#Peripheral Concepting

[osakanone]

The steel battalion controller could fix me. Some company needs to make specialty mech controllers so i dont have to spend £350 on 2003 hardware (so i can spend £350 on 2025 hardware).

Mech game Controllers: Solving the unsolvable

I have put so much time into thinking about this and you've basically asked the perfect question.

I think there are really complex and important questions that nobody really has a good robust answer to but also that nobody is really asking those big questions in the first place either, so we're stuck on this issue.

My take is I genuinely think if we want big mecha controllers we have to think about this stuff deeply and profoundly. Like, why we need them and what they're for.

So… This has been tried many times.

NOK or NextOfKin Creatives did try this.

The Mek-Fu lopped horribly, and I was absoloutely fascinated by this at the time and wanted to understand exactly why it had failed. I think we must learn from this failure, so we don't make the same mistakes again.

The lesson I took from Mek-Fu was this: it didn't take because players had nothing to use it in where it was the best fit.

What does this mean?

1) For other games in the real world, it was inferior to keyboard and mouse in games which do not simulate a vehicle. 2) The design wasn't trying to meet some sort of pre-existing need from other games. 3) Steel Battalion emulation did not exist meaningfully yet, and in turn no equivalent game existed on the PC platform which would need it.

Therefor: There was no special environment where its employment made the best sense.

It had nowhere to excel and thrive.

So where have specialty controllers existed, and thrived?

Digital Combat Sim (DCS)

Star Citizen

Euro Truck Simulator

Farming Simulator

What do they all have in common?

They all have robust modding tools for user-created content

They all have some form of social experience or multiplayer

They all are highly accessible (PC, and are controller agnostic*)

They are all sandboxes in some capacity and let users find their own fun.

No mech game which exists at time of writing meets all these terms that I know of.

So what do these controllers look like?

In the case of real vehicles, you can simply ape the real vehicle 1:1, but for fictional vehicles, something special happens -- you see people approach and try to solve the problem in many different ways.

You see, control design in any area exists to solve a problem. The Mek Fu (a response to the VT controller) was a solution looking for a problem, and no problem existed.

From this, we learn that for specialty mech controllers to exist, you first need specialty mech games. Steel Battallion is limited, because it won't run on general hardware and doesn't network or mod easily so it isn't a good fit for this because it makes the game inaccessible and limited.

Let's actually think about the SB controller for a bit:

Steel Battalion approaches its problem from the standpoint of a robot. You might not realize this but a VT or Vertical Tank intentionally controls very similarly to a tractor.

It is influenced by a real thing. I know that sounds absurd, but let me show you what a modern tractor's task control console looks like:

Yeah, not what any of us would have expected.

If you wanna be a mech pilot in 2025, go drive a tractor. I'm not kidding.

Once you're on the field, your hands aren't on the wheel, they're on this thing:

The big stick controls the course in the computer, the little one controls your tool, the many buttons toggle states (or what the little stick is currently triggering) and through these inputs you drive the tractor.

Steel Battalion is very fun, but it won't hold your attention for more than around 100 hours unless you're a real freak about tractors and just don't know it yet.

What's more, Steel Batallion isn't playable to anybody without the controller which limits how many people will be playing it and it isn't social or moddable like the successful games we talked about earlier.

Okay, so what can we do about this?

I think the one feature here that nobody talks about is that of input-agnosticism: The ability to bind your own inputs to something in the game (directly or indirectly through some middle thing) and get good results… But not in some hugely "okay bind 100 things using our controller, or use a keyboard and mouse" binary.

The binary is still not input-agnosticism, and it still will not work.

It has to be granular.

Input agnosticism results in controller agnosticism:

You can bind as much or as little as you want, and you can pass features you don't want to bind directly to a helper subsystem middle-man like an assistant or instructor which will perform limited tasks for you - while you provide the helpers context by telling them which of a limited set of goals you want to achieve.

Say, face a target, or a direction, or aim at a thing. It saves you mental time, though if you did it manually you might get better results (incentivising you towards experimenting in that direction).

Let's touch on why controller agnostic design is really what's needed here, and why its important:

This is the omnithrottle, and and this is the Sublight Dynamics 6dof joystick.

The Omnithrottle tries to solve 6dof throttle management by adding an extra piece to a joystick at the bottom, turning the yaw z-axis-twist of the stick into a sort of vertical axis for direct up and down movement, ascending and descending.

The Sublight Dynamics 6dof joystick combines all six axis into a single device, and is an interesting experiment. I particularly like the puck switches ahead of the user's fingers, inspired likely by Evangelion which in turn was inspired by Sol Bianca's use of them.

We got great lessons in human factors for space dogfighting from both:

The omnithrottle produces huge fatigue if you use it in coupled mode (software assisted flight), because you have to hold the joystick base forward, fighting the springs. This is fine in decoupled mode (where you coast under newtonian force) but not everybody uses it. Likewise, if you remove that spring, you lose fine movement because you can no longer feel where the middle is anymore.

The SD6DOF creates a conflict in Fitt's law (speed and precision are enemies of each-other, and to get both you need a tool in the middle to help you) where some precision is lost due to the same muscles needing to drive more axis at once.

These are both many years old now, and over time we've seen many many solutions to this problem flop.

Well, VKB announced the Space Throttle Grip a few days ago, which rethinks the distribution of axis and combines the best features of both.

The key thing is, this is an evolutionary space with competing ideas. A healthy ecosystem.

And its only possible because the game's inputs are controller agnostic.

This doesn't just mean that it'll let you bind any input device directly to things, but that there are multiple ways to achieve your desired outcomes even on the software side with the helper middleman we talked about (in this case, coupling modes).

Does your machine turn to face an arbitrary vector which is the thing you actually steer or select (Warthunder)? Do you have direct input control? Do you haven an autopilot?

Here's a lecture by F22 Raptor test-pilot Randy Gordon talking about some of this stuff, giving you a frame of reference with a real vehicle which exists.

When you can pick between those goals them, you have what's called "a software" in human factors. Your two grips become arbitrary and are now called inceptors.

The software drives the machine, and you drive the software. You can override the software and provide a manual input, but the other elements you are not overriding will try to compensate to maintain a desired state. If you know how to manipulate this, it means you only need a small number of axis to achieve a very complex control action.

A great example is how long you hold the A-button in Mario changes how much power his jump has. The action is a versatile verb.

Imagine a person balancing. If their goal is to stay upright, and I push them, they translate across the ground and try to stay the right way up, turning that push force into horizontal force. They are following an instruction: remain upright.

If I make that person carry a very heavy thing, they compensate their body's balance accordingly. If I then use my finger and tell them to act as if I am pushing them with that gentle motion, they will respond but if they go too far they can say "hey, don't do that, I'll drop the heavy thing!" and ignore my pushing instruction -- because my directive telling them to remain upright superseded it.

We need to think of mecha in terms like these, and to do mecha, we need to make a standard of accessible rules like this which input devices can talk to via axis and buttons, with lots of middlemen.

Absolute (mouse-like) and relative (stick like) and accumiulated (driving a mouse with a stick by having a variable over time) and blended (driving a car with a d-pad with a simulated wheel that wants to return to zero all the time, replicating a stick) inputs must be middle-modes processing and digesting inputs in these ways. Curves matter. Biases and preferences must be accounted for.

This means finally solving "how" the giant robot works in software (even if its a design conceit), and then having systems which poke at the "how" to bias it in a direction toward an outcome.

My favourite version of this is a deliberately clumsy mech-game called Robot Alchemic Drive (RAD for short).

Playable on a regular PS2 controller, the triggers and bumpers drive the legs like a tank. The sticks drive the arms.

The robot's body has physics. You are controlling a thing.

There are no helpers to correct your motions other than when the robot stands up and to keep it upright (its otherwise 100% manual, playing back motion planning which gets fed into the physics) but yes, there is a simulated body here.

With helpers, this could get faster and way, way more fluent.

So how might these "helpers" in software work?

Think for example of how a body in motion continues to move. With a robot in a vacuum like space, you'd continue indefinitely. That's hard to control.

Do you automatically slow down and fake aerodynamic drag axially with your boosters to allow curved trajectories and soft stopping with a motion-control-decoupling-mode (as Star Citizen does), or do you have a breaking system a user can activate on a pedal or trigger, to apply those forces on different axis when they want them?

What are those axis bound to, the pelvis, the thorax, the head, the synthetic vision 3rd person camera?

These are really complicated questions, and this is just about how we make a vehicle come to a stop!

Now this might seem niche, but this exact same kind of thought also applies to how a robot balances, and how it digs its feet into the ground, creating torque or not situationally.

This isn't just fine grained motion like "moving our legs manually", but how and when we apply breaking force on the ground.

Do we apply it when we let go of the left stick?

Does the left stick prescribe a preferred velocity?

Does it prescribe input forces?

Do we change between these situationally, or maybe with a button?

Its important to think about these things.

"You're making this too complex!!"

"But why would we do this? What is the value? People are playing Armored Core 6 with a HOTAS!!"

Yeah, and that experience is not great, actually?

You're actually less capable than a keyboard and mouse-player, because Armored Core 6 isn't a game which simulates orientation over time (the body turns instantly as if by magic), so you're just driving relative inputs. You are literally disadvantaged.

Armored Core 6 has no "vehicle": This is an action-game's 3rd person control software. Its Elden Ring's horse, with a jetpack, and the roll replaced with a dash. Everything else is animations.

Its visually impressive, but there's something fundamentally missing:

Fahrvergnügen.

It means "driving pleasure" in German.

The feeling you get when you speed up going down hill, or you feel the give of the wheels against the road and the lean of the car when you take a corner.

When you bank against air in an aircraft, or turn faster than your velocity changes and you drift.

That good feeling, that's fahrvergnügen.

A game which really gets this I think is Armored Core: For Answer. I know many of you might have expected Mechwarrior here but the physics of Mechwarrior games are extremely simple, following an interpolative model.

Interpolative here means, a bit of calculus is used to ensure a smooth arching curve is how you go from zero to a high speed at all times, or a rotation, so on and so forth. This "smoothness" is the same smoothness present in Armored Core 6.

Armored Core For Answer on the other hand, is additive in how it calculates velocity per second, meaning your AC's velocity curve is inconsistent. The game has hidden stats calculating aerodynamic drag per part, it has a simplified model of angular momentum, and it has ground friction and its boosting system is different on each axis.

All of your inputs are analogue, including the angle of your boosters on left stick, and two booster-types: Your main booster handling like a motor-cycle throttle curve, and the other not only having many stages of output for flashes of thrust via contexts (combining motion and direction together to produce an intent) but also combos and even cancels. Its VERY sophisticated!

That's a lot of different factors to control. A lot of fahrvergnügen to be experienced when you master them, and feel ownership of them.

Lots of areas for skill expression.

This, combined with a rich weapon balance and a complex combat geometry (the emergent spatial and pressure rules of motion, aspects, angles and motions similar to the aircraft dogfighting) are why people are still playing this game today.

The match I uploaded was from four days ago, as of time of writing. People are still modding a game from 2008, limited to console by hacking the rom file's patches. Yeah.

I know among many game reviewers, "smooth" and "smoothness" is considered a compliment in game design (its easy to control), but interpolative motion really is the opposite of fahrvergnügen:

Interpolative suffers from feeling "zippy" and "hollow" when its fast, which is why lots of players and designers insist on slowing games down so they recover their fahrvergnügen.

You don't have to do things this way. A good mech sandbox should reward both fast and slow movement in its design!

There should be room for everybody to play!

In interpolative movement games, motion is already solved, to sell you the superficial power-fantasy (that you're good, despite not having learned how to be good) instead of giving you the experience.

Interpolation is insisting the burger you got at McDonalds is the same as the burger on the commercial. Like the burger at McDonalds, its also way way easier to make, and in today's market yeah, you take what's easy and known because you have economic pressures to get things done quickly.

You can't make a five star meal in a McDonalds kitchen, and the AAA games industry is the McDonalds kitchen of gaming.

So, what is a three star michelin meal, in terms of inputs, with additive movement?

You incentivise people with the cheaper stuff on the menu. That's robust helper tools which let keyboard and mouse players, or gamepads interact fluently.

Its affordable, and easy and gets people invested in your experience.

Then when people use fancy controllers, you get better response-rate. Because everybody buys into the mecha fantasy when they play, being beaten by someone who is controlling more complex control factors more directly at once (making them a better pilot) feels fairer.

They are negotiating the machine's limits better than you are.

You both know they more "an char" than you are:

It becomes aspirational, rather than annoying, which is how the culture of space-simming, and flight-sims, and other vehicle sims express this. It also fits the mecha fantasy, because those with basic controls are your grunt units.

We see this if we look at cockpit controls in Gundam: A Jegan's control inceptor is way simpler than say, Unicorn's.

It is just part of the fantasy.

So let's talk about these limits we negotiate.

It means, some kind of vehicle must be simulated in software, even if its a very simple abstraction purely enough so it feels good for players.

Also, I say "a software" or "helpers" what do I mean?

I don't just mean the simulated vehicle, but a robust modular middle system in the "player controller" part of the game simulation which interprets desired outcomes from a pilot user or operator and tries to achieve them.

Here's an example, let's talk about Armored Core's lockon system, which uses a software stack to turn your intention into an outcome in exactly this way.

Your robot's simulated sensors (radar, visual, etc) detects a list of potential targets…

Which uses camera orientation of a synthetic vision system to give you comprehensive 3d awareness to determine which target is interesting to you…

After selecting the target, it passes that information to the fire control system which computes a trajectory from its position and velocity…

This then talks to your weapons which know how fast your bullets go…

and this picks where to lead along that trajectory…

then that location is sent to the arms to execute that command…

Which then sends the state of this command chain to your HUD, so you understand what the body of your robot is currently trying to achieve.

