#words in answer

[wordsandrobots]

So I've never seen anyone badmouth Gaelio as often as you, besides the ones that rightfully complain that he shouldn't have come back. Not that I wholly disagree, but what are your reasons?

Oh, anon. No, no, no. No, you have to understand, I *adore* Gaelio. He's perfect, vengeance arc and all. He is my absolute favourite chew toy. I wouldn't have spent so long writing fanfic focused on what happens to him, mentally speaking, post-canon if I didn't love the obnoxious lavender-tousled prick to death.

Gaelio Bauduin is a man fucked over by his social position, a sweet kid scarred by having been born into an aristocracy, who nevertheless retains enough of a moral compass to change for the better. He learns. He grows. He cares for those closest to him with an earnestness that belies his snobbish, flippant attitude. He genuinely, uncomplicatedly commits to justice and loyalty in ways his upbringing ought by rights to have beaten out of him.

He is additionally the single biggest reason the story ends as badly as it does, on account of being the most hideously self-absorbed dipstick on the face of the solar system.

(Second most hideously self-absorbed, we do have to factor in Iok.)

In another story, Gaelio's gradual dawning realisation that the attitudes he was taught are bullshit would be a process of redemption. His experiences with Ein, his compassion towards Carta, his vitriolic semi-mentor/semi-friend relationship with Julieta, his apology to Mikazuki -- these are the markers of someone learning to be a better person. In another story, he'd be learning to be a hero.

But in this story, his slow personal journey isn't what's important. What matters is how it interacts with a world too cynical to run on heroic narratives. Elion uses him as a political wedge. Tekkadan do not give a rat's arse about what he thinks. McGillis allows no room for an epiphany concerning their friendship until it is far, far too late. In imagining the scales had fallen from his eyes, he railroaded himself into the biggest screw-up of his life.

It's not completely his fault. As I said, he's used and rejected by others, and McGillis did have a damn good go at murdering him. But if he had been slightly more open-minded, slightly more willing to put his money where his mouth was when it came to his disapproval of Gjallarhorn's actions, and slightly less prone to making everything about his feelings -- well maybe he wouldn't have ended a broken, wistful shell of his former self, voluntarily disabling himself and regretting everything he didn't understand.

It's *beautiful*. Seriously. The tenor of your question leads me to believe I should restate my opinion that Iron-Blooded Orphans is a near-perfectly executed tragedy. When I say Gaelio is 'Always Wrong (TM)', I mean that is the part he plays in the tale. The man who makes every possible mistake he could in the course of getting exactly what he thought he wanted. It's a narrative role and he is a fantastic way of filling it because unlike Iok (who exists entirely as a hate-sink), Gaelio *does* have redeeming characteristics. He's loyal and principled. Passionate and determined. Able to adjust his world-view based on his experiences. Ultimately capable of swallowing his pride and admitting he was wrong.

And it doesn't matter one single jot. Things still end in flames, not just in spite of his attempts to do right by those he accidentally doomed but because of those actions.

Also he's a melodramatic brat who canonically used to flirt using Norse mythology, repeatedly injured people on his own side by mistake, got his arse handed to him by children (again, repeatedly), adopted the most on-theme moniker he could while wearing a doofy mask for months on end, and spent Season 1 with a crush on the world's least-hinged cop-brained class-traitor. I denigrate his character in precise proportion to which it is presented as lamentable.

Anyway, to lay off the verbosity for a minute, please also understand that if my opinion on a character is negative in the sense of 'I think the writers fucked this up', I'm unlikely to spend much time creatively cussing them out. For instance, to pick another Gundam example, I don't enjoy Shinn from SEED:Destiny. I get what the writing is going for with him and I think it's a neat plot concept, but I find the actual result grating. It's the same for a lot of the cast. Overall, I just don't rate that show very highly. So I don't talk about it, and I don't expend effort to dig into narrative roles, how characters come across, what that means for other parts of the story, etc. To put it bluntly, it's not worth my time, especially when there are people who *do* like SEED and don't need me raining on their parade.

