment in which Lian flirts with Yi:

Yi acts annoyed after, but he can't help giving Lian a quick up and down first:

Jumping to ep 7, Yi calls Lian while Lian is on his date with Kuea. They chat briefly, before Lian hangs up on Yi again:

Something which again messes with Yi:

That wraps up part one! Which took way longer than I anticipated, which is why I only made it through ep 8. I was planning on including that ep in this post, but for some reason I couldn't add the gifs that I made to this post from my computer, I had to download them to my phone and add them on the app, which only allows me ten photos and/or gifs instead of thirty, so I couldn't.

I'll do a part two later. I'm tired lol.

[danco110]

“Grater, turn off that damn glowing!”

The hulking cyborg nezumi grunted in annoyance at this the other two Reckoners, but ultimately did as he was told. The sinister purple glow left his axe, his cybernetics, and his bike wheels, shrouding the alley in darkness.

“…Well now I can’t see shit!” blurted the complainer from before, his tone laced with irritation.

Grater gave a deep bass chuckle. “Serves you- Oof!”

The sound of a slick slip and heavy fall echoed through the darkness, eliciting laughs from the other bikers.

“Yeah, serves you right!” chimed the third rider. “For working on…you, instead of your bike!”

“I work on my bike. This oil isn’t…urgh…mine.”

“Grater? You okay, buddy?”

The biker in question remained silent. But the sound of wheels across a gravel road grew louder and closer to the other nezumi.

“Data, what’s going on?” squeaked one rat.

“Aw, don’t worry, Axel. Grater’s probably faking being sick, then rolling up on us to SURPRISE US! Which doesn’t work because of the NOISE!”

“Noise? But, Data, we’re on asphalt, right?”

Data did not respond, but a dim green light suddenly highlighted her anxious expression, as well as that of her complaining friend.

“…Right. Wait, then, what…”

Grater rolled slowly close, his steel augmentations traded for ones of porcelain. The new Phyrexian leaned forward to grin eerily at his friends from his vantage, melded to his bike.

“Uh…Grater, you…don’t look too well,” Data hissed fearfully.

“Yeah,” Axel murmured. “Let’s get you to Greasefang. I’m sure she can fix you up-”

“Do you really wanna die for that bastard Greasefang?”

Grater’s growling voice echoed through the alley, and his lower half revved in anticipation. The other two rats began slowly backing away towards their own rides.

“Don’t you wanna die for something worth dying for?”

The two incompleat nezumi sprinted for their bikes. They fled the narrow alley in the same direction, Grater hot on their heels.

“FOR PHYREXIA!”

[“Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited for this? Longer than you think.”]

[tamberlanecomic]

A little bit of art I made for myself! I spent some time this morning writing up my experiences with the doctor stuff so far so you can peek in on what it's like to be given hallucinogens for medical treatment. To summarize how things are for me right now: the treatments are working! There are aspects of my fibro that are greatly improved! This has so far been a HUGE success. But I have also been spending most of my time just getting through doctor appointments, so work on Tamberlane has still been slow. (Plus, both my co-writer and my inker have been dealing with very difficult family emergencies, oof). There is a *possibility* I will have to extend the hiatus further, if only because the appointments are going to be lasting longer than I anticipated. But the bulk of the RUSHRUSHRUSH through appointments should be done this week, so I'm going to evaluate how I feel after I get a breather. Thanks for your patience; this has been literally life-changing for me, and I think it will help me tons for a long time to come. I'm jazzed to come back and tell Tamberlane's story ... as soon as I'm done incubating. <3

[bigcats-birds-and-books]

Hello! Sending some numbers from the end-of-year book ask, I'm not sure of everything you've already answered, so if you'd like to do any or all of these: 4, 5, 12 (especially because you write about reading books with vibes related to your projects), and 17. I hope you feel better!

hiya!! thanks for the ask! referencing this post.

4. If you DNF any books, what was the pettiest reason you put a book down this year?

so one of my toxic reader traits is actually that i DON'T tend to DNF things--i'm very stubborn, and i tend to read fast enough that it doesn't feel like a waste of too much time, AND i usually flip from "Reading to Read" to "Reading to Tear That Shit Apart" (as a writerly exercise, mostly, or for a hate read, which i find cathartic because i am frequently full of rage these days).

one book that is taking me Much Longer Than Anticipated to get through, though, is DAEMON VOICES by Philip Pullman, which i started in....september. a writer friend gifted it to me, and i was pleasantly surprised by the last book she gifted me, so i'm slogging along. but. this man. grates on me. it's mostly his hot takes on religion, so i keep putting him in time out when he conflates shit he has no business conflating. some of his general story thoughts are interesting! but every time he mentions religion, he's on thin ice with me, and he keeps winding up in Time Out About It lol. (also the lectures transcribed to essays format isn't really working for me, pettily.)