Each step is influenced by ingame statistics and simulated mechanical limits -- meaning, how well you can lock up, or even select a target is very important.

You can't instantly put a cursor on something and bot a game, because everybody already has a deliberately limited aimbot, it came with your robot, to negotiate its deliberately limited body.

The key thing is, this is much much faster and more effective than you could as a human select the target manually and hit accurate than you could with round velocities -- with most videogames hiding this with hitscan (instantaneous bullet) weapons meaning whatever you click on is hit right away.

When the round takes time to get there, things are far more difficult. This is why almost nobody uses manual aiming unless they're throwing explosives at big bulky targets in AC.

From limitations like this, booster performance, turn-rate, and so on and so forth -- the negotiation of limits produces a combat geometry and how well you understand that combat geometry, and how well you understand your abilities to your opponents abilities dictates how the fight will go.

We see something somewhat similar in Steel Batallion with the lockon system but we also have a lot of deep manual control over our VT's orientations which change its balance and so on. Steel Batallion is in fact, one of the few games where your robot can fall over and get back up.

This is exactly how DCS and Star Citizen also work, and very similar principles apply in Eurotruck Simulator and Farming Simulator via the fuel, cooling, air, combustion cycle, and transmission, and shock absorbsion systems of your vehicle.

Okay, so now what?

I've been thinking for a while now about writing what I think would be the mech-game equivalent of the paper Tim Berners Lee wrote for the web (Information Management: A proposal) going into what I think the simulation would really need, what the software would need, what the controller would need and some suggested practical strategies for solving these problems based in real research I and others have done.

The system I've already built solves for fire control, fine arm motion, head movement, independent pelvis and foot motion, the operation of boosters and other similar systems in a 6dof environment which accounts for gravity, aerodynamics, balancing, alignment and full motion control -- all on a standard game controller. Its not modular yet, simply because I am not a skilled programmer, and would need real help to do this.

There's also game-design research here, which would ensure the combat geometry would reward skill expression via investing in that agnostic game design, so the control skill aligns with the power-fantasy through skill expression. This means no one strategy becomes overwhelming.

It likewise, also has the "for gamepad and keyboard/mouse" solve which would be needed to ensure its accessible for those who aren't ready yet for custom controllers.

In turn, it also has considerations and proposals for such likely controller designs and probable strategies of employment which of course translate and map to two big sticks, in a HOSAS (Hands on Stick and Stick) layout.

So what's your ideal controller?

Less a controller, and more a principle:

Key to the proposal is you can scale up the amount of control bindings, or scale it down passing automation to helper subsystems which take your intention and act on it in a useful way.

You could have just two plain sticks with foot pedals, or you could go ham and have some complex force feedback device with tons of inputs -- because of this input agnosticism.

The secret sauce I think to the highest end control is the use of software defined force-feedback not only for the two big sticks, but also four smaller ones: one each for your thumb, and one each for your finger on each hand, and an analogue trigger. I've seen this solved in open source projects, so its entirely doable.

What does this actually mean?

Source: KAIST-HCIL/FS-Pad

The purpose of a force-feedback stick is software defined -- driving the camera, pelvis, upper body, boosters, walking etc variably, with the feedback not necessarily telling you about the environment -- but also by providing what amounts to new input devices.

To explain, force feedback works by providing input to the stick like a robot arm and is not at all like a rumble feedback device. This means the position the stick "wants to return to" at any given time is not defined by springs like it is in a conventional controller, but by active software which can update in real-time.

This means resistance can be different in different directions, or the stick can even hold a position you give it in one axis but not another, replicating a hat switch or a flight throttle.

I've looked at many different open source projects which achieve these outcomes both on thumb-sticks and main sticks with great outcomes, and I think a prototype could be made if I had a team, or other people to work with.

If interest is expressed, I'll produce a specification proposal for what this input agnostic design in software needs to be (eg, how the robot is controlling) in strictly defined terms which can be implemented.

You can already see it on my Tumblr account as TOMINO, NAGANO, etc where I go into some of this -- all of which works on a standard controller, but adapts extremely well to a large HOSAS.

Likewise, I'd (eventually) also produce a proposal for a controller design which meets this specification.

I've been testing this concept on and off for many years now in Unreal Engine (I'm not a skilled programmer, not skilled with CAD or electronics, depression limits my effective outcome returns -- but I'm still getting very promising outcomes).

Ultimately what I'd really want access to is expertise and help, since my background is mainly thinking about and designing solutions for problems not necessarily implementing them -- and I'm essentially on disability, so I have unlimited time to think about this.

I don't want to ask for money, which I figure is the thing everybody is anticipating: I'd rather get this done than make money from it.

In conclusion?

To solve this what's needed isn't some figure of brilliance in a basement or garage somewhere, but an organic ecosystem of designers and builders responding to pressures, and we've already see that work many times very well.

In our case, nobody has defined the vehicle or the modular helpers in a way robust enough to capture every fantasy effectively.

That's the issue.

tl;dr coming away from this:

For the controller to exist, you first must have something to control.

To be a pilot, you first need a vehicle.

--

Live forever, Apes.

[demi-pixellated]

🌻Blade Breaker II & The Rose Noble🌹 - Power Couple of New Fodlan -

I am SO EXCITED to show my full piece for Sunflower, A Leonie zine. What a beautiful book, with all it’s fantastic merch, and I’m so glad I got to be apart of it and show my fav cavalry girl all the love she deserves!! Thank you to everyone who supported the zine, but if you missed out the first time around, don’t sweat it! Sunflower is now having it’s leftover sale!! 🌻 Pick Up A Copy Here 🌻

[rejectedfables]

"If Xue Yang had been raised in Wei Wuxian's situation, he--" wouldn't have become Xue Yang. He would have become a different person. The circumstances of his childhood created the person he became, that's the whole point of his entire story.

[pencilbrony]

If you can't see good or want cool sliders

[batsplat]

Jerez 2006

[It] was certainly within the four walls of that gym, between rep after rep on different muscle groups, that the 'LorenShow' was born. There was a time when only Rossi used to put on a show, but even that has become a rare event. 'Now he only does it on certain occasions,' says Jorge. 'The World Championship was losing a bit of sparkle. Other riders were trying things but they weren't funny, especially in 125cc. There was a time when Melandri tried to imitate Rossi but he never managed to make it as funny.' Jorge had been thinking for a long time about how he could offer his fans something extra after a win. A lot of people saw him as too serious, but he wanted to show that he cared about them, that he enjoyed what he did and that he was affable and good humoured, as well as imaginative. He needed an ingenious plan because he had a clear objective: to celebrate the World Championship title in style. 'We wanted to do it in style, go mad,' recalls Dani Palau. That seemed a long way off, back in the summer of 2006, but once the crises of Turkey, Shanghai and Le Mans were behind him the dream of beating Andrea Dovizioso was alive again.

Strictly speaking, the first episode of the 'LorenShow' was at the Spanish GP in 2006. It was his first victory in the 250cc class and Jorge got off his bike, took off his helmet and started shouting at the fans. 'It was pretty spectacular and it was the first time we used the word "LorenShow",' he recalls. 'Palau and I used to put together a ten-page magazine of our own after each Grand Prix and on the front cover of that particular edition we put a photo of my celebrations and the headline [in English] "Welcome to the LorenShow!" That was awesome, really different. I have always been creative and I fancied doing something special after I won, so I decided to give it a try!' The design of the magazine, by the way, was similar to GQ. 'Well, not similar exactly. We kind of copied it! We were worried about getting into trouble for copying it but I hope they don't hit us with a lawsuit now ... it was only for us!' he laughs.

March 2007

After his victory at Losail Jorge pretended to skip like a boxer, as he'd done for so many hours in the gym with Marcos. It was a spontaneous, intuitive celebration and an early turning point for his season. After such a morale-boosting performance during and after the race, why not celebrate all his victories from now on? 'In Qatar I did the skipping-rope thing but I never thought that in the future I'd be using props to celebrate my victories!' The preparation that went into each episode of 'LorenShow' was a simple but elaborate process. Generally the original idea would come from Jorge and, often with the help of his computer, Palau would fill in the details. It became something of a team effort at Motorsport48, where almost everybody began to join in the fun. Everybody except the boss: Dani Amatriain kept his distance. He didn't like or dislike the celebrations but he preferred to leave them to Jorge as a bit of innocent fun. Out of the blue came another idea, this time from Marcos. Once again, it was an idea born in the gym. 'You are a warrior. You have to reclaim the championship, right? But what kind of a conqueror doesn't have a flag?' Jorge's eyes began to twinkle. 'It has to be something really visual,' Jorge told Palau, taking on the idea. 'Imagine that in each race I stick a flag into the ground, as if I have conquered that land. Like Christopher Columbus when he arrived in America!' The design process was short, with Jorge's X-fuera logo the obvious choice, set on a black background - the colour used by pirates. And written in English, so that it would be understood all over the world, not just in Spain, would be those now famous words: 'Lorenzo's Land'.

The day of its first unfurling soon arrived. It was the Spanish Grand Prix at Jerez, known as 'The Cathedral' by local fans. Dani Palau headed for partisan territory - the section of track that features the 'Angel Nieto' and 'Peluqui' corners, where he would meet his friend if he won the race. 'I had goosebumps. You should have heard the noise from the crowd when Jorge stopped!' he recalls. There were 140,000 people packed into the grandstands at Jerez that day and they had been treated to an outstanding 250cc race: 'la carrera de los cuarenta y dos adelantamientos' ['the race with forty two overtakes']. Jorge Lorenzo savoured the moment. As he had done in 2006, he removed his helmet, got off his bike and punched the air to celebrate his second victory at Jerez. Then the flag appeared by his side. He took it and drove it deep into the gravel. Jerez had been conquered, the first circuit to be claimed as 'Lorenzo's Land'. A few weeks later he won again, in China, and again he planted the flag. However, unlike Jerez, this victory was his first in Shanghai. Nobody was going to stop him now.

"Now what's happening with Lorenzo? Oh, he's going to plant the flag, I think. Here we go! Or he's going to throw the flag. He's going to do something, but, eh... All the script we have in front of us, all the timings, goes out of the window when Lorenzo wins a 250cc race... so you can just, rustle up your papers, any scripts you've got, what's coming up next, disappears, because he delays everything. There we are. Plants the flag..."

Le Mans 2007

Lorenzo, who designs his own logos and comes up with fun things like the pirate flag he sticks in the sand at the circuit where he wins to "announce to everyone" that he has conquered "that land" , says that preparing for these celebrations is just another way of coping with the hard training he does and, above all, having the best time possible. "Looking for ideas for the parties I have at the circuits encourages me to win ," he said yesterday after his excellent victory over Dovizioso.

The Mallorcan, who did not hesitate to admit his mistake on a line and apologize to Dovi for the push he had given him ( "I'm very sorry, I went out too wide on a curve, I wanted to regain verticality too soon, get back on the right line and I crashed into him" ), yesterday came up with nothing better than to dress up his soulmate, Dani Palau, as Jorge Lorenzo, with whom he shares the entertainment of festive designs and games. Palau appeared on the lap of glory and tried to get his two-and-a-half-litre Aprilia and, as they had agreed, Lorenzo told him to go away, that the bike was his and that he was the owner of the winning machine. "We wanted to make a joke, implying that the double, which was him, Dani, represented the Lorenzo who had fallen on Friday and that the real one, that is, myself, was the one who had won the race."

Mugello 2007

Jorge was coming up with more ideas for celebrations than he could use, and that was probably a good thing because some of them would have got him into more trouble than they were worth. Like the one that involved him wearing an Andrea Dovizioso mask. 'We've still got the mask but Andrea would have had to do something really bad to me to warrant getting it out ... though he'd better ‘watch it!' smiles Jorge. Another one that failed to get past the ideas stage was for Valencia, the final race of 2007. Jorge had already claimed the title and, after being criticised all year for using the 'Lorenzo's Land' flag instead of the Spanish one, planned to go completely over the top, using not only the Spanish flag but dressing up' as a bullfighter. Maybe it was a good thing he only managed seventh. The celebrations he did get to use became ever more elaborate and meticulously planned. He would scour the circuit for the best comer, with the best camera angle and the best view for the fans. Jorge had decided that each celebration should have something to do with the country he was in, and in Italy a friend, Jordi Ohva, who worked for Dorna [the commercial and television rights holders for MotoGP] gave him an idea. 'In Italy they've nicknamed you "Spaniard". The commentator on Italian television has started calling you that.''"Spaniard"? Why?''Because you are like a gladiator and that's what they call the main character played by Russell Crowe in the movie Gladiator.' Maximus Decimus Meridius was a Roman general born in Merida, Spain. He lived in the second century and since this was the second year of domination by a Spaniard in the 250cc class then what better way for Lorenzo to celebrate victory in the Italian GP than by dressing up as his namesake? 'In fact, the idea of doing something historical came after watching 300 with Marcos,' explains Jorge, 'We watched the film again with Palau, the three of us talked about it and we decided we wanted to do something related to the Battle of Thermopylae. It was while we were looking for a King Leonidas suit that we came across a Gladiator outfit. That coincided with me finding out what [Italian television commentator] Guido Meda was calling me.' The wheels were quickly put in motion. like any good media relations manager, Pere Gurt sourced an exact replica of the costume worn by Russell Crowe in the film, which was owned by an agency in Madrid. It cost 600 euros a week to rent and the sword was extra. It was kept in a corner of the garage at Mugello, where Dani Palau devoutly guarded it from the inquisitive eyes of journalists who were already wondering what Lorenzo had up his sleeve if he won this one. On race day Palau headed for the comer where they'd agreed to meet if a miracle should happen. Jorge was starting from 20th on the grid, but he still had his sights set on victory. Everybody knows what happened next. On the big screens around the circuit, Palau watched his friend slide into the gravel after colliding with Bautista. He jumped onto his scooter and raced to fetch him, sword, breastplate, helmet, 'Lorenzo's Land' flag and all. The Italian fans spotted the props and, despite Jorge's popularity there, Dani could hear them laughing and shouting insults. The mediocre can be unforgiving when a winner falls from his perch. 'The preparations were perfect, but unfortunately the race wasn't!'

