#two way data binding

[ritika-25]

Two-way data binding is a powerful feature provided by Angular that allows data to flow bidirectionally between the component and the template. It enables automatic synchronization between the user interface (UI) elements and the underlying data in the component.

[trainsinanime]

I've seen a number of people worried and concerned about this language on Ao3s current "agree to these terms of service" page. The short version is:

Don't worry. This isn't anything bad. Checking that box just means you forgive them for being US American.

Long version: This text makes perfect sense if you're familiar with the issues around GDPR and in particular the uncertainty about Privacy Shield and SCCs after Schrems II. But I suspect most people aren't, so let's get into it, with the caveat that this is a Eurocentric (and in particular EU centric) view of this.

The basic outline is that Europeans in the EU have a right to privacy under the EU's General Data Protection Regulation (GDPR), an EU directive (let's simplify things and call it an EU law) that regulates how various entities, including companies and the government, may acquire, store and process data about you.

The list of what counts as data about you is enormous. It includes things like your name and birthday, but also your email address, your computers IP address, user names, whatever. If an advertiser could want it, it's on the list.

The general rule is that they can't, unless you give explicit permission, or it's for one of a number of enumerated reasons (not all of which are as clear as would be desirable, but that's another topic). You have a right to request a copy of the data, you have a right to force them to delete their data and so on. It's not quite on the level of constitutional rights, but it is a pretty big deal.

In contrast, the US, home of most of the world's internet companies, has no such right at a federal level. If someone has your data, it is fundamentally theirs. American police, FBI, CIA and so on also have far more rights to request your data than the ones in Europe.

So how can an American website provide services to persons in the EU? Well… Honestly, there's an argument to be made that they can't.

US websites can promise in their terms and conditions that they will keep your data as safe as a European site would. In fact, they have to, unless they start specifically excluding Europeans. The EU even provides Standard Contract Clauses (SCCs) that they can use for this.

However, e.g. Facebook's T&Cs can't bind the US government. Facebook can't promise that it'll keep your data as secure as it is in the EU even if they wanted to (which they absolutely don't), because the US government can get to it easily, and EU citizens can't even sue the US government over it.

Despite the importance that US companies have in Europe, this is not a theoretical concern at all. There have been two successive international agreements between the US and the EU about this, and both were struck down by the EU court as being in violation of EU law, in the Schrems I and Schrems II decisions (named after Max Schrems, an Austrian privacy activist who sued in both cases).

A third international agreement is currently being prepared, and in the meantime the previous agreement (known as "Privacy Shield") remains tentatively in place. The problem is that the US government does not want to offer EU citizens equivalent protection as they have under EU law; they don't even want to offer US citizens these protections. They just love spying on foreigners too much. The previous agreements tried to hide that under flowery language, but couldn't actually solve it. It's unclear and in my opinion unlikely that they'll manage to get a version that survives judicial review this time. Max Schrems is waiting.

So what is a site like Ao3 to do? They're arguably not part of the problem, Max Schrems keeps suing Meta, not the OTW, but they are subject to the rules because they process stuff like your email address.

Their solution is this checkbox. You agree that they can process your data even though they're in the US, and they can't guarantee you that the US government won't spy on you in ways that would be illegal for the government of e.g. Belgium. Is that legal under EU law? …probably as legal as fan fiction in general, I suppose, which is to say let's hope nobody sues to try and find out.

But what's important is that nothing changed, just the language. Ao3 has always stored your user name and email address on servers in the US, subject to whatever the FBI, CIA, NSA and FRA may want to do it. They're just making it more clear now.

[staratinia]

Handcuffed

This work contains smut - minors do not interact

Pairing: Mello x Fem!reader x Near

Synopsis: Mello and Near are handcuffed together and the cuffs will not come off unless certain specific circumstances occur...they require your assistance.

Warnings: Explicit smut

A/N: I know this is different.. I had to get creative. I felt a forced situation was the only way Mello and Near would ever do this together. For the anon who suggested poly- I hope you enjoy this.

wc: 1.8k

_________________________________________

You’re curled sideways in an office chair, one leg draped over the armrest, a cold energy drink sweating in your palm. The ops room is a wreck of cluttered desks, empty takeout boxes, loose wires, the smell of three different kinds of instant noodles clinging to the air like regret.

Mello’s pacing like he’s got a bomb ticking under his skin. Every few laps, he runs a hand through his messy blond hair like it personally offended him.

Near’s on the floor, cross-legged in a sea of puzzle pieces, holding a stylus between two fingers and methodically building a tower of numbered data cards. He hasn't looked up in at least forty-five minutes.

Matt’s the only one enjoying himself. He’s half-sprawled on a desk, red goggles pushed up to his forehead, Game Boy forgotten in his lap, a smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth as he digs through a dusty lockbox labeled ARCHIVE: CLASSIFIED – UNUSABLE ARTIFACTS.

“Hey,” he calls lazily. “You guys ever hear of ‘conflict-resolution cuffs’?”

Near doesn’t respond. Mello doesn’t stop pacing. “The fuck is that, a kink toy?”

Matt pulls something shiny from the box. Metal glints under the overheads—sleek cuffs, silver but inscribed with something that shimmers when he tilts them.

"Magical containment? Binding rituals? You know how they loved that esoteric bullshit"

Near speaks without looking up. “Most of the Archive is unstable or unproven. Do not engage with any items marked in red.”

“They weren’t red,” Matt says, squinting. “They were.... more of a soft rose gold.”

Mello mutters, “If this is another one of your dumbass jokes—”

“Relax.” Matt flicks the cuffs open one-handed, grinning. “They probably don’t even—”

He’s suddenly beside Near. Near looks up. First mistake. Matt snaps one cuff onto Near’s wrist with a sharp click.