But I enjoy watching Gaelio and that's exactly why I bad-mouth him. It's more than a passing joke; it's part and parcel of what I love about how Gaelio is implemented, that he's that much of an aristocratic nitwit, and that even when he's making moves towards the broadly 'good' end of the moral spectrum, he's still got a deeply hierarchical attitude. This is a man who, in the middle of quite understandably wanting to get back at somebody who tried to assassinate him, reflects on enjoying being in the heat of battle again after having just beaten-up/killed a bunch of workers trying to break free of colonial rule. There is a *lot* you can dig into about what (and who) Gaelio sees as important and how his attitudes are a perpetual work-in-progress, constrained both by his assumptions and by the alliances he has to make in order to pursue his revenge.

It's well executed, as I said, and I happen to find it extremely compelling. Certainly more so than if he hadn't been resurrected because the show-runners liked his voice actor's performance.

[thatsbelievable]

[night-orchids]

the fact that you can see the exact moment tears appear in his eyes

[akanemnon]

We didn't even get an answer, and we never will (at least it's not determination)

FIRST - PREVIOUS - NEXT

MASTERPOST (for the full series / FAQ / reference sheets)

[sakuravalelp]

Phantom letters - DPXDC PROMPT

The bats wake up one day to the internet going crazy; people around the world were getting letters from they're diseased loved ones. The reactions are mixed, from people being outraged for the "prank" to people crying in melancholy at getting closure.

All the letters have something in common: They're closed with a green sealing wax that had an stylize DP and the name Phantom beneath it. Posts about the cards were using the # Phantom Letters.

The bats are discussing the viral posts in the cave when Alfred comes holding a basket filled with letters, announcing they were left at the doors. The letters had the sealing wax that they recognize from the posts. Checking the cameras they can see how they glitch before the basket appears.

Alfred starts to distribute the letters that had only one destinatary. Letters from each Thomas and Martha to both Bruce and Alfred. Letters from each John and Mary to Dick. A letter from Catherine to Jason. A letter from the Drake's to Tim, and another one to Bruce.

Once they had calmed down enough from the shock, Alfred proceeded to read the shared recipients. From Thomas and Martha to "The grandchildren we never got to meet." From John and Mary to "the family that took our little Robin in." Letters from Catherine to "My little boys family." The letters were directed to people the deceased didn't get to meet.

As much as the mere existence of the letters tugged at their hearts, they decided to not read them until they verified that the handwriting actually belong to the ones it claimed. They checked each letter, and in the end confirmed the letters were in fact from they're lost love ones.

After much discussion, each person makes the decision to read they're own letters later in private, and they proceed to read the ones that shared recipients out loud. The letter mentioned specifics like names and events that the deceased shouldn't have been able to know, including they're vigilante abilities, which had them pause each time to panic a bit. But what was more interested were certain pieces of the letters that mentioned a Prince Phantom.

"Prince Phantom said to don't mention things past our death, but it wasn't a command, so we're hoping this won't be much of a problem." - John and Mary

"I still can't believe Prince Phantom is letting us do this, but I'm so glad." - Catherine

It finally paints the mystery in a more concerning light when at the end of Thomas and Martha's letter there is a call for help.

"We're sorry for ending the letter on a serious tone, but seeing the kind of job you all get involved in, we wanted to ask: Could you please help Prince Phantom? Phantom had asked us to not give information about this, but he's so young, and has already been hurt so much. Please, check on Amity Park, Illinois."

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Meanwhile, team Phantom has decided that they needed to get the news about the GIW out of Amity and ask for help. Two problems:

the GIW blocks any technological attempt made.

People might be afraid to learn that ghosts exist and side with the GIW.

As a way to deal with the public image, Phantom opens a possibility that the death have never had:

"All afterlives are open to write letters to their love ones that are still alive today. Nothing that includes threats, and don't go talking about the anti-ecto acts or Amity Park yet, we're trying to ease people into our existence first. Also, I know you all check on your love ones when the veil is thin, but please keep the things you shouldn't know out of the letters if possible. If you want your letter to be sent in the first batch, make sure to deliver your letter before the week ends."

Letters are a good way to reconnect people with the death, they aren't digital, and the GIW won't be able to intercept letters if they're send through inter-dimensional portals. Two birds in one shot.