Catalunya 2007

You have to be very confident in your abilities to appear on the starting grid, having previously asked two friends to dress like you, to wait for you at a strategic point during the lap of honour and to take out some guitars so you can emulate your favourite band in front of 112,600 spectators. That was how Jorge Lorenzo celebrated his fifth victory of the season at Montmeló, giving a concert on the track and another one off it, microphone in hand, as a tribute to the Red Hot Chili Peppers and to make up for his fall at Mugello a week ago. This time, the Mallorcan needed two stunt doubles at his side for his performance, and those who dressed as him were Dani Palau, his webmaster and the same one he used at Le Mans, and Ricard Cardús, a CEV driver and Carlos' nephew.

Looking back on his performance, it could be said that the most critical moment was the start, when Thomas Luthi had taken the lead on the first corner. 'Por Fuera' did not back down, he lived up to his nickname and made an epic outside turn. That was the only thing that really cost him, or so it seemed from the sidelines, because he later said that it had been a difficult race. Maybe he said that because he still had in mind the blunder in Italy, that fall on the last corner when Álvaro Bautista overtook him. Whatever the reason, he was exultant and at the end of the podium ceremony he dared to take the speaker's microphone to address the public. "Did you enjoy the show?" he asked from the top of the podium. And he continued: "I know that some of you liked me and others didn't, but I don't care. You are Spanish like me and I love you! Thank you."

The trio completed a recce of Montmelo on Thursday and Friday and performed a rehearsal at the corner of choice, in front of the stadium section. I told them, "When we're playing here, I want you to jump around like the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Go on YouTube, have a look at the videos and learn the dance moves," ' recalls Jorge. 'But the bastards ignored me!' For one magic moment Jorge, Dani and Ricky were no longer Lorenzo, Palau and Cardus. They weren't even three Lorenzos, dancing and singing like maniacs in front of 100,000 people. They were Anthony Kiedis, Flea and John Frusciante. Only Chad Smith was missing on drums, otherwise they would have been the real Chilis. 'I wanted there to be four of us, like the real Chilis, and I was going to ask Ricky's older brother Jordi to join in but there weren't any more leathers in my size. Also, getting a drum kit onto the track would have been a nightmare!'

Donington, Assen, Sachsenring 2007

After Catalunya came the British GP and before travelling there they went to dinner with a racing friend, Xavi Ledesma - the owner of the Fortuna Team hospitality unit and one of Jorge's closest friends in 2005, as well as being the organiser of the Copa Aprilia when he first started racing Xavi told them that the tradition in England was to drink tea in the afternoon. No sooner said than done. They went out and bought a tea tray, complete with teapot, cups and spoons. Palau planned to sit at a table at the Melbourne Loop, dressed as a waiter in a tuxedo and crash helmet. All Jorge had to do was turn up, rest his feet and have a drink. Oh, and win the race. Unfortunately, the final and most crucial part of the plan started to go wrong in the warm-up because, as is well known, rain is as traditional at Donington as tea. Despite the heavy downpour, Jorge produced a great performance - he was having the best wet race of his career. 'Shall I go out or not?' thought Dani halfway through the race. His buddy was running in second place behind Dovizioso. He had to have faith. 'If you have any doubt, something is bound to go wrong,' says Jorge. 'Whenever I have felt sure I would win I have won, but if there has been any kind of doubt I've lost, come second, or something has happened. That is what the brain is like.' And just as Palau made his mind up and went to load up the scooter with props, Jorge hit the deck. That was one cuppa that was hard to swallow. Jorge's next celebration was enjoyed by the Spanish fans, although it was on a Saturday rather than a Sunday. The Dutch are a bit different in everything, even their racing, and since 1949 the TT at Assen has always taken place on a Saturday. Jorge knew exactly what he was going to do if he won. He wanted to copy the thousands of locals by riding a pushbike. They rehearsed their routine at two or three different comers. 'This place is best. How far will you ride the bike? Will you be able to cycle in boots?' Every minute detail was taken care of. 'We'd practised in that area where Valentino sat when he won the MotoGP race, the bit that looks like a target. I was going to leave my Aprilia and the pushbike would be in the middle of the circle. We thought of it before Rossi!' Suddenly, he changed his mind. On his return to the pit garage he realised that there was a stage, all set up right next to the track, because just by the final chicane that leads into the start-finish straight there is a VIP terrace. It was the perfect place - and not only that, there was a television camera directly opposite.

'We could sit down and have a drink,' Jorge told Dani. The fact he'd missed out on his cup of tea at Donington a few days earlier still irked him, so it was all hands on deck. The owners of the terrace had to be consulted and asked for permission. Initially they weren't too keen because there are no fences there and it is easy for people to get out and access pit lane. For that reason, a huge deposit has to be paid to hire the area, which the circuit organisers retain if there are any problems. In the end they realised it was a Lorenzo celebration and they went along with it. This time Jorge backed up his plans with a dominant victory. However, having left his bike propped against the fence before climbing over the tyre wall and on to the terrace, he was swamped by punters taking photographs and the television cameras lost him in the melee. 'On top of that, the bar owner was a complete opportunist and he got a bunch of people to hold up an advertisement! It was a disaster.' Even though not much could be seen on the television, it was clear that Jorge's double had returned and that they'd gone to have a drink together. But why? Jorge was happy to provide the answer in pare ferme. 'After the crash at Donington, somebody [Dovizioso] had suggested I was getting nervous. So I sipped on a herbal tea.' Some time later Dani Palau insisted that the initial idea was to drink a glass of water but, as at Le Mans, Jorge was thinking on his feet and he was eager to hit back at Dovizioso. 'Sometimes that happens to me. I get really good ideas on the spur of the moment. Other times I really have to think things through for them to work out. But sometimes I get a flash of inspiration.'

Jorge finished fourth in Germany but there were no plans for a celebration even if he'd won. He was worried about the joke wearing thin. 'You have to keep people guessing. It is good to have an element of the unexpected. If we did it every time it wouldn't be funny any more. The truth is that I like things to be complete and maybe I would have continued the celebrations race after race but I let them convince me. It was good to have a break.' The summer holidays were approaching and they wanted to leave the fans gagging for more. To be fair, I have to say that I can't always put on a big celebration because I need helpers and Palau didn't come to every race. For the ones outside Europe we had a much smaller group.' There were no celebrations in the Czech Republic either, but this time for a different reason. Nobody at Motorsport48 was in the mood for a party. Dani Amatriain's assistant, Esther Serra, had just lost her brother, Marc. Jorge won but conducted a silent parade of his now obligatory 'Lorenzo's Land' flag in honour of the family. 'The problem with the celebrations is that it gets harder and harder to come up with something original, with meaning, that isn't just plain stupid,' says Jorge. 'Ideas are finite. We had something planned for Portugal but I'd prefer to keep it to myself - I might use it in the future. We also wanted to do something with animals but are they allowed on the track? We planned to get Datil, my mum's dog, a set of made-to-measure leathers but imagine if we brought him out and he had a shit on the track! That'd cause a scene!' Jorge fell about laughing as his imagination took over. 'It's a shame Marcos doesn't come to more races because we could dress him up as Shrek! Ha, ha!'

Misano 2007

From that moment on, Jorge defended his first place, riding alone and maintaining a calm margin over the second, who ended up being the Japanese Aoyama, after first catching his teammate Kallio, who fell next, and then Héctor Barberá, who added his third podium of the year. Lorenzo is now 50 points ahead and celebrated by doing a lap of honour dressed as a Roman gladiator. De Angelis is second after finishing a disappointing fifth in what was his Grand Prix.

Jorge toyed with the idea of wearing his new outfit [the gladiator costume he had been mocked for at Mugello] if he won at the GP of Catalunya but eventually decided that revenge is a dish best served cold and it was better to wait. The season would give him plenty of opportunities to settle the score and the Italian fans would have no choice but to bow down before him like a Roman general. Every great film has unforgettable lines that are often repeated by film buffs. This one from Gladiator suited Jorge down to the ground. My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius . . . commander of the armies of the north . . . general of the Felix Legions . . . loyal servant to the true emperor, Marcus Aurelius . . . father to a murdered son ... husband to a murdered wife ... and I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next. 'What a well-chosen phrase!' Lorenzo must have thought. Italy owed him one and he was going back to collect his dues. It wasn't to be in that first race on Italian soil, but he was determined to get his revenge in the second. He rented the outfit again, waving goodbye to another 600 euros, but this wasn't about the money. This was a question of honour. He didn't know the circuit, because there hadn't been a GP there since 1993, and although he had visited Misano once, when he'd signed for Derbi in 2002, he was only 15 then and not old enough to actually ride. None of that mattered now, because he went out and won. And on top of that, Dovizioso broke down. Jordi Perez and Cheni Martinez raced out onto the track to dress their man. They'd already discussed with Race Direction and the television directors where the best place would be for the celebration in terms of safety and maximum exposure. Jorge didn't want to take the outfit off - not when he stepped on to the podium, or when he sprayed the champagne. He even kept it on for the press conference. He clearly wanted to recoup his investment, but above all he wanted to enjoy the moment. He felt like the king of the world. ' "Now THAT was legendary," Guido Meda told me.' "

Sepang 2007

Dovizioso responded to remain in Lorenzo’s slipstream as the duo were caught by KTM team-mates Hiroshi Aoyama and Mika Kallio, plus Hector Barbera. The five battled until the penultimate lap when Dovizioso’s wafer-thin title hopes were ended as Mika Kallio took him out in an out-braking move. Hiroshi Aoyama inherited the lead and kept it to the flag from Barbera and Lorenzo. As Kallio remounted to finish fourth ahead of Tomas Luthi, Andrea Dovizioso remounted to cross the line eleventh. Meanwhile Jorge Lorenzo was celebrating keeping the 250cc world championship in a boxer’s gold-coloured gown and gloves, and picking up a fake championship belt in parc ferme.

Jorge won his second 250cc World Championship at the Malaysian Grand Prix with one race to spare, to top off an outstanding 2007 season. And what better way to celebrate in style than by looking way back to the very first race of the year in Qatar, when Jorge recovered the 'eye of the tiger'? His antics in 2007 had made him the leading contender for the title of paddock showman left vacant by Valentino Rossi in a season when the Italian had little to celebrate. It's clear by now that Jorge is up for a challenge and a second 250cc World Championship title was enough of an excuse for him to stake his claim, as the leading heavyweight in 'motorshowbusiness'. On this occasion it wasn't actually one of his own ideas, but he made it his own as soon as it left the lips of Marcos Hirsch. Having started the season training like Rocky Balboa and trying to recover the 'eye of the tiger', he took the title in Malaysia (coincidentally a country the famous Italian novelist Emilio Salgari referred to as the 'land of the tigers' ) and there was only one way to celebrate - as the new CHAMPION OF THE WOOOOOORLD! That box in the corner of the garage at Plulhp Island contained a story all of its own. Jorge and Marcos's initial idea was to set up a boxing match between the two of them, in which Jorge would knock Marcos out. The idea was that I had to beat a heavyweight. And boy is he heavy!' laughs Jorge. When I'd dressed as Jorge at Valencia the previous year, the message was that he had grown up,' explains Marcos. 'This time it was a case of demonstrating that he was capable of anything. Even knocking out somebody twice his height and weight, like me!' Another of Jorge's ideas was for Marcos to grow his hair like Don King, the world's most famous boxing promoter. In the end the celebration wasn't exactly as Jorge and Marcos had planned, partly because the Brazilian trainer was unable to make the trip to Malaysia.

The final idea came about after a conversation between Jorge and Marcos after which the 'celebration panel' of Jorge, Dani Palau and Pere Gurt set things in motion. They went on the Internet to download information about the Clint Eastwood film Million Dollar Baby and then researched other famous boxers like Mike Tyson, Evander Holyfield, Oscar De La Eioya and Julio Cesar Chavez. Once they had decided on a look they set about sourcing the outfit. Esther Serra was sent to a fabric shop in Barcelona, which is where they encountered their first setback. They didn't have any gold fabric for the hooded cloak - only black - and if that shop didn't have it, it was difficult to imagine anywhere else that would. But necessity is the mother of invention and somebody suddenly remembered that the covers used to unveil Jorge's Apiilia RSW250 at the start of the season had been gold. Problem solved! Now it was a case of putting the whole outfit together. They'd found a blue cloak in a Barcelona boxing shop, and picked up a gum shield at the same time. There were some fruitless trips to fancy dress shops. It was time to get the family involved... Pere Gurt called his mother, Rosa Casas, and her friend, Carme Armengol. After much protest, which fell on deaf ears, the pair reluctantly accepted the assignment and, as a result, MotoGP ended up with two more avid fans - to the point where they would get up at 5am to watch Jorge race in Australia.