“Matt.” Near’s voice doesn’t change, but his fingers freeze mid-stack.

Mello whirls. “Are you fucking kidding me—”

Before you can say a word, Matt turns and slaps the second cuff onto Mello’s wrist.

Click.

There’s a flash of cold light—like a camera bulb and static hitting skin—and then the air feels wrong. Heavier. You feel it. The room does. The whole dynamic shifts.

Mello’s hand twitches. The chain between their wrists is taut. Seamless. No lock. No hinge. No keyhole.

“Matt—” you start, rising.

Matt’s already backing toward the hallway, arms raised in surrender. “Hey, look. If it makes you feel better, I genuinely didn’t think it would work. I was just bored.”

“You moron!” Mello yells, yanking at the cuff. The chain doesn’t even creak. “You cuffed me to him?!”

“You’re welcome!” Matt’s already halfway out the door, grabbing his console on the way. “You two have unresolved tension! This is basically therapy!”

“This is magical fucking bondage therapy!” Mello shouts.

Matt winks at you before disappearing into the hallway. “Good luck, sweetheart. You’re their emotional support peacemaker now.”

The door slams shut.

You've been reading up. The archives are vast. Obscure tomes on magical devices. You finally find it—Soulbind Cuffs: R13 series. Intended as a last-resort bonding tool for high-stakes diplomacy or… couples therapy??

You read the fine print.

Cuffs will only disengage upon shared, consensual emotional alignment. Intimacy accelerates process. Completion of mutual release—emotional, physical—breaks the tether.

You reread that line five times.

Then look up. The boys are glaring at each other across the coffee table, one shared wrist between them. Mello’s sweating, hair stuck to his cheek. Near is tapping a Rubik’s Cube, unblinking.

You clear your throat.

“So. I figured it out.”

Two sets of eyes snap to you.

“They won’t come off unless you both—” you gesture vaguely “—achieve mutual climax. Together.”

Dead silence.

Mello goes red instantly. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“It’s magic!” you throw your hands up. “It doesn’t care about gender or preference or grudges. It wants to see two bonded souls climax together. Emotionally. Physically. Whatever. It's metaphysical synergy.”

Near’s head tilts. “A forced sexual ritual.”

“Don’t call it that,” you groan.

Mello’s voice drops. “We’re not doing it.”

Near nods. “Agreed.”

You sigh. “Then you’ll be like this forever.”

“I’d rather die,” Mello snarls.

“I’d rather wait,” Near says blandly.

You just shake your head.

Mello growls, yanks at the cuff again—still nothing.

You don’t speak either. You just walk toward them. Unhurried. Hands loose at your sides. You kneel in front of them—between them—rest your palms on your thighs. Steady. Present.

“I’m not saying you two have to fuck each other.” That gets their attention. You breathe. “But I can help. If you let me.”

Mello narrows his eyes. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

Near’s eyes are fixed on your mouth. “You believe... you could stimulate both of us to simultaneous orgasm?” His voice is calm, clinical, but there’s a flicker there. A pulse under his skin.

You sigh. “You’re the ones chained together. Unless you’ve got a spell I don’t know about, this is the only way.”

Mello rubs his face. “I can’t believe this is happening. With him.”

“I’m not pleased either,” Near replies, adjusting the angle of his knees.

“Oh shut up, you don’t feel anything.”

“I feel irritation...you are the source.”

_____________

The room’s warm. Lamp low. No one’s talking anymore. The air feels loaded, like static—like something wants to snap.

You’ve peeled your shirt off, unhurried, sitting cross-legged in front of them on the rug. Mello’s leaned back on his hands, arms tense. Near sits perfectly upright, but his jaw flexes.

They’re both watching you. Their bodies still separated by the inch-thick chain, wrists close but nothing else. They refuse to touch.

So you crawl forward.

“This isn’t about you two liking each other,” you murmur, reaching up to rest a hand on each of their thighs. “It’s about needing each other. Right now. In this moment. To get out of this.”

Mello doesn’t answer. He’s biting the inside of his cheek. Near nods once, robotically.

You start slow. Fingers first, brushing over the front of Mello’s pants. He’s already half-hard. No surprise. All that rage, tension, frustration—it’s sitting right there under the surface, waiting to break.

He lets out a breath through his nose, sharp and ragged. “Don’t tease.”

“I’m not,” you whisper.

You turn to Near, and his eyes are on your hands, blinking slow. His cock is delicate, flushed against pale thighs. You palm it gently. He exhales.

Mello scoffs. “Bet he’s never even been touched.”

“By people with manners? No,” Near replies evenly.

“Fucking hell—” Mello grits

“You’re really responsive,” you say, and smirk when he glares.

You turn to Near, he doesn’t even blink. Just watches the whole time as your hand slides against him. His breath stutters when your fingers close around him.

You stroke them both—two different bodies, two different pulses. Mello wants pressure. Speed. Your wrist aches trying to keep up. Near needs rhythm, precision. He twitches if you deviate. They’re both trying so hard not to show how much they want this.

“Still emotionless, Near?”

His voice is breathy, distant. “Physical responses are not proof of emotional depth.”

Mello barks a laugh. “You’re hard as fuck. What’s that—data collection?”

“Observation,” Near says, eyes fluttering as your thumb brushes his tip.

Two different rhythms. Mello fast, tight, frantic. Near slow and steady, your thumb circling the head of his cock in lazy little patterns that make him twitch. They’re both panting now, shoulders rising and falling like they’ve run miles.

Mello’s eyes are glued to your chest. “Fucking take it off.”

You smile and unhook your bra. Mello groans. Near reaches up like he’s unsure if he can, but you guide his hand to your breast and gasp as his thumb brushes your nipple.

Your moan gets both of them to freeze.