5. What's a scene you read this year that sticks with you?

oof okay i LOVE the specificity of this question but it absofuckenlutely made me bluescreen haha.

after staring at my shelves about it for a few minutes (quite a few minutes), i have to confess that MOST of NETWORK EFFECT is imprinted on my grey matter (but that's my second time rereading it, so i don't know if it counts. shout out to "ART sent me" and "you little idiot," especially).

for things new to me this year: the last scene of ROADSIDE PICNIC by the Strugatskys has apparently ALSO imprinted on my brain (unexpected), and mumu's delightful narration in WALKING PRACTICE by Dolki Min has great sticking power (there's some VERY cool text formatting going on there that feeds into the voice, which i loved!).

12. Did any book inspire you to create?

first off, it made my whole week that you mentioned the reading/writing/vibes thing, i feel seen and known, thank you!!

second off: WALKING PRACTICE gave me excellent writing-related vibes and inspiration for my weird little monster child book, and i loved the cool formatting/voice things it did. (it definitely comes with content warnings, though, for things like graphic on-page sex and body horror and eating people (frequently all three of those together/concurrent), so proceed with caution if that's not your jam!)

the SKYBOUND SAGA also inspired ~creation~ for me, from the opposite direction: very much a "damn, if this can get published, mine can too, let's gooo" type of inspiration. (i am a spite-fueled being, sometimes.)

17. A book you reread this year. Did it hold up to how you remembered it?

oh! i did actually quite a bit of rereading toward the end of the year!! i reread ARTIFICIAL CONDITION and NETWORK EFFECT in preparation for SYSTEM COLLAPSE, and those absolutely held up--ART and murderbot are my beloveds, and i stayed up way past my bedtime for like a week in a row (even though i have reread both of those at least once before, so hypothetically i know what's coming and i could put them down any damn time)(reader, i cannot).

my other rereads were VICIOUS and VENGEFUL by VE Schwab. VICIOUS held up perfectly, too--i've reread it before, and this time i did it specifically to dissect her timelines, and it's just a masterpiece of tension and pacing and history and reveals.

VENGEFUL, on the other hand, was Fine™. i don't hate it, but i don't love it--i could set that one down easier (which was good for my aforementioned bedtimes), and dissecting it wasn't as helpful of an exercise. don't get me wrong, i love victor and mitch and syd, and i enjoyed eli's backstory, but. it wasn't VICIOUS.

thanks again for asking!!

[orchideae]

12. Do you prefer writing main or minor canon characters? & 0. Are there any characters you’d like to write with because you think the dynamic (Platonic, Romantic, Familial and so on) between Yelan and them would be fun to explore? @feilyne // Meme: For roleplay muns

12. Do you prefer writing main or minor canon characters? It's a bit of a toss-up, honestly, I seem to go from one to the other. I started RP in general with a very minor (if we can even call her minor, she was no more than a name) character back in the Vampire Diaries RPC in... 2012? Ended up growing in confidence and picked up the main characters a bit as a challenge and then that lingered. Since then, I've written big ones like Jace Herondale (book), Ezio Auditore, an MCU-based Tony Stark, Dorian Pavus, Oberyn Martell, Tifa Lockhart, and too many more; it's a bit of a flip between major and minor. Any I would like to maybe write one day are also a bit of a toss-up, because if you look at my current, most recent and future planned muses, they consist of Yelan, Kafka (Honkai: Star Rail), Guizhong, with Zhongli and Jingliu one day joining them. Again, a mix! I don't shy away from anything really, the character simply needs to poke my brain from the right angle and in the right way.

0. Are there any characters you’d like to write with because you think the dynamic (Platonic, Romantic, Familial and so on) between Yelan and them would be fun to explore? I love how you just added this most casually, bless you. Oof, my wishlist for interactions is much longer than my capability to write is (I lie, I'm just very slow), but considering how easy it is to move this woman I love a tad too much, yeah, there's quite a few. I'm hugely interested in her interactions within the Liyue Qixing, namely Ningguang, Uncle Tian (though I know that this one will be for the meta books) and even Keqing. I'm in love with Perilous Trail, which touches on already established interaction with Yanfei, another one I'm dying to write. The verbal confrontation between Xiao and Yelan in the Chasm has me tearing up seams, it's so good and it touches on such integrally painful parts of both of their characters, it's one of the ones topping the charts (not romantically, mind you). Beyond that, with her personal vendetta against Regrator, I of course crave interactions with Pantalones and Harbingers that can bring her closer to finding him, so namely Childe and Arlecchino (and in that, members of the House of the Hearth, hello Lynette and Lyney; Frem?). Because of the former, I desperately wanted to write with a Wriothesley (hi Min) that has become more than even I anticipated, and in that, it opens up the desire to write with a Neuvillette and also, unexpectedly, a Navia, because Spina di Rosula becomes quite an interesting ally (and in light of Childe's escape, you know). My list is honestly never-ending, I can't subject you to the Inazuman list, and even Sumeru because we know canonically that she travels. Hi, did you expect this to get this long? I'm just excited for so much, okay.