A world championship belt needed to be found at the same time, so the team got in touch with the Spanish Boxing Federation (FEB), who recommended 'Charlie's', a specialist shop in Madrid. Bingo! Not only did they have a belt, they also had a pair of golden gloves. The only problem was that the belt featured the Dutch flag, but Esther wasted no time in having the red, white and blue colours replaced with a logo designed by Dani PalaWeb that read: 'Loren Show II'. In the end Jorge didn't use the gum shield, but there's a little story about that too. When Juan Llansa saw it he said there was no point: 'That is a shit gum shield. You need one made to measure!' Juanito knew what he was talking about - he'd not only seen plenty of riders use them over his 20 years in motorcycle racing, but also his daughter, Zaida Llansa, was the 2001 Kata [a form of martial arts] World Champion. As soon as he landed in Australia he looked on the Internet for a martial arts shop near Phillip Island. He bought the silicone, warmed it in boiling water and made Jorge bite it for a made-to-measure gum shield. Lorenzo still decided not to use it for the celebrations, but Juanito saved it just in case Jorge decided he needed one for MotoGP. 'He never wore one in 125cc and 250cc but I've saved it just in case he really needs to grit his teeth in MotoGP!' Llansa laughed. Everything was prepared as quickly as possible because there wasn't much time. Jorge quickly became impatient: 'Pere, how's the cloak coming along?' 'Don't worry about it.' 'If it's going to be shit just leave it and we'll think of something else.' 'Trust me. I don't doubt your work, so don't doubt mine.' It was almost time to leave and everything was ready. Cheni Martinez picked up the outfit and went to meet Jorge at the Hotel Barcelo-Sants gym in Barcelona for a dress rehearsal. He had to try everything on before leaving for Melbourne. In the car on the way to the airport Jorge received a call. It was Pere. 'How is it?' 'Pffff. It's not that bad.' Pere Gurt hung up with a smile. 'We've done it,' he thought.

The box remained unopened in Australia, of course, but in Malaysia the surprise was unleashed. The hardest-hitting World Champion in racing was about to be crowned and the character of Rocky Balboa represented the strength he'd displayed to overcome his own limitations and fears. Jorge Lorenzo had not only clinched his second world title, he'd proved to himself and to the world that he could do anything, as a rider and as a person. And then he and the clan treated the public to their most memorable celebration yet. His friends, headed by Juanito Llansa, waited for him with the boxer's outfit that Lorenzo wanted to wear to mirror his battling performances on the track that season — the cloak, gloves and belt of a World Champion, made out of gold fabric and with a logo on the back, hand sewn by Pere Gurt's mother and her neighbour. It simply read: Loren Show II. World Champion 2007. The 'Lorenzo's Land' flag had fluttered at seven different circuits during the year, but this time it was the Spanish flag that an emotional Lorenzo drove into Malaysian soil, in the final turn of the Sepang International Circuit. The whole act had been Jorge's tribute to 'the eye of the tiger', the winning attitude of Rocky Balboa that he'd adopted as his own. All the knock-out blows to his rivals during the season had given him just cause for celebration. Celebrations are often forgotten the following day, as soon as the outfits and props have been returned, but not this time. The World Championship gown and gloves will always remain part of Jorge's life.. 'One day I returned home to find that my mother had prepared a surprise. She had redecorated my bedroom and there it was, my gold outfit, hung on the wall, looking magical.' Some people think Jorge Lorenzo is simply copying Valentino Rossi, the originator of post-race victory celebrations, in order to enhance his own image. Others feel that perhaps he takes things too far, or they may view the Lorenzo antics rather more favourably. Jorge will continue to hope they're accepted for what they are: harmless, innocent fun but always with a moral to the 'story'. There's no doubt, though, that he will have something to say if other riders start copying him...

Jorge Lorenzo and 250cc celebrations

Lorenzo is authentic, reject imitations (2007); Shanghai race commentary (2007); A recital by Jorge Lorenzo to forget about Mugello (2007); Lorenzo 'Gladiator' conquers Misano and caresses the title (2007); Sepang MotoGP: Jorge Lorenzo is 2007 250cc GP champion, Hiroshi Aoyama wins race (2007); Jorge Lorenzo: My Story So Far (2010)

[orecchietta]

he/him . a concept

[butchratchettruther]

Reading giddens for uni work again. How is this man so infuriatingly wrong about everything

[laydown-bud]

Cw: discussion of kink, *BDL and babyfurs

*a

Honestly I just get so pissed when I'm scrolling through Etsy and see something with a really cute design and have it be sold by a link store. Then I get ag*-pl*y stuff in my 'you might like since you looked at blank' and it just really sets me off that all of the similar babyfur type patterns are never purely or at least mostly sfw. Like I know I could just avoid those types of designs cause I can then avoid those types of stores, but they are so cute and it's frustrating!

I saw a paci clip with prints of these cute (anthro) animals with pacis and thought oh they're so cute! Only to click on the store without thinking and be smacked in the face with kink content!

Like yes I'm an age regressor who tries to keep my stuff safe for work, but I think people can do as they please as consenting adults. So I'm not mad that most babyfur content is made with rather nsfw context- I'm mad that the stylizations and art of babyfur stuff doesn't have a lot of sfw options!

Idk I'm just kinda crabby about it, but maybe that's just me.

[unproduciblesmackdown]

person facepalming emoji as i remember the s7 "uh oh it's casino night. to judge if you're good at your jobs that aren't 'winning at casino games'" plotline not even to be like "only this sinking ship of a fund helmed by people just fucking around would do this" rather than that the show wanted to have another [it's casino night] type episode. imagine if a series' primary focus wasn't threading together scenes that are intended / to be interpreted only in ways more superficial than you can manage

[kateschi]

second helpings

synopsis: he owns the kitchen—until you quietly claim a corner of it, and he is enjoying it more than he lets on.

pairing: timeskip!bakugou katsuki x f!reader

⊹ ࣪ ˖ notes: been gone a while. had ran out of ideas but here we go

you don’t cook often.

not because you can’t, but because he always beats you to it.

katsuki treats his kitchen like a battlefield—controlled, efficient, and his.

he moves like he’s been doing it his whole life, sleeves pushed up, jaw set in focus, the faint smell of spices clinging to his shirt even after he’s done.

it’s something he enjoys, something he’s good at, and he rarely lets you lift a finger when it comes to meals.

so when you tell him, “i made something for you,” you expect a scoff, a teasing remark, maybe even a lecture about how he should be the one cooking for you.

what you don’t expect is for him to hesitate.

it’s barely noticeable, but you catch it—the slight pause, the flicker in his expression before his arms cross over his chest.

“you what?”

you huff, nudging the bowl toward him, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “i cooked something for you.”

his red eyes flick down, scanning the dish like he’s assessing its structural integrity.

it’s nothing fancy—just something simple you put together while he was out. but his fingers twitch slightly, like he’s holding himself back from reaching for it immediately.

“…what’s the occasion?”

you blink at him. “nothing. just wanted to.”

his brows furrow slightly, like he doesn’t quite understand the concept of someone cooking for him just because they felt like it.

but after a moment, he exhales through his nose, jaw shifting as he grabs the chopsticks.

“you didn’t have to, y’know.”

you smile, resting your chin on your hand. “I know.”

he doesn’t say anything else before taking a bite.

the first one is quick—just a taste.

then the second comes almost immediately after, slower this time, more thoughtful. his chewing slows just a fraction—contemplative. his brows furrow, but not in a bad way.

he’s thinking.

then, without a word, he goes for a third bite.

you watch him, amusement curling at your lips. “well?”

he chews, swallows, and sets his chopsticks down with a casual motion.

“…it’s good.”

you stare.

then squint.

“just good?”

his ears tint the faintest shade of pink, and he scowls, looking at anything but you. “what, you want a damn trophy?”

you snort, shaking your head. “a simple ‘thanks’ would work.”

his mouth presses into a tight line, and for a second, you think he might just grumble his way out of this. but then, just barely above a mutter—

“thanks.”

your grin widens, warmth blooming in your chest as he goes back to eating, and even though he doesn’t say anything else, you don’t miss the way he finishes every last bite.

it happens again.

not immediately, but enough that it starts to become a habit.

one night, you make an extra portion without thinking, setting it aside without a second thought.

another night, you leave something for him when you know he’s coming home late, the dish waiting on the counter like a quiet reassurance that he isn’t alone.

you don’t always expect a reaction, but you always get one—even if it’s just a muttered “’preciate it” or the way his shoulders shift ever so slightly when he sees what you’ve left for him.

and then, one evening, you catch him sneaking extra bites.

you’re pretending not to watch, seated at the kitchen counter with a drink in hand, your body angled just enough to keep him in your peripheral vision.

katsuki eats like he always does—quick but deliberate, each motion efficient, no wasted movements.

his back is straight, his expression unreadable as he makes his way through the plate of curry you set in front of him.

then, the second you turn your head—

a blur of movement. a quiet clink.

your eyes snap back to him.

katsuki freezes, chopsticks halfway to his mouth, a second helping clearly stolen from the pot sitting on the stove.

his jaw tightens as he chews, his expression carefully neutral, but you don’t miss the way his fingers tighten slightly around his chopsticks.

your brows lift. “did you just steal extra?”

a beat of silence.

then, his red eyes flick up to yours, his chewing slowing slightly as he glares, unimpressed. “what?”

your gaze drops to the now slightly emptier pot.

a slow grin spreads across your face.

“you did.”

he scowls, shoving another bite into his mouth like it’ll somehow erase the evidence. “it’s good. so what?”

you rest your chin on your palm, amusement flickering in your eyes. “you could just ask for more, you know.”

he clicks his tongue, gaze flicking to the side, suddenly finding the tiled floor far more interesting. “dunno what you’re talkin’ about.”

after that, you start paying more attention.

to the things he likes, the things he doesn’t say outright but that you pick up on anyway.

you learn that he prefers meals fresh off the stove, that he eats fast but never wastes a single bite. that he loves spice—but sometimes, just sometimes, it even gets to him.

you catch the way he drinks more water when it does, the slight furrow of his brows when the heat creeps up on him.

“you good?” you ask once, watching as he takes another gulp of water.

he clicks his tongue, setting the glass down with more force than necessary. “’course I’m good.”

you just shake your head, amused.

even when he’s exhausted, dragging himself through the door after a long shift, he still eats whatever you make. no complaints, no hesitations.

just a quiet moment where his shoulders loosen and he sits down without a word.

and no matter how much he huffs and grumbles, no matter how much he acts like it’s nothing—

he never says no to your cooking.

one night, he comes home later than usual.

you’re already half-asleep on the couch, curled under a blanket, when you hear the door open.

heavy boots thud against the floor, the familiar sound of him kicking them off near the entrance. there’s a rustle of fabric as he shrugs off his hero jacket, the soft clink of his gear being set aside.

then—

a pause.

you blink groggily, rubbing your eyes as you push yourself upright. “katsuki?”

he doesn’t answer right away. just stands there, his gaze fixed on the covered dish waiting on the counter.

his shoulders loosen slightly, the exhaustion still clinging to him, but there’s something softer in the way he moves now, like the sight of the meal has pulled some of the weight off his shoulders.

“…you made somethin’?”

you yawn, stretching your arms above your head. “yeah. thought you might be hungry.”

he doesn’t say anything at first. just strides toward you, stopping in front of the couch, and before you can react—warm lips press against the top of your head.

it’s quick, fleeting, but it lingers in the way his breath ruffles your hair right after.

his voice is quieter this time. “thanks.”

your chest feels light, a soft warmth settling beneath your ribs, but before you can process it, he’s already moving again. he grabs the plate, lifts the lid, and takes in the meal.

then, he makes his way back to you, dropping onto the couch beside you.

his thigh presses against yours, his body radiating warmth, and then an arm drapes over your shoulders, pulling you in.

you blink, a little surprised, but you don’t resist, sinking into him as he picks up his spoon.

he eats in steady bites, quiet, comfortable. then, without a word, he scoops up another bite and holds the spoon out to you.

you hesitate for half a second. “you don’t have to—”

“just eat.”

you huff, but open your mouth anyway, letting him feed you.

the flavors settle on your tongue, familiar and warm, but you barely notice because katsuki’s watching you now, eyes flicking over your face like he’s waiting for your reaction.

you chew, swallow, then smile a little. “tastes good.”

his mouth twitches, and he clicks his tongue, looking away. “’course it does. you made it.”

kofi — navigation — masterlist

do not copy, translate, or plagarize

[gloomwitchwrites]

i saw a tiktok of a heavily pregnant woman saying “maybe i dont give him butterflies anymore but i do give him high blood pressure” then they walk by their S/O with a latter and power tools. and i have been thinking about how the guys would react ever since

Oh, anon. This is so cute! I love this. I know the trend you're talking about, but I feel like I haven't seen it with pregnant women specifically, but I find it even more hilarious if it is. I had a lot of fun with this one. Thank you for sending it in!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (MDNI): swearing, dad!141, pregnancy, married life, parenthood, domestic fluff

Word Count: 800

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

“Get off the ladder, cabbage.” John exhales, trying his best to keep his voice calm.

You’re standing just high enough on the ladder to rest your pregnant belly on the top rung. John stands directly behind you, both hands firmly planted on either side of you against the rail. It’s not to support the ladder but to catch you if you fall. A potentially likely possibility since you’re carrying extra weight in front of you. You could easily tip back enough to lose your balance.

“I’m fine, John,” you reply, continuing on as if he’s not worrying.

It’s maddening how relaxed you are, like the potential factor of danger is a completely foreign concept.

“Please,” he emphasizes. “Get off the ladder.”

“Why?” you ask. “I’m more than capable.”

“You are,” he agrees. “But you’re also pregnant.”

“So?”

“Cabbage,” warns John.

“Fine,” you exhale.

John keeps his hands on your hips the entire time. When you’re back on solid ground, some of that tension melts away, but his heart still thumps quickly.

You lightly cup his cheek, batting your eyelashes at him. “Were you worried about me, John?”

John places his hand on your belly. “Worried about all three of you.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Kyle sits at the kitchen table, sorting through the mail. With a heavy sigh, he opens the energy bill, removing the paperwork, reading over the breakdown of energy usage for the month.