[sentientsky]

on preemptive grief. on bracing for impact. on looking towards the horizon line and flinching

Rayne Fisher-Quann, “home for the holidays: an essay (sort of) about grief (sort of)” // me // David Levithan // The Crane Wives, “Black Hole Fantasy” // me (again)

[softwaring]

reblog for larger polling please 🖤

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Out of sight, out of - wait.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[parisoonic]

'We go together!' 🤝

[wordsandrobots]

Hey there! loved your IBO writeups and I wanted to hear your thoughts on a certain character relationship/dynamic that I have yet to see fully analyzed. What do you think is the significance or thematic meaning behind the Mika, Atra, and Kudelia trio.

Besides the occasional harem joke lol, the most I have yet to muse about their dynamic is that while both Mika and Kudelia are fixated on their self sacrificing roles and ideals, meaning Mika being the Devil of Tekkadan and Kudelia being the Maiden of Revolution, Atra seems to be the glue that binds them together and tie them back down to reality. Which fits considering the ending.

But what are your thoughts tho?

(Also any plans on a Mika and McGillis writeup)

Hi! Glad you've enjoyed the rambling!

First, really, truly sorry it took so long to get around to answering this. A combination of illness and heavy workload has left my brain more scattered than usual.

Second, nothing planned at present regarding Mika and McGillis, although it's definitely something worth exploring. There's a lot of interesting things to be said about the way McGillis misreads their relationship while being so inspired by Mika, and how Mika cuts through a lot of McGillis' bullshit by being tied to the reality the older man is trying to escape.

Now, on to the main topic.

One way to look at it is that Mikazuki, Atra and Kudelia are a marriage of different conceptions of what gives life meaning. You've got Mikazuki dedicating himself to serving another's ambition, Atra finding purpose in everyday tasks, and Kudelia working towards improving the world as a whole. These can also be seen as three different forms of sacrifice, with each of them giving up things they could have had elsewhere (self-direction, safety, status) for the sake of doing what they think is right.

Another approach is to emphasise their similarities, as equally compassionate people. Kudelia is spurred into action by moral indignation at the treatment of her fellow Martians. Mikazuki is automatically protective of those around him, including strangers. And Atra's skill-set is rooted in the practicalities of looking after other people. This shared drive shapes their relationship from the start: not for nothing do group hugs form key moments in its progression.

If I were to take a stab at assigning them a particular thematic meaning as a group, though, it is this: combined, they represent how far out of reach superficially mundane desires can lie for those at the sharp end of society.

Consider Atra. I've seen criticisms of Iron-Blooded Orphans focused on the stereotypical nature of her contentment with the domestic and desire to settle down with the people she loves (including somebody saying the writers 'had never met a woman in their life', which is bleakly funny) and yes, these do reflect gendered expectations to an extent. However, to stop there misses that, in context, 'I want a peaceful existence as a housewife and supportive member of the community' is a wildly aspirational life-goal. Before meeting Mikazuki, Atra was a homeless runaway fleeing a miserable existence as the dogsbody at a brothel. She isn't under any illusion that what she wants is going to follow naturally from simply being a girl, much less so after falling in with a group of suicidally-reckless child soldiers. The desperation that leads her to suggest Kudelia have a child with Mikazuki in order to keep him with them is extremely well-founded.

Likewise, as I've discussed many times before, Mikazuki's stated aim (devotion to Orga aside) is to be a farmer. To grow vegetables. More of a challenge on Mars than on Earth, yet hardly the stuff of a 50-episode mecha anime in its own right. But, again, Mikazuki is not in a social position where this is automatically feasible. Not only does he lack the required education, farming itself is not the stable livelihood it should be. Fighting is a far more certain source of income and while he does not ever stop trying to learn about growing plants – as a recent commenter rightly pointed out – the choices he makes or is forced to make continually place his dream further out of reach.