“She’s loud,” Mello mutters. “You like that?”

Near presses his palm against you. “It may assist with... alignment.”

Mello snorts. “Just admit it turns you on.”

“Admitting that would alter the results,” Near murmurs.

You laugh softly, then lean back to peel the rest of your clothes off.

When you’re fully naked, they stop arguing. They’re just watching. You crawl up into Near’s lap, straddle him, and reach back for Mello.

You guide him behind you, feel the burn in your thighs as you press back into his body. Mello groans as his cock glides between your cheeks, hands gripping your hips.

“Still want to kill each other?” you whisper.

Near is breathless. “Temporarily... distracted.”

Mello’s mouth is against your neck now. “You’re lucky you’re hot.”

You slide down onto Near first. His cock fills you, inch by inch, and his breath punches out of his lungs. He’s frozen beneath you, gripping your thighs like they’re lifelines. Then you brace yourself and reach back—

Mello pushes in slowly. Gritting his teeth. “Jesus, fuck—”

You’re full. Too full. Both of them buried deep in you, your whole body trembling as you try to breathe around the feeling. They don’t move. Just pant. Wait.

“Move,” Mello growls. “Please.”

You do. It starts slow—grinding your hips, feeling both of them rub against your walls, your insides pulsing around them. Mello thrusts once, sharp. You cry out. Near groans softly, his head tipped back.

You ride Near with long, rolling motions, your clit brushing against his stomach. Mello fucks into you harder now, faster, his hands sliding up your spine. One of his fingers tangles in your hair, pulling just enough to make your breath catch.

“You’re taking it,” he growls. “So fucking good.”

“She’s very warm,” Near says softly. “Tight. Applying correct amount of pressure.”

“You say that like you’re grading an assignment,” Mello snaps, but his voice cracks on the last word. He’s close. So close.

You’re shaking now—full, stretched to your limits, Near seated deep inside you while Mello drives in from behind, his pace steady but cruel, testing your limits.

You’re not just between them—you’re the bridge. Their bodies only joined through yours. And they’re not giving in easily.

“I don’t see how this is supposed to help,” Mello growls against your shoulder. His breath is ragged, cock twitching inside you with every grind. “He’s not even touching you right.”

Near blinks up at you from below, cheeks flushed, hands tightening on your waist. “Incorrect. Her pupils dilate when I stroke her clit counterclockwise.”

You laugh through a gasp. “He’s not wrong.”

Near’s thumb slides between you, slow and exact, pressing just under your clit in a way that makes your body jerk. Mello’s grip tightens. You feel the cuff pulse with magic, heat flaring between their wrists like it knows they’re teetering.

You roll your hips forward, squeezing both of them from inside. Mello groans. “Shit—don’t do that—”

You smile, breathless. “You close already?”

“I’m not—” he growls, but he thrusts harder, desperate to regain control.

Near’s voice is thin now. “I believe your pelvic rhythm is faltering.”

You moan, sharp, overstimulated now. Near’s cock presses deliciously against that tender spot inside you, and Mello’s rutting deep, his thrusts rough enough to make you tremble.

“Come on Mello, prove you’re better,” you whisper. “Fuck me harder.”

That does it.

Mello grabs your hips and slams into you, rhythm quickening, chasing something now. You gasp, clutching Near’s shoulders, your body caught between them like a live wire. The air smells like sweat and sex and magic burning out.

Your moan cuts them off—high and broken, thighs trembling as your orgasm threatens again, creeping up, so damn close.

You clench around both of them. They both twitch. You slow your movement just enough to make them groan.

“Don’t stop,” Mello growls, panting now. “I swear to god—”

“She’s edging us,” Near says, tone somehow still flat.

“She’s gonna kill us.”

You’re close. But you don’t let go yet.

You slow it down again—grind forward, rolling your hips just right. Near twitches inside you, whimpering, his forehead pressed to your chest.

You glance over your shoulder. Mello’s watching you both like he’s been denied air. You lean back into him, and he licks a stripe up your spine. He’s losing control. You can feel it.

“She’s gonna cum,” he pants. “You can feel it. She’s—fuck—she’s squeezing so hard—”

“We have to time it,” Near gasps.

“I know.”

Mello’s hand snakes around you, joining Near’s, both thumbs pressing your clit now in rhythm. You scream—raw and real—as your orgasm surges up, almost there—

But you don’t fall- Not yet. You ride the edge. Over and over. Your body clenching, thighs shaking, everything strung tight as they both work you toward it. One more second. One more thrust. One more slow, circling press—

And then Mello snaps.

“Now—fuck—now—”

Near arches under you, voice breaking.

And you let go.

It hits like fire—every nerve bursting open, you're clamping down, you scream—legs shaking, body convulsing around them as you lock down hard, milking them. as both of them cry out, twitching inside you, pouring into you, their hands locking on your body as they lose everything.

The cuffs explode.

A flash of white light. A high-pitched crack. Metal hitting the floor with twin clinks.

You collapse, limp and slick with sweat, breath heaving in your throat.

Mello slumps forward, panting against your back.

Near goes still beneath you, eyes closed, his chest rising and falling fast, but even.

Nobody speaks. Until—

“You edged me for fifteen minutes,” Mello says, voice hoarse.

You smile. “You needed the attitude adjustment.”

“She’s... efficient,” Near murmurs.

You roll off them with a groan. “I need water”

No one moves for a while. Then Mello says, “You’re seriously not gonna look at me right now, are you?”

“I’m preserving what little sanity I have left,” Near murmurs.

“You literally came while I was inside her.”

“So did you.”

“I hate this.”

From the hallway, you hear:

“Yo, did it work?” Matt’s voice. “Are the chains off?”

Mello throws the broken cuff at him. “I hope your controller gets stuck on ‘up.’”