From his peripheral, Kyle notices movement. Glancing away from the itemized bill, Kyle’s gaze softens when you walk into the kitchen. You’re pregnant, close to your due date. Even waddling around, Kyle can’t seem to keep his hands off you.

He leans back in his chair, appreciating you for a few languid seconds, then his heart drops into his stomach.

“Damn it all. Put that down, love.”

Kyle shoots out of his chair, trying to calmly but quickly make it over to you.

“I’m fine,” you insist, attempting to walk by. “I can assemble it.”

“No.” Kyle’s tone is firm but gentle. “Give it here.”

His heart is pounding, anxiety spiking from not just the power drill you carry, but the cardboard box full of wood you’re attempting to guide down the hall.

“You sit here.” He points to the chair. “Sort the mail. I’ve got this.”

You slowly ease down into the chair, and Kyle breathes deep, trying to calm his nerves. “Bloody hell, woman,” he mutters.

John "Soap" MacTavish

He hears your footsteps first, and then your voice as you curse under your breath.

Johnny lounges on the sofa, reclining against a fluffy pillow. At his feet are his two-year old twin daughters. On the television, a Bluey episode plays. The girls aren’t watching. They’re smashing their dolls together and running them over with the yellow toy excavator.

Sitting up, Johnny glances over the top of the couch

At first, he smiles. Then frowns. Then launches himself off the couch.

“Put it down,” commands Johnny. “Drop it.” He steps on a doll and winces, wobbling slightly.

You turn toward him, pregnant belly coming into view. You’re carrying a ladder, the large one, and you’re not supposed to be lifting anything over a certain weight.

“Down,” he repeats. “Put it down.”

You roll your eyes and turn away. Johnny makes it to you quickly, grabbing the ladder and placing it on the floor.

“What are you thinking?” he asks. “You’re bloody pregnant.”

“Don’t yell at me.”

“I’m—I’m not yelling,” soothes Johnny, cupping your face in his hands. “But you gave me a right scare, yeah?” He kisses your forehead. “I’ll take care of it. Go sit with the girls.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon is curled up on the sofa, a precious bundle in his lap. His two-year old daughter rests her head against his chest, gaze focused on the colorful pages.

“He started to look for some food,” reads Simon from The Very Hungry Caterpillar. “On Monday he ate through one apple.” His daughter traces the outline of the apple, and then runs her finger over the caterpillar. “But he was still hungry.”

As Simon turns the page, he hears your soft but determined footsteps. He briefly looks away from the book, his gaze falling on your belly, round and full of his child. Inwardly, he smiles, knowing that the family you’ve created together is about to grow by one.

“On Tuesday he ate through two pears,” continues Simon. “But he was still—”

His voice disappears, and his stomach flips, blood pressure spiking as he watches you turn the corner. You have a step stool tucked under your arm and a drill in your hand.

“Goddamn it,” he mutters, lifting his daughter out of his lap and placing her on the sofa. “Daddy will be back shortly, doll.”

He kisses the top of her head, and then takes off after you. With the added weight, your steps are slow, and it only takes Simon a few strides to walk past you and cut you off before you make it to the nursery.

“What are you doing?” he asks, reaching for the drill.

“Hanging a painting,” you reply like it’s no big deal.

Simon sighs. “Give it here.”

“I can do it,” you insist, turning away from his reaching hands.

Simon plucks the drill out of your hand and holds it out of reach. “Give me the step stool.” With a pout, you surrender it. “Gonna give me a bloody heart attack.”

[majinbangus]

I’m now obsessed with dog!Simon, thank you for the nourishment for my enclosure. I shall now go feral /pos

i'm so glad you like the concept <3 》 18+

"I'm sorry... what?"

You stare blankly at Soap. He stares back, a tad reprimanding. Ghost hovers behind him, naked and expectant, raptorial smirk on his face. They've both blocked you in the bathroom.

Soap crosses his arms, looking a little disappointed in you. "When I got you your dog, I thought it was implied that you take care of him. That includes bathing him."

"But he's not really—"

"He can take care of himself most days, but he's still yours to take care of, sweetheart. He'll need at least one bath once a week. If you can't do that, we can't keep him."

There's a part of you that thinks that may be for the best—if that happens, maybe you can talk Soap into getting you an actual dog—but when you look over Soap's shoulder to eyeball Ghost, you can't help but feel a slight pang at the thought of losing him. Or perhaps that's just the thought of disappointing Soap and Ghost, and going back on the compromise. Whatever the reason, you can't bring yourself to get rid of him. He's here now, might as well keep him, right?

"I'll... take care of him." You finally say after a minute of contemplating, and Soap's face breaks out with a proud grin.

"I'll leave you to it then."

Without much else to say, Soap walks out of the bathroom, leaving you alone with Ghost. You shuffle nervously between your feet. "Uh, you can stay there. I'm gonna warm up the water for you."

He doesn't say anything as he watches you. Doesn't say anything at all, even when the water is ready and the tub is full, or when you stiffly guide him into the bath, stripping down to your underthings so you don't get your clothes wet. You sit on the tub's edge, cupping water into your hand and start rubbing along his shoulders and neck, and that's when he makes a small noise, groaning at the gentle touch of your fingers.

"That feels good, pet. Think I like it when you clean me."

"Anytime." The word is out before you can stop it. You start massaging your fingers into his scalp, getting his hair wet. "I mean, you know, I'll take care of you whenever you need it."

"And if I need this every night?"

Your fingers play with his hair and you stubbornly refuse to meet his gaze. You know he's looking at you. Daring you to look him in the eyes. To challenge him. You don't, instead—

"Then I'll give you this every night."

You roll over and show him your belly.

In your peripheral, you see him smirk. Faster than you can react, his hand darts out to grab your wrist. You don't try to fight it as he pulls your hand under the water, brushing your knuckles against the apex of his legs. There's a twitch as he wraps your fingers it. You slowly start to pump your hand and he gifts you with a deep groan.

"Don't I have an attentive master?" Ghost praises and you gulp, but fasten your pace.

Soap said it was your responsibility to take care of him, so that's exactly what you'll do.

-

When you've finally cleaned and dried both yourself and Ghost, you both wander back to the living room where Soap awaits, watching a movie. You go and join him, pecking his cheek when you sit down.

"Come, Ghost." You pat the spot next to you, and he obeys, pulling you into his lap once he gets on the couch. His hands wander shamelessly, catching Soap's attention.

"Good bath?" Soap asks knowingly, chuckling at your dazed expression.

"Uh-huh."

He chuckles at your simple reply and shifts to pat your head. "That's a good girl."

[joelsrose]

A/N I'm so glad yall enjoyed part 1 ! made me so happy seeing all the comments, hope you enjoy this part x

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

You adored Tommy and Maria. That was no secret. Their house felt like a second home—the door always open, the hearth always warm, baby Benji always giggling in your arms like he knew something the rest of the world had forgotten.

You were there often enough that your teacup had a place on the shelf, your name was a murmur in bedtime lullabies, and your laughter belonged to the walls.

But Joel? Joel was different.

Despite your closeness with his brother and Maria, you and Joel had never been anything more than… polite shadows crossing paths. A nod at the gates. A quiet "morning" when your boots passed on the trail. He never stayed long enough for more.

Everyone in Jackson knew it—felt it. He carried himself like a man built from silence and steel, like someone forged in grief and never fully cooled. Where Tommy was sunlight, Joel was shadow. And not the soft kind, either. The kind you noticed in your peripheral vision—unavoidable, unmoving.

You didn’t need to know his story to recognize the shape of it. You saw it in the way he moved: cautious, careful, like the earth beneath him might give way if he stepped wrong.

You saw it in the tension that never left his shoulders, the way he never lingered, never asked questions he didn’t need answered. His eyes held the look of someone who had loved and lost so deeply he’d buried the whole concept beside whatever grave he no longer visited.

And he was, quite plainly, the last man in Jackson you’d ever try to matchmake.

Not because he didn’t deserve love—but because he didn’t want it.

Your methods weren’t scientific, but you had instincts. You always asked yourself the same quiet questions before setting anyone up:

What are they seeking?

What do they need?

And are they open to love, truly open?

Joel Miller failed the last question before it could even be asked.

He didn’t strike you as someone waiting for anything.

He struck you as the kind of man who’d wake up before dawn just to be alone with his coffee and the sound of his own breath. The kind who preferred the ache of his joints to the vulnerability of comfort. The kind of man who built his world out of habit, routine, and distance—and kept it that way because it hurt less.

He didn’t smile at people. Didn’t linger in town square to chat. Didn’t extend kindness unless necessity forced it from him. He wasn’t polite. He wasn’t soft. He was older, rough-edged, and entirely uninterested in being understood.

That was the truth of it.

So when Tommy leaned back in his chair that day, voice teasing but eyes glinting with something deeper, and said, “Find Joel someone,”—you knew exactly what he was doing.

He wasn’t asking. He was testing you. He had picked the one man in Jackson who didn’t want to be chosen.

And maybe… maybe he thought you’d fail.

But something about that challenge stuck in your ribs.

Because while Joel wasn’t looking for love—while he’d built his life so carefully around the absence of it—you couldn’t help but wonder:

What if he used to believe in it? What if he still did, quietly, deep down, in a place too bruised to admit it out loud?

And worse—what if the only reason he didn’t believe anymore was because no one had looked at him like he was worth choosing?

Not until now.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

The first time you tried to bring it up, he was in Tommy and Maria’s kitchen, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stirring something that smelled like heaven and looked like effort.

The scent hit you before you saw him—garlic, thyme, maybe something smoked. It wrapped itself around the room like a warm quilt, rich and unexpected. Joel stood over the stove, jaw tight in concentration, a hand towel slung over one shoulder like it belonged there. His brow was furrowed, focused, almost peaceful in that gruff, guarded way of his.

You hovered in the doorway, heart thudding traitorously in your chest.

You were used to being approached by people who wanted your help—who smiled too wide, who leaned in eagerly, who whispered, “Do you think there’s someone out there for me?” Not… this.

Not trying to coax someone toward the idea of love like it was medicine he’d refuse to take.

He didn’t look up when you entered. Or if he noticed, he didn’t acknowledge you.

You lingered by the counter, clutching the edge like it might give you courage. The silence felt loud. You hated that it made you feel twelve years old.

He finally glanced over, barely. “You need somethin’?” His voice was flat, more gruff than unkind, but still edged like a warning. You were an interruption.

“Oh. No,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “Just—this smells amazing.”

He grunted. Actually grunted. Like a bear in a flannel.

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes and instead muttered something under your breath—something like “charming” or maybe just “Jesus Christ.”

You cleared your throat. “So… do you like cooking?”

He turned his head a fraction, enough to eye you sideways. “It’s food.”

You blinked. “That wasn’t really an answer.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I cook. So I can eat.”

You gave him a flat look, but he was already turning back to the pot, stirring like you hadn’t said anything at all.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Dinner at Tommy and Maria’s was always warm—familiar, comforting, threaded with laughter and the scent of something slow-cooked—but tonight, it buzzed with a quiet, unbearable tension.

Joel’s food was, of course, incredible.

Rich and rustic, seasoned to perfection, made with the kind of care he’d never admit out loud. But he ate like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t spent hours making it. He was already halfway through his plate by the time you’d taken your second bite, chewing in near silence, shoulders hunched like he was bracing for a storm no one else could feel.

You sat across from him, napkin folded delicately in your lap, heart tapping anxiously against your ribs.

Tommy was loving this. His smirk was nearly unbearable—eyes flicking from your face to Joel’s with all the subtlety of a man watching live theatre. He knew exactly what you were trying to do. He could see the way you kept glancing down, folding and refolding your napkin, trying to find the perfect opening to ask a question you weren’t even sure Joel would let you finish.

You took a breath, then another.

Wiped your mouth—gently.

“This is delicious, Joel,” you said, hoping your voice didn’t betray how hard your palms were sweating. “Really. It’s… so good.”

He nodded once, without looking up. “Mm.”

That was all.

Tommy bit back a grin and reached for the bread.

You looked at him helplessly, and he looked about ready to combust from holding in his laughter.

You pressed your fingers to your water glass, steadying yourself. And then—“So,” you said, voice a little too bright, a little too casual, “do you cook often for other people? Or… someone in particular?”

Joel’s fork paused. Slowly, he looked up.

His brow furrowed, deep and unmistakable. That classic Joel Miller expression that hovered somewhere between mild confusion and why are you still talking to me?

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

You tried to smile, but it landed halfway between charm and panic. “Nothing. Just… this kind of meal seems like something you’d make for someone special.”

He blinked at you. Once. Twice.

Then, “This a dinner or a damn interview?”

The words landed sharp. Not cruel, but cutting in that quiet, measured way only Joel could manage. Dry. Dismissive. Final.

It shut you up.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

After that night, after the dinner table rejection that hummed in your chest like an ache you didn’t know how to name, you decided there was no use in subtlety.

You had tried soft. You had tried polite. You had tried slipping things in like compliments folded into napkins, but Joel Miller was not the kind of man who read between the lines.

So the next time you saw him—three days later, tightening fencing wire behind the stables, sleeves rolled and brows furrowed in that eternal expression of someone perpetually unimpressed—you walked right up, leaned against the gatepost, and said, “Hypothetically… if someone asked you out, would you even go?”

He didn’t stop working. Didn’t glance at you. Just muttered, “Not interested in hypotheticals.”

You huffed, pushed off the post, and walked away.

Two days after that, you caught him hauling firewood into the school kitchen, face flushed from the cold, jaw tight. You handed him a cloth to wipe his hands and asked, “Would it kill you to let someone care about you?”

He blinked at you, deadpan. “You tryna get yourself assigned latrine duty with all these damn questions?”

You rolled your eyes and let the door shut behind you.