And for her part, Kudelia wants nothing more than to ensure Atra and Mikazuki can live the lives they want. Their articulation of her intentions reveals its core straightforwardness: she really is working to ensure the happiness of the Martian people. That's the entire point. Settling on Mikazuki's hypothetical farm is an idea she clearly sees as a long way off, even while cherishing the invitation. But she never wavers from wanting that reality for Mikazuki and Atra, and by extension the rest of Tekkadan. High-handed and naïve though her initial attempts to treat them as equals are, she keeps trying and internalises the lessons they teach her, and that only increases her commitment to a world where no child has to get blood on their hands for the sake of survival.

Here, though, we come to the crunch. Because the things in the way of the simple, simply-stated future these three are after do not lie within their actual relationship, which develops naturally over the course of events until they are firmly a romantic trio. Rather, they are grappling with being caught inside an exploitative structure that proceeds from three hundred years of Earth-centric hegemony. Mikazuki and Atra's poverty has roots far outside their control and Kudelia's challenges to those roots are met with violent resistance from the status quo. For them to be happy would require either a dramatic elevation of their position (Orga's solution), or transforming the economic distribution of their society (Kudelia's solution).

All three are ready to make a fight of it, utilising their complementary talents and shared reserve of bravery. They support one another as best they can through the ensuing struggles. Mutual respect and care is a key part of what binds them together, with Kudelia's determination reflecting what she sees in Mikazuki, Atra's acts of protectiveness towards Kudelia belying her noncombatant role, and Mikazuki swearing to fight for Atra's happiness as reciprocation for her declaration of love.

But in the end this is simply not a story where the daring warrior, plucky princess and brave peasant-girl can win the day. The sacrifices necessary to reach for a better future preclude everyone living to see it. Atra's fears that Mikazuki will be lost to them prove accurate. Kudelia's desire to provide those she loves with a safe, stable life is subordinate to the material connections necessary to pursue that very goal. And Mikazuki's drive to act for others leads him to embrace Gundam Barbatos, the silent fourth member of this relationship, carrying him inexorably to his doom.

I talked in my essay on queerness in IBO about how the epilogue is centred on Akatsuki. Mikazuki and Atra's son is the triumph achieved despite the tragedy, a testament to love that mattered in spite of the violence that consumed it. We find him living peacefully on Sakura Farm with Atra, Kudelia acting as his guardian, giving tangible meaning to his father's death and how things have changed since, no matter if Tekkadan are forgotten.

That framing, however, is bittersweet. The final shots, juxtaposing Akatsuki with photographs from before everything fell apart, reinforce the cost of reaching this point and there remain battles to be fought, as Kudelia smiles for the cameras, signing treaties with her enemies to further chip away at long-standing injustices. The better world is still a work-in-progress and far too many people didn't live to see even this much.

Behind the hope, the cruelty of the situation lies laid bare. Again, Mikazuki and Atra were not asking for much. Their happiness, which Atra achieves in part, would have been entirely unobjectionable. The suggestion Mikazuki enjoys killing makes him display – for him – considerable distress. His hands tremble at the idea, despite violence being central to his current existence. Indeed, it is that existence, stretching back to his time on the streets, that taught him to respond violently. Had things been different, he would have been content raising crops and children.

Even Kudelia's suggested changes are relatively mild. Greater economic parity with Earth is hardly an unreasonable request and finds supporters among the political class. At the same time, the outsized response exposes a great deal about how important the inequality is to those at the top, how it is actively chosen and enforced. Trite as it might seem on the surface, a goal of 'making everybody happy' can lead in radical directions, provoking questions like 'why isn't everybody happy?', 'who does their unhappiness benefit?', 'who would its abolition inconvenience?', and 'how does society justify the absence of happiness in the first place?'

Iron-Blooded Orphans spends its run pairing such matters with a sweet, supportive, polyamorous teenage romance. The sharpness of this contrast emphasises the humanity of those involved and the sheer unfairness of their circumstances – and of what is required of them to improve matters, when power is hoarded elsewhere.

-----

At least, that's where my mind went off the back of your question. There's a lot of that contrast in IBO, between the mundane reality of the people involved and their outsized reputation, infamy and actions. Plus, the treatment of sexuality, polyamory and queerness as just ordinary is something I deeply love about it, as a show.

Thank you for the ask! As a bonus note, this is my go-to Atra song.