[sweetdemonbakery]

Dinner Time (sub POV)

Contains: feeding, forced blowjob (top receives), rimming (top receives), facesitting

It's 7:00 PM, I hear a big yawn and prepare myself for what's coming.

"Naps always make me so hungry," I hear from the other room. Good thing I already spent the afternoon making a full course meal for a family of four. Although there would only be one person eating tonight.

I hear the floorboards creaking and wait patiently for my dinner guest to take his seat. Matty makes it to the dinner table and prepares to sit on me. Oh, did I not mention? I'm his seat. Kneeling underneath a large armchair fit to be my master's throne, there's a special slot for me to put my face to fill my role as Matty’s cushion. I first became his cushion because he complained his last chair wasn't comfortable enough. It seems my face was satisfactory though, because I have been here for every meal since.

"Mmm food looks good." Matty scratches his belly in anticipation. No thank you to the one who slaved all afternoon to try and feed his insatiable belly, it's just  expected. A large shadows looms above me, I have just enough time to look up and see two giant cheeks coming towards my face, before I'm forced to suffocate between them. My nose is stuck deep in his hole, it's warm, wet, and musty. I hear Matty's deep breathing and belly gurgling.  "Ah...let's hope this fills me up." His voice is muffled, and I hear the clinking of plates as he grabs his first plate of food and starts gorging himself.

With every slurp and swallow, I feel a bit more weight pressed onto my face as Matty grows bigger. It feels like hours passed, and I'm close to passing out from the lack of oxygen between his cracks, until I'm startled back to consciousness by a long burp. "BWAAAARRRP...oof, that hit the spot." Matty slaps his now full belly and playfully rolls his fat cheeks against my face. "You doing okay back there? Heh."

With a grunt and straining effort, Matty pulls himself forward to stand up, and I'm pulled along with him, still wedged between his cheeks before falling to ground. Coughing and gasping, I look up and allow my vision to adjust to the light after being kept in darkness for so long. The dinner table is trashed with dozens of empty plates all licked clean, I'll have to wash those later while Matty is busy digesting his meal. Scraps of food are littered across the floor, the only sustenance I'm allowed. In the center of it is Matty, holding his rotund gut and smiling contently.

"Alright, time for bed!" he says joyfully. Finally, I'll be allowed to rest. "Thank you, Mat-" Before I can finish responding, I'm crushed to the ground by his weight again. "Silly pony, you didn't think I meant bedtime for you, did you? Your night's only getting started. Come on, you can do it," He points towards the bedroom, "and try to hurry, it's not easy carrying all this food in my gut, I want my bed now." I put all my remaining strength into lifting myself into position to carry my master to the bedroom. My arms and knees are wobbling from all the weight, "Please sir, you're so much heavier than I thought when I agreed to do this." Matty just laughs, "That's not my problem! You're my slave, aren't you? If you don't think you can carry me the entire way, you better try your best until you're crushed under my weight. Now hurry up, pony." He spanks me for extra emphasis.

I start inching forward. The bedroom is only a few steps away but it feels like an eternity. Step by step, I struggle towards the bedroom while Matty moans and rubs his belly.

Finally, I reach the bedroom. Two steps away from the bed, Matty belches again and I lose my balance, collapsing under his weight. Passed out on the floor, I hear him get in bed, "Ah...finally. I swear it takes you longer and longer each night." It's only because you keep getting bigger, I think to myself. Completely exhausted, I decide to just sleep on the floor by Matty's bed...

Not even two seconds after I shut my eyes, I feel myself being pulled up by the collar before I'm dropped down. Forcing my eyes open, I look forward and find myself in front of Matty's groin. "Like I said, your night's only getting started." He chuckles and grabs me by the back of my head, rubbing me up against his balls while he rubs his belly with the other hand.

"I'm about ready to slip into a food coma, but I think you can help me make sure I have a good night's sleep." Too tired to resist, I feel Matty slide his fat cock deep into my throat. "Ohhhh, that's it, take it all." Tears well up in my eyes. This isn't what I wanted. My body is completely limp, I can't even push him off me. "Mmph, you're not resisting at all, what a good sex toy." He's pumping faster now, I'm pushed up against the bottom of his belly again and again, making him gurgle more. "Can't even- urp, see your little face down there, just- oh fuck, my belly, all my belly, growing so- mmph, big." I taste the precum in his mouth and feel him getting close. Suddenly, he flips his fat thigh on top of my head, pushing my head onto the bed and he starts to facefuck me. "You're just- oof...my little- MMPH slave, just mmm UGHHHHHH!" He pushes deep into my throat, torrents of cum streaming down my throat. His breathing slows, until he shifts into a more comfortable position, accidentally wedging me between his ass cheeks again. "Mmm that felt good...oh you still down there? I'll let you out...in a little..." His voice trails off until I hear him fall asleep. I guess it's only right that I'm back to my rightful position as his ass cushion, ready to start it all again when he wakes up.