It became a pattern—awkward, pointed, persistent.

You asked him at the tool shed while he was oiling his shotgun, the scent of steel and turpentine between you, your voice feather-light but your eyes fixed carefully on his profile.

“What’s your type, anyway? If you had to pick?”

He didn’t even glance up. “People who mind their business.”

You tried again during patrol prep, the morning still damp with frost, his belt heavy with knives and yours with hope.

“You ever get lonely, Joel?”

He grunted without missing a beat. “You ever stop talkin’?”

After that, you told yourself you’d stop.

That maybe Tommy was right, maybe Joel Miller was the one locked door even your heart couldn’t open. You weren’t built to beg, and love shouldn’t have to be pried loose from someone like a tooth. So you promised yourself: no more questions, no more attempts. He didn’t want to be known.

But the promise frayed faster than you'd expected.

It had been a soft evening—one of those rare Jackson nights where the world felt quiet and intact, where the sun dipped low and golden behind the trees and the sky blushed lilac at the edges, and everything smelled faintly of woodsmoke and the promise of spring.

He was sitting on the porch steps outside the meeting hall, arms resting on his knees, posture taut like he was keeping the world at bay even while it softened around him.

You hadn’t meant to approach—not really—but something about the hush in the air and the loneliness curling at your ankles pushed you forward before you could stop yourself.

“Joel?” you asked gently, your voice low and full of something raw you didn’t try to hide this time.

He didn’t look at you, but he didn’t walk away either.

You sat down a few steps above him, enough distance between you to feel it. Enough hope left to try again.

“You really don’t think there’s anyone out there for you?” you asked softly, the words slipping from your lips like petals dropped into water, barely a ripple, as if saying it gently enough might keep it from shattering between you.

The air had cooled into dusk, the kind of quiet evening that made the world feel suspended—trees swaying in slow rhythm, the scent of smoke clinging to your clothes, light from the porch lantern casting golden shadows that didn’t quite reach him.

Joel didn’t answer right away.

He exhaled, slow and sharp, and the sound of it felt like something snapping—not loudly, not dramatically, just the quiet, unmistakable give of something that had been holding too much weight for too long.

And then, with his eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder, his voice came low and flat and brutal.

“What I think,” he said, “is that you don’t know how to mind your own damn business.”

You blinked, lips parting just slightly, but he wasn’t finished. His gaze never touched yours, his jaw tight with the kind of bitterness that had lived in him too long to name.

“You wanna feel needed?” he continued, each word cut clean and cruel. “Go find someone who gives a damn. It ain’t me.”

And then—he looked away.

Not in shame. Not in regret. Just turned his head with the finality of someone who had decided you no longer existed.

Your breath caught in your throat, small and sharp like the echo of a sob that hadn’t made it out. You stood slowly, hands stiff at your sides, your body moving before your mind caught up, every inch of you suddenly aware of how foolish you must have looked—how fragile your hope had been.

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly, but the words felt like they belonged to someone else. You didn’t even know what you were apologizing for—existing, maybe. Caring.

He didn’t look up.

You turned, your steps uncertain at first—just the gentle scrape of boots on wood—but soon they quickened, like maybe if you moved fast enough you could outrun the heat rising behind your eyes or the way your throat had gone tight and narrow, like your heart was trying to climb out of it. Your shoulders curled inward as you walked, a soft, instinctive folding—as if you could shrink yourself into something smaller, something less noticeable, something easier to leave behind.

By the time you reached the path, the sky had deepened to a bruised indigo, the sun swallowed whole behind the trees, and the wind that had once carried the scent of pine and firewood now felt sharp and cold against your skin, like it knew it had overstayed its welcome.

And Joel?

Joel just sat there.

Still. Silent. Staring at nothing like the world around him had gone quiet too.

He didn’t flinch when Ellie approached—her footsteps uneven, heavy with the kind of angry purpose only a teenager could carry—but he didn’t greet her either. Just kept his eyes on the dark horizon like it might tell him what he’d just done.

Ellie stopped at the bottom of the porch steps, hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets, her brows drawn so tight they nearly met.

“That was mean,” she said flatly, her voice cutting through the air like the crack of a branch underfoot.

Joel blinked, slow and deliberate, then rubbed a hand over his jaw, the scrape of his calloused palm loud in the silence.

“Ellie,” he muttered, low and tired, “how many times do I gotta tell you—it’s rude to eavesdrop.”

She rolled her eyes so hard you could hear it in her exhale.

“Yeah?” she shot back. “You know what else is rude? Being a complete asshole to someone who’s literally just tryin’ to care about you.”

He didn’t answer, just shifted slightly in his seat, his shoulders tight and his mouth pressed into a hard, straight line, like he was holding something back but wasn’t sure if it was words or regret.

“She wasn’t asking to annoy you,” Ellie went on, climbing the first step now, her voice lower but no less sharp. “She was asking ’cause she sees somethin’ in you. Which, frankly, is a goddamn miracle.”

Joel turned to look at her then—just barely, just enough—and the soft light caught the edge of his face, carved in angles and shadows, every line telling the story of a man who had carried too much for too long, who had forgotten softness because it had stopped surviving in his hands.

Ellie’s voice came quieter now, stripped of its usual armor, her hands still buried in her jacket but her posture more uncertain than defiant.

“You know I never met my mom,” she said suddenly, her eyes fixed somewhere beyond him, like the words were too fragile to look directly at.

Joel blinked, the shift in conversation jarring, his brow tightening in the center like something had caught him off guard and he didn’t quite know how to hold it.

Ellie shrugged, quick and small, like she regretted saying it the second it left her mouth. “I don’t know,” she added, voice softer now. “I guess I wouldn’t mind you… y’know. Finding someone.”

She said it like it was no big deal, like it hadn’t just cracked the air in two.

But Joel was still staring at her, still unmoving, still caught on that sentence—not the words themselves, but the space between them, the unspoken ache in her tone, the confession she hadn’t made outright but had wrapped in something lighter so it wouldn’t break the both of them.

“I mean,” she went on, her voice wobbling only slightly, “someone who’s good. Who could maybe… I don’t know. Be around. Help. Talk to me sometimes. If you weren’t. Not that I need it.” She swallowed. “Just… wouldn’t hate it, is all.”

The wind shifted again, cool and clean, brushing past them like it too was afraid to speak.

Joel looked at her like he hadn’t known—hadn’t let himself know—that there was a piece of her still searching for something she’d never had. Not just safety. Not just shelter. But softness. Guidance. A presence that could fill in the shape of something maternal, something gentle, something lasting.

Something like love.

And maybe, for the first time in a long while, Joel didn’t feel defensive. Didn’t feel the need to retreat behind some cold remark or hard silence.

He just sat there, staring at this kid—his kid—and realized with a slow, dawning ache that in all his effort to protect her from the world, he hadn’t stopped to think she might want more than just protection.

She might want family.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Tag List: (for future i think i will tag #cupidofwyoming for each chapter instead of a tag list because a lot of the time the tags dont work for some reason?! that way you guys can still find the chapters on my blog xx)

@joelmillerswife9 @meanderingcaptainswanmusings @mrfitzdarcyslover @noeeeeeeel @lostinthestreamofconsciousness

@fitzwlliamdarcy @mystickittytaco @millerdjarinn @missladym1981

@bardot49 @valkyreally @jeongiegram @fpsantiago @rattyfishrock

@wildthyng @quicax3 @alesomoza99 @sunfairyy @heartagram-vv

@4allthestars @vickie5446 @needz1nk @sadsydneystuff-blog @sunndroppp @kristinababy @cuteanimalmama @dailyobsession

@dulcebloodhnd @rigoler @brittmb115 @lizziesfirstwife @nandan11

@cinderblock24 @astroid-wanderer @ashleyfilm @lizzie-cakes

@sagexsenorita

[mikeshouts]

Some Designers Dreamed Up A Mouse Customizable With LEGO Bricks

Looked like a super fun mouse!

Follow us for more Tech Culture and Lifestyle Stuff.

[avoidthings]

kitchen’s closed | t. richmond

About: Terry catches you in the kitchen late at night and has his own idea of a midnight snack. [word count: 2.1k] Warnings: Explicit language. 18+ Readers Only. Oral (female receiving), Unprotected PIV (wrap your willy, pls). I had concepts of a plot. 

It was well past midnight in North Carolina, and you could hear the crickets and other critters abuzz outside of your bedroom window. You stared at the sliver of moonlight cast between your curtains, realizing the clutches of insomnia had sunk its sneaky fingers in you yet again. 

Your boyfriend, Terry, rarely stirred in his sleep, and kept a hefty arm draped over your waist every night. Being that he was ex-military, it was sort of ironic how heavy of a sleeper he was. Some evenings you tried to count the rise and fall of his chest instead of sheep, but rather than lulling you to bed it just disgruntled you. You wanted to poke the bear awake and damn him for leaving you so smitten. 

The room was quiet aside from the bustle of the outdoors, and you thanked God your man didn’t snore or else this would feel like a torture chamber. You flipped through the rolodex of your thoughts and landed on recapping your day; you went to work, Terry picked you up and made a stop at Kroger, then you two watched some sitcom reruns for a bit. House rules were to grab takeout after grocery shopping so neither of you had to bother with cooking something. 

All that thinking of food must’ve sent a reminder to your stomach. You exhaled as it grumbled. While very cute, you would rather not see Terry’s grumpy face should he discover his miso soup missing. You perked up at the memory of slipping a pint of ice cream in the shopping cart earlier. 

It was counterproductive, solving sleeplessness with sugar, but you hoped Ben & Jerry’s would be your saving grace tonight. You peered over your shoulder to find your boyfriend as sound as ever, eyes fluttered closed like a saint. 

After a silent prayer, you wriggled from his hold and toed out of bed. You pattered around the twilight of the room, starting your mission to the fridge. Past the master bathroom, the thermostat, (which nearly broke the two of you up), and to the far right of your living space was your destination. Thankfully, the range hood light was on so you weren’t too sore of eyesight. 

You opened the freezer and plucked out your reward. After grabbing a spoon, you settled in, sitting on top of the counter. The granite was cold against your bare thighs, your body only blanketed by a worn t-shirt that hung off your shoulders. 

That first mouthful was instant gratification and you nearly rolled your eyes back in delight. 

“Baby, what are you doing up this late?” You were startled by Terry’s voice, the tone more gruff from the interruption of his slumber. 

You were caught red-handed, spoon in mouth, so you shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep. Wanted something sweet.” 

He hummed. Terry made his way closer, no longer a distorted shadow in your peripheral vision. He had come to bed in only his sweatpants and socks. 

Terry had a glow about him, even in the dim of your surroundings. He slipped comfortably in your personal space, stepping right between your legs. You relished in the warmth. 

You had to look up even with the extra height the counter gave you.

“Sorry to wake you. I know you have to go for your run in the morning,” you said. 

Terry gave you a lazy smile and shook his head. “Nah, it’s fine. Everythin’ okay?” You nod wordlessly. 

“Hey!” You protested when he nabbed the pint from you, his hands quicker than your reflex to reach for it back. It was a battle you would more than likely lose anyway. 

He successfully hushed you by taking a scoop from the container to raise to your lips. 

“Open.” 

You held his gaze as you took what was given, inciting a groan that rumbled low in his chest. 

Terry obliged you once more and made notice of your tongue swiping to the corner of your mouth to catch what you missed. His own hunger dwelled in his underbelly. Between your job returning to the office and his growing trucking business, you haven’t made much time for intimacy as of late. 

“I think I’m in the mood for somethin’ sweet too.” The spoon and tub clattered by your side and he disappeared from your view. 

“Terry--” 

“Open,” he demanded once more, kneeling toward your feet, causing fire to crawl up the back of your neck. He did not take kindly to being ignored, and you wanted this to be an easy night, so you let your legs spread apart. 

He tossed one behind his shoulder, mumbling something inaudible to you. A kiss to your ankle, the inside of your knee, then your thigh. 

A yelp pierced the air when Terry’s large hands claimed the curve of your hips, tugging you closer to the counter’s edge. Your clammy palms braced themselves on the flat surface beneath you. You could feel his smirk and goatee rubbing on your exposed skin. 

Your breath quickened with the anticipation of what was next. His mouth ghosted over your center, blowing on your clit through your dampening panties. 

“Oh, fuck,” you shuddered. 

He was a merciless man, dropping open-mouthed kisses to your clothed center. He retreated as you tried to furl into his touch, reaching underneath your shirt to roll your nipple for more stimulation.

“You’re so fucking wet,” Terry inhaled your scent without shame. Finally, the cotton of your undies was torn from your pelvis to who-knows-where. You felt the coolness of the air over your exposed skin for a brief moment, the absence of touch not lasting long. 

You jerked, feeling his tongue swipe a slow strip up from your wet entrance, gathering your slick. He lewdly spat it back over your clit and sucked until you cried out. Terry ate you without abandon, with little regard for any manners, overtaken by his own greed. --

“I missed how you taste, baby.” Voice muffled in between your legs, his eyes flitted up at you, earnest as always. Terry’s grip maintained the underside of your thighs, keeping your legs spread so he could continue to steal all breath and sense from you. 

“Oh my God,” you moaned. Your brain and your body sounded an alarm, reeling with the increasing need for release. His name fell like a chant from your mouth. 

Two fingers pushing into you caused the band to snap, Terry immediately seeking the button that left you gushing. He was unaffected when your heel dug deep at his shoulder, urging his face further in your pussy as if it was possible. His fingertips sped in pace, turning your mewls into high-pitched squeals. 

Soon enough, your back bowed with the intensity of your orgasm. He tightened his hold, keeping you steady as the current flowed through you. “That’s my girl,” he kissed and licked you through it. Pleasure never reached a precipice when you were under his care, and you shouted to the heavens.