('Words, you cannot possibly have a Thea Gilmore song for every occasion.' Just you watch me.)

[Index of other writing]

[eroticcannibal]

I'm still fascinated by the anti-sex people I saw on reddit and still so mad they wouldn't actually explain their stance to me like yes I disagree but I want to understand the specifics about like. What *exactly* is it about having sex that *requires* you dehumanise your partner. Why is this unavoidable. How does it work. What is making that happen. And instead they're just like "but your comment history says you were raped surely you should understand that sex is bad if you were raped" NO ENGAGE WITH MY QUESTION AHHHH I WANT TO PICKLE YOUR BRAINS PLEASE ENGAGE IN INTELLECTUAL FUCKERY WITH ME IM BEGGING

[gokuisahimbo]

And it felt like meeting the whole world.

Alt version, combined the layers!

[inkprilled]

Hope wins every time the sun peaks over the horizon after a long dark night, it softens the day and baths the ground, it warms the air and we breath easier and maybe our souls uncurl a little from that protective crouch we've grown used to, maybe we let our limbs loosen, maybe we let hope sink into our skin, maybe we let it melt our misery from within.

[what-am-i-doing-in-this-fandom]

Is there a lore reason vampire fiddleford wears stereotypical vampire clothes or is he just Silly Like That /genq /pos

Yes, lore reason!!! That actually probably won't come up in the comic, so I'll answer it here!!

Fidds was actually wearing it for a vampire "meeting"!! Yess, he has been a vampire for a while, and he doesn't particularly like it, but he has to participate in vampire culture 🙏 And y'know, you have to dress up for those things. Stan just caught him at a bad time, he usually doesn't wear stuff like that!!!

So when he said costume party, it wasn't that much of a lie, who would've figured!!

[ruinix]

Quinn getting a huge baby fever after he saw you hold your little cousin (or whomever baby)

Hello, lovely…baby fever… yes, baby fever. Ummm, I fear I have…gone overboard again, so it took me a bit. I had to bring out the big guns (my AO3 thots with my fictional men). He almost turned…dark 🤨🙂‍↔️

TW/CW: 18+ MDNI, Smut, Masturbation, a dash of Breeding Kink, Unprotected Sex (use protection, lovelies), Brief Choking, Use of ‘hubby’ (some doesn’t like it so...🙂‍↕️), Quinn being pathetic as he gets hit with an extreme baby fever

Count: 2913 words | Masterlist

You are trouble. So much trouble. Quinn had to lock himself in a bathroom stall as he stares at his phone, his fingers tapping the video over and over and over again. It feels like a loop. A loop of you and that little baby.

Who is that? Who? But the identity of the baby is the second thing in this mind. You’re the first thing.

Quinn can’t stop watching. Can’t stop hearing your little coos for the baby you got in your arms. Can’t stop seeing the way you brush your cheek against the top of the baby’s head. Can’t stop the squeeze in his chest as you smile at the camera, the light shining behind you so perfectly that you appeared to have a halo. Can’t stop feeling your happiness in this ten-second long video. It makes him happy. Too happy that he had to cover up the little one’s face because he’s…his pants tighten up. Fuck.

Before he could type his reply, you sends over a text that had him, leaning back against the door which creaked from his weight. His legs and hands shake. His soul shudders. It feels as though he’s not there. This must be a fucking dream.

Your text says, “When we have a baby, will they look as cute as this little duuuuuude?”

‘When. We. Have. A. Baby.’

When. Not if. When. Like you are stating the inevitable future. Like you are looking forward to it. Like you want him to give you children—or child, fuck, he’ll give you any number of children.

It’s just a simple thought, but it feels like a magnitude ten earthquake causing destruction. You destroyed him in the best possible way. Rattled him so much that he can barely function. He got practice for fuck’s sake. He can’t even tease your extended ‘dude’. He can’t. He can’t think straight.

All Quinn’s thoughts are questions.

‘You want a baby with me? When do you want have a baby? Do you want to start making one now? Next week? Next month? Next season? Next year?’

‘Are you sure you want a baby?’

‘How many babies do you want? One? Five?’

‘Do you want them a year a part? Two? Three?’