Matt grins and ducks. You laugh. Your thighs hurt. Your whole body aches. But the cuffs are gone. “Next time he plays matchmaker, I’m burning the Archive.”

[hazymoonlinh]

🤔 how about phainon x scientist!fem reader like what you do with mydei, I like your writing 🤭 about that too

“The Coldest Star Meets the Brightest Light”

Part 1| part 2|

(Phainon x Researcher!Reader | Soulmate AU)

She did not believe in soulmates.

Not in the way that others did, anyway.

The concept was nothing more than an anomaly—an unexplained phenomenon of the universe that had no scientific basis, yet persisted in countless cultures across planets. Some claimed it was fate, an unbreakable bond destined to unite two people. Others called it a curse, binding individuals regardless of their will.

She categorized it as biological interference. A chemical reaction. Nothing more.

And yet—when she set foot in Amphoreus, standing amidst the blinding light of a battle between the Astral Express crew and an unknown warrior—her entire understanding of reality fractured.

Because the moment he turned, the moment his piercing blue gaze locked onto hers—her entire being froze.

A Fateful Encounter

Phainon had appeared in an instant, his entrance marked by a slash so swift that Dan Heng’s weapon shattered upon impact. His presence was radiant, overwhelming—like standing too close to a sun, its heat and gravity pulling everything toward it.

But he wasn’t looking at them.

He was looking at her.

“You.” His voice was deep, steady—yet beneath it was something else. Something shaken. “Who are you?”

She didn’t answer. Her brain was still processing the impossible.

This feeling—this pull—was unlike anything she had ever experienced. It was not logical. It was not quantifiable. And yet, it was absolute.

Soulmates.

No.

No, no, no.

“That’s not important,” she finally replied, forcing her voice to remain level. She ignored the way her heartbeat threatened to betray her. “Stand down. We’re only here to investigate—”

Phainon stepped closer, ignoring her words entirely.

“No,” he murmured, as if he were speaking more to himself than anyone else. “No way… It’s you.”

His expression was unreadable—somewhere between disbelief and something softer.

It was unbearable.

She refused to acknowledge this.

Soulmates did not exist.

“I have no connection to you.” Her words were cold, detached—the same tone she used when analyzing test subjects. “Do not mistake me for something I am not.”

Phainon blinked.

And then, to her absolute horror—he laughed.

It was a soft chuckle at first, then a full, warm, delighted laugh, as if her rejection was the funniest thing he had ever heard.

“Oh, this is gonna be fun.”

She stiffened. “Excuse me?”

Phainon grinned, and it was the kind of grin that spelled trouble.

“You think you can just walk away?” His tone was playful, but there was something deeper beneath it—something sure. “Like it or not, we’re connected now. And I don’t let go of what’s mine.”

Her fingers twitched against the data pad she had instinctively grabbed. “I am not yours.”

“Not yet,” he agreed easily. “But you will be.”

Escape Was Not an Option

She left.

Of course she did.

After her mission ended, after she left Amphoreus, she returned to Herta’s Space Station. Back to her research, back to normalcy.

She had hoped the feeling would fade. That the inexplicable warmth lingering in her chest would disappear over time.

It didn’t.

Worse, she soon found that no matter where she went, she felt watched. Not in a threatening way—no, Phainon’s presence wasn’t the kind that instilled fear. It was something far more annoying.

Persistent. Playful. Patient.

He was waiting.

And then—one day—he stopped waiting.

An Unwanted Visitor

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

His voice was warm as ever—too warm, considering he was currently standing in her pristine laboratory, arms crossed, looking like he belonged there despite absolutely not belonging there.

She stared at him, unamused. “First of all, I left. Second of all, how did you even get in here?”

Phainon shrugged. “I have my ways.”

A pause.

“…Trailblazer helped you, didn’t they?”

His grin widened. “I have my ways.”

She exhaled slowly, setting her data pad aside. “I’m busy. If this is about that ridiculous soulmate nonsense—”

“It’s not nonsense.”

The sudden shift in his tone made her pause. It wasn’t teasing anymore. There was no mischief in his gaze. Only certainty.

Her chest tightened.

“Look,” Phainon continued, stepping closer. “I get it. You’re logical. You like things that make sense. But you felt it too, didn’t you?”

She remained silent.

His expression softened. “It’s not something you can explain. It just is.”

“That’s exactly why I reject it.” Her voice was quiet but firm. “I refuse to let something dictate my choices. Even if—” She hesitated. “Even if this connection exists, I won’t be forced into it.”

Phainon studied her for a long moment.

And then, instead of arguing—he smiled.

“Good,” he said simply.

She blinked. “…Good?”

“I don’t want you to accept it just because fate says so.” He tilted his head, the golden glow of the station’s lights reflecting in his icy blue eyes. “I want you to accept it because you choose me.”

That caught her off guard.

“…And you think I will?”

Phainon’s grin turned knowing.

“I know you will.”

She scoffed. “Have anyone told you you’re insufferable ?”

“And you’re adorable when you pretend you don’t care.” He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “You’re coming with me.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Excuse me?”

“Back to Amphoreus.” His tone was far too casual. “We need to spend more time together. Y’know, bonding.”

“I have work—”

Phainon tapped her data pad, causing it to turn off.

“You have me now.”

She stared at him.

He stared right back.

For the first time in her life, she had no calculated response.

Phainon only chuckled, offering a hand. “Come on, genius. Let’s see if I can change your mind.”

Against all logic—she hesitated.

And for Phainon? That was already a victory.

TO BE CONTINUED…

How’s that for a start? Phainon’s warmth clashing with her cold logic, their instant connection, and his playful yet patient pursuit—this is gonna be fun. Let me know if you want Part 2!

I took extra time to polish it since you have waited for a week hehe.