When your legs eventually deflated, your hands found his ears, rubbing behind them gingerly. A grunt slipped from his mouth.

Terry staggered to his feet, hooded eyes glazed over your heaving body. His teeth nipped between your breasts over your shirt, up to your collarbone and your neck. You hooked a leg around his waist, pulling him in to feel his erection prod at your inner thigh. 

Instinctively, he rutted up against you and you sighed. You were warm all over, sheeted with sweat and clenching around nothing, wanting only to be full of him. 

His lips left your jawline and found your mouth, luring you into a mind-numbing kiss. You cradled Terry’s face in your hands and took control, allowing your tongue to slot against his. It felt all the more indulgent, the lingering taste of chocolate on your lips mixed with your own arousal. 

He was still rubbing on your leg and it only intensified your need for connection. Like a minx, you curled into him, purring in his ear. “Terry, I need you. Please.” 

Your hands lowered to explore the solid planes of his body, all of its beautiful ridges and scars. He leant down so his forehead was touching yours. “Fuck, I need you too, baby. Been losing my damn mind about you,” he breathed.

Terry yanked at the waistband on his joggers and his dick sprung free. You two didn’t usually forgo protection but your cycle was around the corner, and desperation made your judgment very foggy. 

His fingers splayed under your shirt to grasp at your plush waist, thumbing the folds of your belly from where you sat. Terry pushed his way inside, coating himself to about half of his length. You sighed into his hold, legs locked at his torso, trying, and failing to meet him in the middle. 

Without much effort, he stilled your movements. Terry pulled out slowly, and slapped himself over your clit twice, leaving you to squirm pitifully. “Stop teasing and just fuck me, already,” you whined.

Terry did as told and burrowed into you in one, deep thrust. You ate your words in a choked gasp. His head cocked back as he felt your walls squeezing him, putting the cords of his neck on full display. 

Tucking your bottom lip between your teeth, you tried desperately to hold on to the thread of resolve you had left. Terry trampled on it when he set a brutal pace, drilling in you like you owed him something. Your ears were ringing with your own moans and the sounds of skin slapping against each other. It all felt like too much, far too soon. 

You pressed a hand to his chest feebly and whimpered. Promptly, he grabbed your trembling forearm and kissed the inside of your wrist. “I’m fucking you like you wanted, huh? Why you tryna run from me?”

“It’s t-too, m-much,” your words were slurring and you frowned through the pleasure, hoping he’d give you relief from his punishing strokes. That all too familiar storm brewed in your belly again and you couldn’t stifle any noise that left your lips. Each thrust brushed against that sensitive spot within you, and you try your might to stave off your climax. 

His stare was focused on you, utterly enamored by your carnal state. “Terry!” You wailed, slapping the countertop behind you and shifting to scoot away. The crack of his hand on the side of your ass rang loud and welled your eyes with fresh, salty tears. Terry landed a sweltering kiss on your lips to pacify you. 

He gripped you by the coils at the nape of your neck, and you blinked at him, huffing out shattered breaths. You wanted to ask him why he was fucking you like this, and what did you ever do to deserve it. But your brain could only compute expletives. You clenched and unclenched around him greedily, and his teeth clashed at the sensation.

“Stop holding back, I can feel it. Let that shit go.” And under his spell, you did, surmounting to a shaking ball in his arms. Your toes curled at his sides and his rhythm didn’t falter, his own release not far behind. You keeled with overstimulation, the air feeling sticky on your skin.

Terry’s hands abandoned your waist to cup your ass, bouncing you on his dick in hardy, final thrusts. You bite down his shoulder so you don’t scream loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood. His head is buried in the crook of your neck now, sweat dripping on your collar. 

“‘Gonna make me cum all in this tight pussy, fuckk,” he groaned, ropes of his release starting to spurt inside of you. Your body was taut around him as his hips slowed to a halt. You were filled to the brim.

“My pretty baby did so good. So perfect for me,” Terry was panting like he just finished a mile-run, and still chose to sing your praises. He softened and pulled out, a part of you now missing. You sat there for a beat to catch your breaths, limbs still tangled together.

“Mm..’can’t stop shaking,” you whispered.

His actions had left you exhausted, drowsiness coated in every blink of your eyes. Terry separated from you for a second and he had his pants back on, scooping you up in his arms. You latched onto him like a bear, nuzzling into his chest.

If it was up to you, you’d pass out right there and crawl to bed in the morning. Something squished against his foot on his trudge out of the kitchen. 

“Shit, my socks are wet…what is that?” 

Ice cream.

--

Author’s Note: Just wanted to drop my contribution to the Terry Richmond industrial complex.

P.S. This was supposed to be Trainer!Terry but my hormone monster won. 

As always if you made it to the end, thank you bunches!

[velvetvisionsaurora]

Alpha ATEEZ x Assistant Omega Reader

Warnings: omega reader, alpha ateez, scenting, heats, ruts, slow burn, eventual smut, forced command, more to come!

When Y/n accepts a position as assistant to alpha K-pop group ATEEZ, she's prepared with professional skills and scent blockers to hide her omega status. What she's not prepared for is the immediate, inexplicable connection she feels with all eight members—a resonance that defies her careful boundaries.

As Y/n becomes eerily attuned to their needs, her suppressed omega nature begins to emerge: purring for the first time in years, responding to alpha growls, feeling safe in ways she never has before. When a protective incident reveals the depth of the members' attachment to her, Y/n must confront the possibility that what binds them together is something ancient and profound.

<<Previous Next>>

Masterlist Ko-Fi☕️

Chapter 6: Unexpected Reactions

The conference room at KQ Entertainment had become your second home over the past three days. Surrounded by multiple laptops, tablets, printed schedules, and enough empty coffee cups to build a small fortress, you'd been working tirelessly to accommodate the company's sudden decision to move up ATEEZ's comeback by two weeks.

It was a logistical nightmare that had sent the entire team into overdrive. Recording sessions needed to be rescheduled, choreography finalized ahead of schedule, concept photos reshoot, and promotional appearances rearranged. You'd been making calls since dawn, negotiating with everyone from music show producers to stylists to venue managers, all while trying to ensure the members wouldn't collapse from exhaustion under the compressed timeline.

"There has to be a way," you muttered to yourself, staring at the color-coded digital calendar on your main laptop while simultaneously texting the music video director on your phone. The current iteration of the schedule had the members recording final vocal tracks until 2 AM before a 7 AM choreography session the next day—clearly untenable.

You were so absorbed in your work that you didn't notice the conference room door open until a steaming mug of tea appeared in your peripheral vision, followed by Hongjoong's concerned face.

"When was the last time you took a break?" he asked, pulling out the chair beside you.

You glanced at your watch and winced. "What time is it now?"

"Almost 7 PM," he replied, his expression shifting from concern to mild alarm. "Have you been in here since morning?"

"I had that meeting with the promotional team at eleven," you offered weakly, accepting the tea with grateful hands. The warmth of the mug against your palms was a stark reminder of how cold the air-conditioned room had become—or perhaps how long you'd been sitting still, hunched over your work.

"That was eight hours ago," Hongjoong pointed out gently. "The others sent me to find you. We were worried."

A rush of warmth that had nothing to do with the tea spread through your chest. Even in the midst of their own hectic preparations, they had noticed your absence and been concerned.

"I'm fine," you assured him, taking a sip of the perfectly prepared tea—honey and lemon, exactly how you liked it. "I just need to figure out this scheduling puzzle. It's like trying to fit twenty-eight hours of activities into twenty-four hour days."

Hongjoong leaned closer, studying the complex calendar on your screen. His shoulder pressed lightly against yours, and you felt a shiver at his touch. 

"You're trying to do the impossible," he said after a moment, his voice tinged with admiration and concern in equal measure. "The company shouldn't have sprung this on us with so little notice."

"It's my job to make the impossible work," you replied with a small smile, trying to ignore how his proximity made your heart beat a little faster. After nearly a month of working closely with him and the others, you'd become more adept at managing these reactions, but never quite immune to them.

Hongjoong's eyes met yours, serious and intense. "Not at the expense of your health. The members and I had a discussion, and we agreed—we're not letting you burn yourself out trying to accommodate an unreasonable timeline."

Something in his tone made you pause. "What are you suggesting?"

"We've talked to Manager Minwoo. The members are willing to do the extra work, but some things simply can't be compressed further. The company will have to accept that certain elements might not be as polished as usual, or the date will need to be pushed back."

You shook your head, turning back to your laptop. "I can make it work. I just need to—"

"Y/n," Hongjoong interrupted, his voice taking on the gentle authority that marked him as the pack leader. "This isn't up for debate. We're not risking your wellbeing."

The collective "we" wasn't lost on you—nor was the protective edge in his voice. Ever since your arrival, you'd noticed how the members seemed to include you in their pack mentality, despite your professional role remaining clearly defined.

"At least let me show you what I've managed to work out so far," you insisted, gesturing to the screen.

Hongjoong relented with a sigh. "Fine. But then you're coming back to the house for dinner. Seonghwa's orders, not mine."

You couldn't help but smile at that. Seonghwa's nurturing instincts had become increasingly evident over the past weeks, especially when any of the members—or you—skipped meals or proper rest.

"Deal," you agreed, turning to the screen to walk him through your revised schedule.

---

Two hours later, after a surprisingly productive collaboration with Hongjoong—who proved to have a keen mind for logistics—you had a workable schedule that, while still demanding, no longer required superhuman endurance from anyone involved. You had also secured an agreement from the company to delay the music video release by three days, creating crucial breathing room in the most compressed part of the timeline.

"I think we've actually done it," you said, leaning back in your chair with a mixture of exhaustion and triumph. "It's tight, but it should work."

"I'm impressed," Hongjoong admitted, studying the final version. "You've somehow managed to accommodate almost everything without killing us all in the process."

"There are still a few compromises," you pointed out, indicating several highlighted sections. "The concept photo session will need to be faster than ideal, and we've had to cancel that variety show appearance."

"Small prices to pay for a schedule that actually allows for sleeping occasionally," Hongjoong replied with a wry smile. He stood, stretching his back after the long hours hunched over the conference table. "Now, as promised, dinner. Everyone's waiting."

Your stomach chose that moment to growl audibly, reminding you that you'd subsisted on nothing but coffee and a granola bar since breakfast. "I suppose I could eat," you conceded, gathering your essential items while leaving the rest for tomorrow.

The drive back to the ATEEZ residence was quiet, comfortable silence hanging between you and Hongjoong as the city lights blurred past the windows. You found your eyelids growing heavy, the past days of intense work catching up with you now that the immediate pressure had eased.

"You can rest," Hongjoong said softly, noticing your struggle to stay awake. "I'll wake you when we arrive."

Perhaps it was the exhaustion, or the sense of accomplishment from solving the scheduling crisis, but you found yourself letting your guard down enough to allow your head to rest against the cool window. The last thing you registered before drifting off was Hongjoong's jacket being gently laid over you, you thought you could smell his scent enveloping you in a cocoon of comfort, but you drifted off before your mind could process it. 

---

"She's completely out," you heard Hongjoong's voice murmur as consciousness slowly returned. "Has barely slept in days, from what I can tell."

"Should we wake her for dinner?" Seonghwa's voice, closer than Hongjoong's.

"I hate to disturb her, but she needs to eat," Hongjoong replied.

You blinked awake, momentarily disoriented to find yourself in the ATEEZ living room rather than the car. "I'm awake," you mumbled, pushing yourself upright on what you now realized was the living room couch. Hongjoong's jacket slid from your shoulders as you moved.

"Welcome back," Seonghwa said with a gentle smile, standing from where he'd been crouched near the couch. "Hongjoong said you solved the impossible schedule problem."

"Not impossible," you corrected, still blinking sleep from your eyes. "Just highly improbable."

"She's being modest," Hongjoong told Seonghwa. "She managed to rework everything while still ensuring we all get at least six hours of sleep most nights and keeping all the essential promotional activities."

Seonghwa's eyebrows rose, clearly impressed. "Well, that certainly deserves a proper meal. Everyone's in the kitchen—dinner's almost ready."

As you followed them toward the dining area, you became aware of the lively conversation and enticing aromas emanating from the kitchen. Despite your exhaustion, a smile tugged at your lips. There was something about returning to this house, to these people, that felt increasingly like coming home.

The members were scattered around the large kitchen island and dining table, various side dishes already laid out. San was in the middle of what appeared to be an animated story involving the choreographer, while Yunho and Jongho listened attentively. Yeosang was quietly arranging plates and utensils, and Mingi was helping Wooyoung carry a large pot of what smelled like kimchi jjigae from the stove.

"Look who I found," Hongjoong announced as you entered.

All eyes turned to you, and the genuine warmth in their collective gaze sent a flutter through your chest.

"The scheduling wizard returns!" Wooyoung exclaimed dramatically, setting down the pot to approach you with outstretched arms. "Tell me you've performed another miracle!"

"The schedule's fixed," you confirmed with a tired smile. "It's tight, but manageable."

Wooyoung's eyes widened comically. "You actually did it? You reorganized everything within the new timeline?"

"With some compromises," you added, not wanting to oversell your achievement. "And Hongjoong helped with the final version."

"That's it," Wooyoung declared, dropping to one knee in front of you with such theatrical suddenness that you couldn't help but laugh. "I'm buying a wedding ring this afternoon. What kind would you like? Pear? Oval? Princess cut?"

You giggled and felt heat rise to your cheeks at his over-the-top proposal, a reaction that had become commonplace with Wooyoung's exaggerated flirtations. "Don't be ridiculous. I was just doing my job."

"Your job was to manage our existing schedule, not perform actual time-bending sorcery," Wooyoung countered, remaining on one knee and taking your hand in his. "I'm serious about that ring. A woman who can bend time deserves diamonds."