Shaking his head to clear it, his tongue feels dry, his heart beating and ramming against his chest. He could barely ask who’s the little dude, barely understand that dude is your friend’s baby, could barely read every paragraph you sent after about little dude. Of course, he still reads it, despite not being able to process them, because he needs to hear you—at least—as he tumbles down the rabbit hole.

More like plummets.

His mind is clogged with images of you. Your tummy barely showing to fully rounded and full of his baby. You eating for two. You being all clingy or irritable with him—he’ll hug or console you either way. You wearing maternity clothes. Most especially, you holding his baby.

Quinn’s done for. He fucking is.

When you send your “I love you”, Quinn’s hand is already wrapped around his cock, your name escaping his lips in a plea, a revelation descending and dawning upon him.

He needs to have a child with you.

That’s why—for weeks, six weeks to be exact—Quinn cannot stop imagining and wishing the babies he sees in the streets, in social media, in the arena during games to be yours and his.

He has…baby fever. He realized that a week in. It’s weird. Quinn doesn’t think about kids or babies. His plan was to be with you. Just you and him without a doubt. Then after some time, he’ll propose. Then you would marry. Then you two will talk about kids, because even if having kids was not yet his focus, he wants a family with you.

You’re his endgame. He’s sure of it, so he’s moving forward with you. Until you sent the video of little dude—Jeremy, if Quinn remembers correctly—with you. Until he literally can’t stop picturing you and babies. Until it’s the only thing in his fucking mind other than hockey and you. Babies. Cute little babies.

He’s so fucked, because it’s not just the wholesome need for little babies. No. It feels primal.

He gets fucking hard, totally bricked up, wanting nothing but to fuck you until you’re bred. So hard that he had to jerk off multiple times during the day. Bathroom stalls. A janitor closet. Even when he’s home, he has to jerk off, given that you’re not there. He tries not to, but his cock would ache as his thoughts worsen, so he fucking fails. Every. Time.

His fogged up brain will continuously echo: “Kids, now. Kids with you. Now. Now.”

Quinn thinks he’s losing his mind. He doesn’t know what to do, because the thoughts of little ones—with your eyes, your hair, your smile, your sweetness, your quirks, your gentleness, your everything—makes him yearn for it to be true. His heart aches for every day that goes without them. He needs a family with you. He needs little ones to spoil alongside you.

So for weeks, Quinn wants to breech the subject with you. He wish to present his new foolproof life plan—that will also be your plan, if you accept. His new plan consist of: lots of fucking to make a baby, him providing for you and your children and possibly grandchildren, him being present for every step of the way, him being a good father. But simply, babies. The plan is to have babies, but the words always stop at his throat.

Because…even if he wants babies, that doesn’t equate to what you want right now. Right? He can’t just do what he wants, can he? Like breed you and—

“Little dude,” you say in a singsong voice, “would look so cute with this, right?”

Quinn looks up and see you hold up a shark onesie. He can only stare, stare, and stare, because this has to be illegal. This, as in you holding up that onesie just a meter away from him. As in you looking proud of every baby clothing you bought. As in you being excited of buying things not for his baby. He hates it. The sudden disdain—to an innocent kid just because he’s not his—is making him all too riled up now. Why are you spoiling someone else’s baby? Fuck.

“Sure,” Quinn chokes out which he tries to mask with a cough.

He nods helplessly when you grin, a sparkle in your eyes, then you dash across the room to get your wrapping papers, tapes, and somehow, more paper bags. Just how many did you buy for that baby? It’s a fucking haul that makes Quinn irritable and also downright pathetic.

He should just say it. He wants a kid with you. He wants to be a father of your children. Easy words to say, but he still can’t say it. He’s such an idiot.

“I want to help,” he offers as you settle on the floor, scooting your legs under the coffee table, looking so cozy.

“Thank you, Quinn, but I got a wrapping system over here,” you giggle. Your arms are comically filled with stuff before you laid then out on the table. “You always crumple the wrapper, silly.”

Quinn does. He can wrap presents, but it’s a battle. Him against the paper. Usually, he wins but the gifts…they’re wrapped so messily. So different with your gift wrapping. While he’s nonchalant about it, you’re particular. He sees your focus for every fold. He has seen you get upset when you fold one piece wrong or if the ribbon is wonky. He loves that about you.