Have anyone seen 3.1 trailer ? So cool.

[stellarbit]

Do Not Look Away

Tech x fem!reader

2.7k words NSFW - eye contact kink, unprotected sex, light dom

Tech never really paid mind to eye contact. Finding you staring him down, however, changed that completely and working him up more than he expected.

Notes: 'Sarad' means flower in Mando'an, cute nickname. This gif makes me feral. Just think of that on top of you.

Tech absorbed the details of his surroundings with a meticulous eye, viewing the world around him as an intricate web of data to be analyzed and understood. Eye contact, though useful for evaluating intentions and planning strategies, wasn't his primary focus.

This preference shifted unexpectedly during a routine briefing in the Marauder. While Hunter and Echo discussed the mission's terrain, and Wrecker and Omega showed their usual enthusiasm, Tech was busy ensuring the mission data on his datapad matched the verbal instructions. Satisfied, he pocketed the device and prepared to give Hunter his full attention.

That’s when he inadvertently met your gaze.

You were watching him intently, your eyes steady and revealing nothing that he could easily interpret. Surprisingly, it was Tech who broke the gaze first, a rare moment of vulnerability for someone so controlled. He quickly looked back, his interest piqued by the challenge you presented, and noticed a small, confident smile playing on your lips. It was slightly disconcerting yet undeniably captivating.

This momentary exchange unsettled Tech in a way he hadn’t anticipated. The directness of your gaze stirred something within him, igniting a flurry of thoughts that were less about data and more about the curious look you had. He found himself eager to understand the enigma of your steady eyes and the subtle confidence they conveyed.

For the first time, Tech felt an urge to maintain that connection, to hold your gaze and engage in a silent conversation only the two of you could comprehend. This newfound fascination made him want to explore this interaction further, to understand why you seemed so intent on him and him alone.

Tech had assumed that, under the circumstances, your attention would be squarely on Hunter as he discussed the mission details. Yet, when he glanced away for a moment to check on his brothers and Omega, and then back to you, the intensity of your gaze was undiminished.

As he held your eyes this time, a warmth spread across his face, an unusual sensation for him. His chest tightened, a physiological response that was both puzzling and intriguing.

The way the light caught in your eyes seemed to draw him in deeper, binding him to the moment in a way that data and analysis never could.

He had rarely seen you so intensely focused, and it felt as if he was discovering a new facet of you. Being the exclusive focus of your attention was absolutely fascinating. It sparked a curiosity in Tech - did you frequently watch him?

The thought that you might often watch him with such focus sent a thrill through him, stirring a newfound eagerness within. Though he could never be certain of your habits, one thing crystallized in his mind—he would not overlook such moments again.

When your gaze finally shifted away, Tech continued to watch you, his thoughts now revolving around how he might recapture your attention. His mind raced through potential conversations and shared tasks that could bring your focus back to him. It was a new kind of strategy, one that involved personal connection rather than battlefield tactics.

Over the course of the next few rotations, as the mission unfolded, Tech found himself increasingly attuned to your presence. He noticed each time you looked his way, though these instances seemed to become shorter and less frequent.

With every brief glance, Tech felt a mix of anticipation and dissatisfaction grow within him. Each fleeting moment left him more restless, his mind constantly toggling between the mission data and the enigmatic patterns of your attention

As the mission drew to a close, you were under Echo's care, receiving treatment for a leg injury. Hunter and Omega were at the controls, piloting the ship, while Wrecker had retreated to his bunk for some much-needed rest. Tech stood a short distance behind Echo, ostensibly engrossed in finalizing mission details on his datapad.

Echo was busy tending to your wound, periodically dictating observations for Tech to cross-reference against their medical logs. Despite the important task at hand, Tech found his focus drifting.

When you, perhaps growing weary of the silence, looked up, your eyes met his. Tech’s head was angled towards his datapad, but his eyes were fixed on you.

You stilled at the sight. His gaze lingered with his earlier impatience giving way to a quiet intensity.

The room filled with the soft hum of the ship and the low murmur of Echo's medical updates, but you couldn’t notice anything beyond Tech.

You were the one to drop your eyes first, searching the rest of his face for a clue as to what he was thinking. The sight of a slight smile pulling at his lips sent warmth crawling up your neck and straight to your core.

Just then, a cool touch on your leg snapped you jolted you back to present.. Echo's concerned face came into view as he applied bacta cream—a detail you would have noted had your attention not been so thoroughly captured by Tech.

“"Did that hurt?" Echo inquired, mistaking your reaction for discomfort.

With a nervous laugh, you shook your head. "No, no! Just cool, that's all." As Echo completed the bandaging, your gaze drifted back to Tech. He had turned his attention back to his datapad, fingers tapping away with a renewed sense of purpose.

The rest of the ride back to Ord Mantell was uneventful. Upon landing Echo, Wrecker, and Omega quickly filed out to head to Cid’s. Hunter paused to speak with Tech before following them out.

"Make sure the systems are fully functional. We took fire before we made it offworld; I’d rather be prepped to go rather than make repairs later."

From behind his helmet, Tech nodded, albeit with a bit of exasperation. “I was already on it.”

Hunter gave you a pat on the shoulder as he turned to leave. “Keep him on track, will you?”

Tech had already moved to the control boards by the time you caught up, his back to you as he deftly navigated through the various system checks on the displays.

You hesitated for a moment, torn between the memory of his intense gaze earlier and the task at hand. With a deep breath, you started to walk past him toward the bunks, trying to focus on anything but him.

But as you passed Tech, the sound of the Marauder’s door sealing shut echoed through the hold. You turned, instinctively looking back over your shoulder.

“Sarad,” his voice stopped you in your tracks. The tone, soft yet certain, made you turn fully towards him.