Still laughing, you glanced up from Wooyoung's theatrical pose—and froze. He was looking at you with an expression you hadn't seen before. Behind the comedy and exaggeration that were so typical of him was something else entirely: a fond, heated gaze that held nothing performative in it at all. For a brief moment, the playful pretense fell away, and you glimpsed a raw intensity that made your breath catch in your throat.

Something stirred deep inside you—your omega responding to the alpha's attention in a way that bypassed all your careful restraint. A purr nearly escaped your lips before you caught yourself, swallowing the instinctive reaction that would have instantly revealed your true nature.

The moment hung suspended in the suddenly quiet kitchen, charged with something neither of you had anticipated. Wooyoung's eyes darkened slightly, as if he'd sensed the shift in your demeanor even without detecting your scent.

And then, from across the room, came a sound that shattered the moment entirely—a low, unmistakable growl.

All heads snapped toward the source. Mingi stood frozen by the kitchen counter, a look of horror spreading across his face as he realized what had just happened. The possessive growl had clearly emerged from his throat involuntarily, a primal alpha reaction he hadn't been able to suppress.

For several heartbeats, no one moved or spoke. The air in the kitchen felt suddenly charged with tension as the implications of that instinctive sound hung between you all.

Mingi was the first to break the stunned silence, his face flushing deeply as he bowed apologetically. "I'm—I'm so sorry," he stammered, clearly mortified. "I don't know why I—that was completely inappropriate. Please forgive me."

Wooyoung had risen to his feet, his playful demeanor completely vanished. The look he exchanged with Mingi was complex—not angry, but filled with understanding and something else you couldn't quite identify.

"No harm done," Wooyoung said after a moment, his tone deliberately light though his eyes remained serious. "Just alpha nonsense. Right, Mingi-yah?"

Mingi nodded stiffly, still looking deeply embarrassed. "Yes. Just... nonsense. I'm sorry, Y/n."

You found your voice, though it came out slightly higher than normal. "It's fine. Really. No need to apologize."

The tension in the room remained palpable until Seonghwa smoothly intervened. "The food's getting cold. Everyone, let's eat while Y/n tells us about this miracle schedule she's created."

Grateful for the redirection, everyone moved toward the table, though the atmosphere remained charged with unspoken questions. You took your usual seat between Yunho and Hongjoong, acutely aware of Mingi's gaze occasionally finding yours from across the table, his expression a mixture of mortification and something else—something that mirrored the intensity you'd glimpsed in Wooyoung's eyes moments before.

As dinner progressed, conversation gradually returned to normal, focused primarily on the upcoming comeback preparations. But beneath the mundane discussion of choreography adjustments and recording sessions lay an undercurrent that couldn't be ignored. Mingi's instinctive growl had revealed something that all of you had been carefully avoiding acknowledging—that the boundaries between professional and personal, between colleague and something more, were becoming increasingly blurred.

---

Later that night, as you prepared to return to the guesthouse, you found Mingi waiting hesitantly by the main door. His tall frame seemed uncharacteristically diminished, his shoulders slightly hunched as if trying to appear smaller.

"Y/n," he began when he saw you approach, his deep voice quieter than usual. "I wanted to apologize again for earlier. That was completely out of line."

You shook your head, trying to project a casualness you didn't entirely feel. "It's already forgotten, Mingi. Alpha instincts happen sometimes—I understand."

His eyes studied yours intently. "Do you? Understand?"

The question caught you off guard with its directness. Did you understand what had prompted that possessive growl? The implications of an alpha displaying territorial behavior over someone who was supposed to be just an employee?

"I..." you hesitated, unsure how to navigate this conversation without revealing too much of your own complicated feelings. "I know that living and working closely together can sometimes blur normal boundaries."

Mingi nodded slowly, though his expression suggested your answer hadn't quite addressed what he was really asking. "It's more than that," he said finally, his voice so low you had to lean slightly closer to hear him. "I think you know it's more than that."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. This was dangerous territory—acknowledgment of the strange connection that had been building between you and the members would make it harder to maintain the professional distance your position required. Not to mention the complications that would arise if they discovered your omega status.

"Mingi," you began cautiously, "whatever this is—whatever's happening—I work for you. For all of you. That creates certain... boundaries that should be respected."

"I know," he said, running a hand through his hair in a gesture of frustration. "Trust me, I know. And I've been trying to respect those boundaries. We all have. But today, when Wooyoung was looking at you like that, something in me just..."

He trailed off, clearly struggling to articulate the instinctive reaction he'd experienced.

"It's okay," you said softly, surprised by your own impulse to comfort him when you should probably be reinforcing professional distance instead. "We're all under a lot of pressure with the comeback timeline changing. Emotions are running high."

Mingi's eyes met yours, and the raw honesty in them made your breath catch. "It's not just the pressure," he said quietly. "It's been there since the beginning. For all of us. You must have felt it too."

The direct acknowledgment of what you'd been sensing—what all of you had been carefully dancing around for weeks—hung in the air between you. Denial seemed pointless; whatever this connection was, it had grown too strong to be dismissed as imagination or simple attraction.

"Yeah," you admitted finally, the words barely above a whisper. "But I don't understand it. And until I do—until we all do—I think we need to be careful."

Mingi nodded, a small, sad smile touching his lips. "Being careful is probably wise. I just wanted you to know that I'm sorry about the growl, but not sorry about caring about you. None of us are."

The simple sincerity in his words touched something deep within you, making your chest ache with an emotion you weren't ready to name. "Thank you," you said softly. "I care about all of you too. More than I probably should."

For a moment, you stood together in silence, the admission creating both a bridge and a boundary between you. Finally, Mingi stepped back slightly, giving you space.

"You should get some rest," he said. "Tomorrow's going to be busy with the new schedule implementation."

"You too," you replied, grateful for the return to more comfortable, practical territory. "Vocal recording at 9 AM, right?"

His smile widened slightly. "See? You already know our schedules better than we do ourselves."

"That's literally my job," you reminded him with a small laugh, the tension easing somewhat.

"Goodnight, Y/n," Mingi said, opening the door for you. "Sleep well."

"Goodnight, Mingi," you replied, stepping out into the cool evening air. 

As you walked the familiar path to the guesthouse, you couldn't help but replay the events of the evening in your mind—Wooyoung's heated gaze, Mingi's possessive growl, the charged atmosphere that had followed. Something was shifting in your relationship with the members, something that couldn't be easily dismissed or contained.

Your hand found its way to the scent blocker behind your ear, a habitual gesture of reassurance. The small patch felt suddenly inadequate protection against the tide of emotions and instincts that threatened to overwhelm the careful boundaries you'd established. If a mere look from Wooyoung could nearly trigger your omega purr, what might happen if your blocker failed? If your true nature was revealed to eight alphas who already seemed unnaturally attuned to you?

Inside the guesthouse, you leaned against the closed door, taking deep breaths to steady yourself. Your phone chimed with an incoming message—from

Hongjoong: Just wanted to say again how impressed we all are with the schedule solution. Get some rest. We're going to need your magic over the next few weeks.

The simple message, professional yet warm, centered you somewhat. Whatever was happening between you and the members—whatever invisible force seemed to be drawing you together—the work remained. The comeback, the schedules, the practical details that needed your attention.

For now, that would be your focus. The rest—the intense gazes, the possessive growls, the undeniable connection—would have to wait until you all had the space and clarity to understand what it truly meant.

Setting your phone aside, you prepared for bed, exhaustion overriding even your troubled thoughts. Tomorrow would bring its own challenges, but at least one thing had become clear tonight: whatever this connection was between you and the eight alphas of ATEEZ, it wasn't one-sided, and it wasn't going away.

---

The next morning

The atmosphere in the main house kitchen was noticeably different when you arrived to review the day's schedule with everyone. There was a heightened awareness, an underlying tension that manifested in small ways—Mingi's careful distance as he greeted you, Wooyoung's uncharacteristically subdued morning energy, the way conversations seemed to pause momentarily when you entered a room.

Last night's events had forced a partial acknowledgment of what had been building for weeks, and no one quite knew how to navigate the new terrain. The professional framework that had given structure to your interactions now felt insufficient to contain the complexity of what was developing between you all.

"Good morning," Hongjoong greeted you, sliding a coffee mug across the counter. "Ready for day one of the new schedule?"

"As ready as possible," you replied, grateful for his steady, practical approach. "I've already confirmed all today's appointments and sent the updated timeline to the production team."

"Efficient as always," he said with a warm smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. There was something guarded in his expression, a carefulness that hadn't been there before.

Seonghwa appeared from the pantry, arms full of breakfast ingredients. "Y/n, good morning. I'm making a proper breakfast today—everyone needs fueling up for the intense schedule ahead."

You smiled appreciatively, noticing how he too seemed to be retreating into practical caretaking as a way to manage the charged atmosphere. "Can I help?"

"You can make sure everyone actually comes to eat," he replied, beginning to prepare the rice. "Especially Yeosang—he's been in his room since dawn working on something."

Grateful for the normal task, you nodded and moved through the house, knocking on doors and delivering breakfast summons. The routine activity helped settle your nerves, giving you a familiar role to inhabit while everyone adjusted to the shift in dynamics.

When you knocked on Yeosang's door, his quiet "Come in" drew you into a space you'd rarely entered before. Unlike the other members' rooms, which you'd become familiar with through morning wake-up calls, Yeosang was typically already awake and needed fewer reminders.

His room was predictably neat, with bookshelves lining one wall and a small desk where he sat, surrounded by notes and sketches. He looked up as you entered, his expression thoughtful.

"Seonghwa's making breakfast," you informed him. "He specifically requested your presence."

Yeosang nodded, setting down his pen. "I'll be there shortly." Instead of rising immediately, however, he studied you with that penetrating gaze that always made you feel as though he could see more than others. "Are you alright after last night?"

The direct question caught you off guard. Of all the members, Yeosang was perhaps the most observant but also the most reserved about personal matters.

"I'm fine," you assured him, aiming for lightness. "It was just a moment of alpha instinct. Nothing to worry about."

Yeosang's expression remained serious. "It wasn't just instinct," he said quietly. "Or rather, it was, but not the kind we usually talk about."

You hesitated, uncertain how to respond to his directness. "What do you mean?"

He seemed to consider his words carefully.

“We just,” he sighed. “We just care about you, a lot.”

Your heart rate quickened. Was he suggesting what you thought he was? "Yeosang, I—"

"You don't need to say anything," he interrupted gently. "I just wanted to make sure you were all right.” He kissed your forehead as he walked by and you felt a blush erupt.

“I’m telling Wooyoung you’re giving forehead kisses now,” you said in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere. 

Yeosang groaned playfully. “If you do that he’ll expect me to do it to him. I take it back.” He reached up and rubbed your forehead, as if to wipe away evidence.

As you giggle and head toward the kitchen, you felt something in your chest ease slightly. Yeosang's playfulness and gentle touch was comforting from the more serious member. 

In the kitchen, the full group had assembled around the table. Conversations flowed more naturally now, focused on the day's tasks and the challenges of the accelerated comeback schedule. If there were more careful spaces maintained between bodies, more conscious monitoring of casual touches, it was balanced by a new honesty in the glances exchanged, a wordless acknowledgment that something significant was unfolding among you.

As you took your seat between Yunho and Jongho, Mingi caught your eye from across the table. The shame and embarrassment from last night had been replaced by a quiet determination in his gaze. He offered a small, tentative smile that you returned, a silent agreement to move forward together—whatever that might mean.

Wooyoung too seemed to have found his equilibrium, his energy still vibrant but more contained, his usual flirtations tempered by a new awareness. When he passed you the side dishes, his fingers briefly brushed yours, the contact deliberate but respectful.

"The new schedule starts with vocal recording at 9 AM," you reminded everyone, settling into your professional role with relief. "Then dance practice at 2 PM, followed by the meeting with the concept team at 5 PM."

"And when do you sleep in this master schedule?" Seonghwa asked, his nurturing instincts clearly on high alert after yesterday's exhaustion.

"I've built in actual work hours for myself," you assured him. "No more all-nighters in the conference room."

"We'll hold you to that," Hongjoong said, his leader voice leaving no room for argument. "If any of us see you working past 10 PM, intervention measures will be taken."

"Intervention measures?" you echoed, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeosang will confiscate your devices," Wooyoung supplied cheerfully. "Jongho will physically carry you back to the guesthouse if necessary. And Seonghwa will stand guard to make sure you actually sleep."

The absurd image made you laugh despite yourself. "That seems excessive."

"Not from where we're sitting," Yunho countered, uncharacteristically serious. "You've been taking care of all of us. It's only fair we return the favor."

The simple statement, delivered without drama or spectacle, touched you deeply. That was what had been building all along, beneath the surface tension and attraction—a genuine care that flowed in both directions, a mutual protectiveness that defied the typical boundaries of a professional relationship.

"Thank you," you said softly, looking around at the eight alpha faces that had become so dear to you in such a short time. "I accept your concern, even if I think the threat of being carried to bed is a bit much."

Jongho shrugged, the youngest's serious expression breaking slightly. "I have to use my strength for something useful."

The laughter that followed broke the last of the morning's awkwardness, establishing a new equilibrium that acknowledged the deeper currents between you while allowing daily life to continue. Whatever was happening—whatever bond was forming among the nine of you—it wouldn't be sorted out in a day. For now, it was enough to know that you faced it together, with honesty and care.

As breakfast concluded and everyone began preparing to leave for the day's schedules, you found yourself surrounded by a sense of rightness that transcended the lingering questions and uncertainties. Whatever path lay ahead, these eight alphas had somehow become essential to your life, and you to theirs. The rest would unfold in its own time.

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