Still, you give him socks and onesies. Still, you let him messily wrap them. You even smile, looking so proud of him like he’s the best, looking utterly kind and patient. You place what he wrapped on your growing pile.

You’ll be a good mother. Quinn knows that. He’ll do his best to be a good father. He can do that. He can—

He jumps when you suddenly hop over his lap.

“Where’d you go?” You ask, pressing a kiss against his jaw. Quinn can only cling to your hips, savor your touch on his nape, the feel of your fingers running through his hair. “Come back, hubby.”

Hubby? Are you insane? Do you what that does to him? Who is he kidding? You fucking do. You always do. You’ll be the death of him.

“My Love,” he groans, a bit too whiny in his opinion, but he can’t help it. The effect you have on him.

“You like that?” you chuckle, breathing in his sharp exhales. “Hubby.”

Quinn can only growl in response. You’ve short-circuited him and you laugh at him. Cruel. His cruel Love. He hugs you tighter, grounding himself. This is real. You called him Hubby. Not Huggy. Hubby. Your hubby.

He buries his head into your neck, greedily taking in your scent. God. You smell so good, so addicting like a custom-made drug, just for him.

His cock throbs, wishing to be seated in your pussy, wishing to spill his cum in your womb until it takes.

“Do you want a baby?” He forces out, his voice coming out raspy and broken and desperate. He’s probably blushing, because he’s burning up. Even his fucking eyes stings. He’s going to cry and it’s fucking pathetic.

“Hmm,” you hum, hands rubbing over his chest, soothing him.

One hand runs up his jaw, coaxing him to meet your eyes. Your beautiful eyes track every detail on his face, taking everything like it’s your first time when you’ve already done it hundreds of times.

Then you softly kiss his cheeks, the mole on the right, his forehead, the edges of his eyebrows, his eyelids, his lips. A simple soft peck. One by one until he’s just putty underneath you. His heart pounds but not from fear, for his undeniable love for you. Just like that you settle him.

“Been thinking about that, handsome?” you ask.

“Yes,” he nearly stutters.

“Do you want to have a baby?” you ask, pressing another kiss on the tip of his nose.

Quinn shudders, eyebrows meeting, breaths picking up. “Yes,” he confesses like he’s about to confess guilty and be sentenced to death.

A grumbled ‘fuck’ escapes his lips when you scoot closer, sitting your clothed pussy right over his aching cock. You roll your hips once and Quinn almost comes. Shit. What are you doing to him?

You’re saying something, whispering the words on his lips, but Quinn couldn’t focus.

You’re so close. Oh, so close. Your breaths mix together, making him all so dizzy. He wants to kiss you again, but when he tries to close the smallest distance between you two, you move back. Why are you…

Then he realizes what you said.

“I’ve been wanting your baby for so long, Q. So long.”

You want his baby.

It feels like the last tether around his control snaps.

No longer is he chasing your lips and letting you pull away. No longer is he shaking like a goddamned leaf, choking on unsaid words, yearning and begging to the void. No longer because you’ve said it. You want his child.

He captures your lips, hand slipping through hair, firmly tugging. The way you moan against his lips makes his blood rush his cock. Your hands grasping at his shirt. Your hips grinding against his. Your desperation is a distinct reflection of his.

“Quinn,” you gasp, panting for air. Your pupils are blown. Cheeks flushed.

Quinn groans your name, lifting you to rest you on the couch, him still kneeling on the floor, your hips glued together. He grasps your collar, ruthlessly tugging down. Buttons pops out, fabric tearing. It’s his shirt anyway. He can just give you more.

He doesn’t let you complain, easily capturing your lips, as he continues his rush to remove every bit of your clothing. You try to help, but he won’t let it. He can’t or else he’ll lose it.

He needs this. You need this. Those thoughts keep bouncing in his head as he deepens the kiss. His hand finds your pussy, already dripping. Slipping a finger, your pussy sucks it in, quivering, clenching, leaking. God, you’re so wet. He doesn’t even need to prep you, because you’re already so turned on for him. Only for him. He hooks his finger against your special spot, making you scream.