You felt his stare before you saw it.

Slowly, you turned to face Tech, who now stood between you and the door. The sight of his eyes, clear and penetrating behind the frame of his helmet, sent a thrill through you.

He moved towards you with slow, deliberate steps, his gaze fixed intently on yours. "It seems that you have been watching me," he stated, his voice calm yet carrying an undercurrent of curiosity. As he removed his helmet, revealing his full expression, the room seemed to grow smaller around you. "Without my knowledge."

A nervous smile briefly crossed your face, words struggling to form as you met his piercing gaze. "What can I say? You’re easy on the eyes," you managed, your voice barely above a whisper.

He took a few more steps forward, reducing the distance between you. Instinctively, you stepped back, your back almost brushing against the bunks. Tech paused, adjusting his goggles as he noted your movement. His eyebrows knitted together in concern. "Does this make you uncomfortable?" he asked, his tone softening, indicating his readiness to step back if you indicated any discomfort.

“Not in the way you might imagine.” You answered, referring, whether he realized it or not, to the ache growing between your legs.

The slight raise of his brows indicated he understood precisely what you meant.

Without breaking eye contact, Tech raised his forearm and activated his comm. “Hunter, diagnostics are showing this may take some time. If you want this done in short time, keep the interruptions to a minimum.” His tone was firm, ensuring no further disturbances would interfere.

It took only one more step for Tech to close the distance between you. He placed a hand on your shoulder, applying just enough pressure to guide you gently. Your body responded instinctively to his touch, moving backward until your legs hit the cot, prompting you to sit.

Tech towered over you momentarily before he angled his head back, taking in the sight of you sitting wide-eyed before him. His gaze was intense, yet there was a hint of wonder in his eyes as he processed this unusual situation.

With a gentle touch, he tilted your chin up with his forefinger, the air thickening between you. “If you wouldn’t mind…” His voice was low, almost a whisper as he moved to crouch, bringing himself to eye level with you. “Remove your pants, Sarad.”

His hand slid over your thigh, his thumb grazing perilously close to the apex of your legs. “If I am correct, I may be able to help with the discomfort you are feeling.” A confident smile played across his lips, adding to the mounting tension. With a teasing glint in his eyes, he added, “And I am seldom wrong.”

You swiftly removed your pants, and with Tech between your legs, he assisted as much as he could. The feel of his gloved fingers on your skin was unexpectedly intense, the fabric of his gloves somehow amplifying the heat rather than muting it.

Dressed only in your panties, you felt Tech’s focus shift as he noticed the wet spot forming on the fabric between your legs. His head remained still, but his eyes lifted to meet yours, his hand traveling up your thigh again.

His thumb brushed lightly over the wet spot and then slipped between the fabric and your skin right to the source of your wetness. His finger paused and his eyes widened slightly. “Just as I suspected.” It was all he said before he pushed his thumb into you.

A low whine escaped you and your head tilted back, overwhelmed by the sudden pressure. Noticing your reaction, Tech adjusted his approach, replacing his thumb with two fingers into the tender area, drawing your attention back to him sharply.

“Do not look away,” he instructed, his fingers moving with a deliberate, slow curl that echoed the steady cadence of his voice.

You inhaled sharply and found yourself gripping his shoulder. “Then give me more,” you managed, your voice a blend of challenge and plea.

Tech’s eyes widened again, his focus intensifying as he registered your reaction. He pulled his fingers from you, leaving you empty and wanting.

Using your knees for leverage, he shifted his position with the fluidity born of his training. He crawled on top of you, maintaining eye contact as you adjusted beneath him. You lay back with your spread legs on either side of him.

Tech lowered himself on top of you. Caging you in with a forearm resting next to your head, he ran a hand up your neck to lightly grip your face. “I assume you know what I’m going to do.”

Your hands move between you, pulling away his gear as your only response. “Don’t make me wait, Tech.”

A noise came from him, acknowledgement mixed with hunger, and he nodded. You worked him free of his pants, hand grazing over the length of him. He flinched at your touch, momentarily looking between you to where your hand worked on him.

He pulled one of your legs to hook around him and angled his hips to line up with your entrance. Feeling the tip of him rubbing against you, you tried for a view of it, but Tech’s hand found your face again. His thumb pulled at your lip, working your mouth slightly open.

“I already told you,” he grunted as the head of his cock pressed into you. “Eyes on me.”

When your eyes met again, Tech rolled the full length of himself into you. He filled and stretched you out, pushing into you even after being fully sheathed. The pressure he forced into you made you see stars and your hands gripped at his neck, working into his hair.

When he moved, it took everything in you to maintain the eye contact demanded of you. You wanted to lose yourself completely, but you stayed present, jaw opening more at Tech’s grip on your face.

“That’s a face I have not seen.” Tech commented, his voice slightly breathless as he increased the pace. “Show me more.”

As he worked deeper and faster into you, you convulsed around him and in response you felt him throb. Your eyes, that focused look that had entranced him so thoroughly, drove him into long hard thrusts to control his mounting ecstasy.

Your breathing became labored with his steady, relentless thrusting. You drug your nails over the back of his neck, pleading to him, “Tech, wait.”

“Negative,” he panted and, with a groan, changed his angle. His cock hit a soft spot into you, wracking you entirely with pleasure. The grip of your leg tightened around him, matching the squeezing grip you had around his cock.

For a moment, your eyes fluttered shut. The break in eye contact flared something in Tech. He needed your eyes on him. In the moment he thought he may never be able to stomach you looking at anything but him again.

Tech slammed his hips into you harder than before. Shoved deep inside you, he stilled and you arched at the ache of his cock rammed against your cervix. Your eyes flew back open and back to Tech.

“Tell me what you did.” Tech murmured, making you suck in a breath.