You’re so ready, aren’t you? Ready to be fucked. Ready to be bred.

“It’s such a dangerous day, Quinny,” you whimper, nails digging into his arms.

You’ve already sent him over the edge, but hearing you—those new set of words—makes him spiral deeper into his haze.

He somehow gets rid of his shirt but only pushes his pants and boxers down, before he sinks every inch of his hard and leaking cock into your needy pussy. So easily. So smoothly. So eager and greedy.

“Fuck,” he growls, nipping your lips, blunt fingers digging into your thighs to keep them wide open for him. “You feel so good.”

So good. So perfect around his cock. He watches his cock slide out then back in, shivering at the feel of you, shuddering at your exhales, at how pleasure contorts your beautiful face.

“Quinn,” you say his name like it’s a prayer. “Breed me.”

He nearly comes from that. You’re such a minx. He leans back, fucking harder into you, bottoming out and hitting the spot that has you singing your screams, that has your eyes rolling up as your pussy convulses with tiny orgasms. Christ. He might not last long.

He just wants to fill you up, plug you with his cock so nothing spills. He needs to do that. If he doesn’t, you can’t get pregnant. You can’t have the child you want. The child he needs to take care of, to spoil, to love.

He  wraps a hand around your neck. Of all the necklaces he bought for you, it’s his favorite and nothing else, but the sight of the little heart pendant resting on your collar bone, just beneath his wrist, has him snapping his hips harder, rolling to heighten his and your pleasure. Fuck, so good.

“Harder, hubby,” you taunt as tears run down your cheeks. “Please, just a bit upward.”

He follows your plea, hitting the spot you wanted him to reach, getting the immediate reward of you arching your back, pussy clamping down around him as you come. Your cum dribble out with your arousal. The squelching noises and skin slapping is so alluring. Quinn needs more.

Quinn rides your orgasm, prolonging it until you are whimpering and gasping, “I’m coming. Quinn.”

He tightens his hand around your neck, feeling your pulse quicken, pussy tightening. You can only hold his arm, hips raising to meet every thrust that makes your tits bounce. Your eyes rolls as you come once again as he controls your air. What a sight.

He finally lets go of your neck, running his hand down your chest, teasing your taut nipples, making you whine, your tummy, until he reaches below your navel. He pushes down then you scream and come around him again.

Look at you surrendering to him.

“That’s three,” he groans out, slowing down his pace. He rises up, resting on knee on the edge of the couch, so he can fuck into you deeper. He hooks your quivering leg over his forearm, watching you bite your lips. “Got more for me, my Love?”

“Please,” you breathe. “Fill me with your cum, Q. Please. I need it.”

That’s his fuel. Your words. Your breaths. Your moans, mewls, whimpers, whispers of calling him your hubby. You, whining for more, more, and more, as he ruts and rolls his hips into your sopping wet pussy. The slight drool on the corner of your lips which he couldn’t fight the urge to lick. Your taste, your feel, your touch, all so divine.

He can’t get enough of you.

Soon, he’ll have little you’s whom he’ll love, whom he’ll play his games for, whom he’ll work hard for, whom he’ll be proud of. He’s already doing these for you, but that promised will ignite—has ignited—another flame in him.

He’ll have pieces of you and him in his arms.

He can’t wait.

He can’t.

He needs to make it happen.

He must.

He captures your lips, your tongue meeting his instantly. Fuck. He can feel your desperation. You need it too.

Quinn slows, drawing every thrust deeper, losing himself in you until he comes so hard that his sight blurs, so hard that he almost crushes you to the couch, so hard that he whimpers your name because you also come. Every spurt of his cum, a silent prayer, a plea for it to take.

But even if it doesn’t, Quinn has the whole day to plug you up with his cock, to fuck you again with your hips raise to lessen the cum that spill which is fucking inevitable. So, he’s there to give you more.

He has to make sure that you’re full of him. Full of his seed on this dangerous day. So dangerous. A perfect time to breed you, isn’t it?

God, he can’t wait until he’s fucking you with your belly is round with his baby.