“I closed my eyes.”

He moved his hips back only slightly before ramming back inside of you. You moaned loudly against him. “What were you supposed to do?” Tech moved your face side to side, watching as your eyes stayed steady on him.

“Keep my eyes on you.” You said, practically on the verge of tears. You’d wanted this for so long, although this was more than anything you could have imagined. Barely able to keep a coherent thought, you worked your muscles tighter around him.

“Excellent.” He whispered, delighted at the submission you displayed. Tech receded from you and filled you again - over and over. He hadn’t missed the changes in you, the heightened pitch of your moans and the tension rippling through you, when he shifted his hips.

Maintaining that splendid angle, Tech pounded into you. A bit of your saliva dripped onto his thumb at your lip. Curiosity driving him further, he dipped his thumb into your mouth and roamed over your tongue.

The softness of your mouth around him and the moan it elicited from you drove him over the edge. He hadn’t anticipated you’d drive him into a near delirium.

“Sarad, I’m-”

“Do it,” You begged, already knowing what was coming. Your own release ready to unleash. “Please, Tech. I need you.”

Those three words sealed it. His thrusts became rapid and shallow until he grunted against you, completely losing himself inside of you.

You felt him spilling against you, each pulse of his cock releasing another wave of his seed. Your own orgasm squeezing out every desperate ounce of him until he went slack against you, his forehead resting against yours.

The look between you changed, softening. All the tension built up over your mission dissipated as you both relaxed into each other's arms. When his eyes roamed your face, you finally were allowed to do the same to him.

Pulling yourself up, you moved your mouth against his. The softness of the kiss almost working you up for another round.

Releasing your face, Tech pushed up to position himself upright. He righted his goggles on his face and fully took in the sight of you splayed out for him. His own fluids seeped out around his cock still buried inside of you. A satisfied smirk rested on his lips.

"Judging by your relaxed state, I'd say that was effective as anticipated.” He said, wiping the sweat on his face away with the back of his hand. “Comfortable now, aren’t you?”

The pleasant, delirious hum you managed told him all he needed to know. “We can always go again to test that theory.” You purred.

He chuckled, extending you a hand. “After we finish the diagnostics.”

[iww-gnv]

American workers are dying, local businesses are reporting a drop in productivity, and the country's economy is losing billions all because of one problem: the heat. July was the hottest month on record on our planet, according to scientists. This entire summer, so far, has been marked by scorching temperatures for much of the U.S. South, with the thermometer reaching triple digits in several places in Texas between June and July. In that same period, at least two people died in the state while working under the stifling heat enveloping Texas, a 35-year-old utility lineman, and a 66-year-old USPS carrier. According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, there were 36 work-related deaths due to environmental heat exposure in 2021, the latest data available. This was a drop from 56 deaths in 2020, and the lowest number since 2017. "Workers who are exposed to extreme heat or work in hot environments may be at risk of heat stress," Kathleen Conley, a spokesperson for the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), told Newsweek. "Heat stress can result in heat stroke, heat exhaustion, heat cramps, or heat rashes. Heat can also increase the risk of injuries in workers as it may result in sweaty palms, fogged-up safety glasses, and dizziness. Burns may also occur as a result of accidental contact with hot surfaces or steam." While there is a minimum working temperature in the U.S., there's no maximum working temperature set by law at a federal level. The CDC makes recommendations for employers to avoid heat stress in the workplace, but these are not legally binding requirements. The Biden administration has tasked the Occupational Safety and Health Administration (OSHA) with updating its worker safety policies in light of the extreme heat. But the federal standards could take years to develop—leaving the issue in the hands of individual states. Things aren't moving nearly as fast as the emergency would require—and it's the politics around the way we look at work, the labor market, and the rights of workers in the U.S. that is slowing things down.

[boredzillenial]

Data

Your boss Nathan needs your body “for science”

Themes: DEAD DOVE DNE - dark!Nathan, kidnapping, sensory deprivation, fingering, oral breast play (f!receiving), jerking off

A.N: contains railroad sentences and my rusty attempt at improving prose 🤣 thank you @lunar-ghoulie for putting up with me

Word count: idk at the moment it’s short

“Show yourself you son of a bitch!” Your voice reverberated against the stark walls, “I know you’re there Nathan!” You twisted and writhed against your restraints to no avail.

Nathan, your boss, had invited you to come out to his estate. In an excess of caution you’d chosen to politely decline. What you hadn’t realized was his invitation was not a request, but a heads up.

You took a moment to breath and take notice of the different points of pressure on your body. Whatever he’d used to bind you you was soft but firm against your wrists, chest, waist and ankles. Your back pressed against hard cool material, the scent in the room clean and chilled air blew across your exposed skin.

You rolled your head from side to side in an attempt to wiggle the fabric from around your eyes but it didn’t budge.

“That’s not gonna work.” Nathan’s bored voice sounded from somewhere in the room.

You froze, “Nathan-“ you grated “let me go.”

“Nathan let me go.” He mocked, “Do you really think I’d go through the trouble of getting you here only to let you loose?”

Your lip curled in agitation as you snapped against the restraints. “What do you want.”

A fingertip pressed against your ankle “What I want,” he said slowly as that sensation snaked its way up your leg, “is data.” His touch paused at the line between your hip and thigh.

“What?” You growled in confusion. “I swear to fucking god Nathan when I’m out of here-“ the removal of sensation on your skin stalled your brazen words.

“Threatening your captor, interesting choice.” His voice still sounded bored amongst the rustling beside you.

“Interesting choice to kidnap me*eeee*.” Your retort was cut short when something firmly pressed against your core and vibrated furiously. It was too much all at once and you feebly bucked only to be met with the tight restrain across your hips. The curse in your throat twisted to a groan, “F-fuck yo-u.”

“Another curse -“ you could practically hear the eye roll in his tone, his next words breathed hot across your ear “so predictable.”

You tilted your face toward him with a smirk, if he wanted to play games let’s see what happened if you played along. “U-up a bit, and to the left.”

“Attagirl.” He chuckled and followed your direction. Your back arched and strained as your breath caught in your throat.

You’d quickly climbed to your peak with the precision and pressure, your breath coming in ragged pants. Just as you came so close to release the sensation vanished, leaving you crashing back to earth.

A choked whine wrung from your throat. “Why.” You whimpered.

“Measuring heart rate, perspiration…” a finger slid along your slick folds “arousal.”

You breath caught in your chest at the sudden sensation of two thick fingers plunged deep into your core. Nathan took his time moving around, scissoring his fingers inside as he tsked “still tight.”

“Nathan please.” You murmured, the stretching sensation growing to be uncomfortable.

“Why are you getting tighter?” From his tone he might as well have been asking a casual scientific question in a clinic.

“Doesn’t feel good.” You grumbled “not like that.”

Nathan’s hand adjusted, two fingers remained deep inside, but this time he added his thumb to press against your clit. “What about like this.” He drew slow firm circles and pumped slowly.

Your breathing picked up while a coil of pleasure twisted low in your belly. Despite your head swimming with pleasure you heard Nathan’s soft voice off to the side, “Slickness increase and vaginal relaxation with stimulation to the clitoris.”

“Are you - taking notes?” You huffed between breathes.

“I told you, I need data.” He said in annoyance. “Fuck sake.” He growled.

You heard a rustling near your head and the sound of spit hitting skin made you jerk. “What the fuck.”

“Shut up.” He snipped, his breath hitched as soft squelching sounded beside your head. The moment his fingering matched the pace of the noise beside your head you realized what was happening.

“You’re - jerking off?” You huffed.

“Want me to stuff it in your mouth?” He retorted. You snapped your head away, eliciting a sardonic huff from Nathan.

The squelching noise and his breathing picked up pace as his fingers worked. You groaned and arched against the pleasure building, gasping at a sudden wet tingling feeling on your nipple.

The stroke of his tongue as it lapped at the stiffened peak encouraged you to arch further, pushed you even closer to the edge.

A soft pop sounded and you whined in protest at the loss “Vaginal tightening with oral stimulation to breast.” He muttered, returning his warm mouth back to your breast with a hum. The rough tickle of his beard across your skin mixed deliciously with the swirling around your stiffened peak.

Your orgasm crashed over you in waves as his hands and mouth worked in tandem. “S-shit!” The ministrations sent you bucking against the restraints and your breath in ragged pants.

Another groan vibrated your nipple sent fire through your nerves before it vanished. The fingers buried deep in your core and against your sensitive nub picked up to an uneven pace. A wrecked groan sounded from above you as warm wet ropes splattered across your chest.

Despite the ringing in your ears you heard Nathan growl in annoyance, “Data inconclusive, requires further testing.” Something fluffy wiped between your legs picking up the mess of slickness there before wiping up the white painted on your skin.

“Further testing?” You voice was weak and broken as you came back to reality.

“If I’m gonna make robots I’d actually wanna fuck I gotta get it right.” His voice moved about the room accompanied by rustling. “Movement, viscosity, tightness. I need so much if it’s gonna feel real and, well, it’s gonna take awhile if I keep getting… distracted…”

———————————

Taglist: @melodygatesauthor @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @ominoose @romana-after-dark @lunar-ghoulie @flowercrownonapegion @howellatme @mooksmouse @ahookedheroespureheart @beezusvreeland @auntiegigi @moonkxight-blog @faretheeoscar

[shamrockqueen]

Predator in the desert

Chapter 3

Pairing : Winter soldier x reader (post apocalyptic AU)

Warnings : Desperation, starving behavior, references to war, duality of the mind, emotionless man

Word count : 2020

Chapter 1

Bucky MasterList

You stopped breathing, the ghost of an echo bouncing through your ears after he’d yelled at you.

Your eyes snapped from his cutting and cold gaze, further down to the glimmer of his fearsome metal fingers as they closed around the old brass knob on the door. The only opening to the room, the only way out, and you wouldn’t be able to reach it, let alone slip past his solid stonelike frame.

You weren’t ‘calm’ by any means, but he had your attention, and even as you continued to shiver, it was all he really needed.

“Are you hungry?”

You flinched as he spoke; his voice edged only with a lack of patience as it reached out to you with heavy hands to shake you from your reeling thoughts.

You didn’t answer just yet, feeling your pulse thrum along your skin wildly. You just laid there, stunned as you stared at those metal fingers tightening around the knob of the door and trying to ease your own breathing before it made you feel numb.

“I asked if you were hungry.” He was much more stern, and even a little louder this time, watching with equal disinterest as you gasped back and struggled to answer.

“Y-yes… I‘m hungry.”

You spoke weakly, your lips shaking and your eyes welling with a wet dribble of tears. Like a small break in the smallest of bones as you gave in to the absurdity.

Of course you were hungry. You’ve been hungry since you were a screaming infant, just as everyone doomed to a life in the wasteland had been. Food in any amount was a luxury, whether it’s warm meat and grains or smashed bugs you find crawling along the floor by your bedroll.

This promise of food without a single bat of his eye should have felt like a dream come true, but something in your stomach felt heavy before clenching with a sharp cramp. That familiar pang of hunger pains morphing viscerally into obvious fear as your guts knotted together.

This was the only moment in your miserable life that you didn’t crave food, as you were consumed only with dread.

You didn’t want to take anything from this unholy amalgamation of man and metal. It was like cowering beneath the boogeyman, a monster of jagged teeth and twisted limbs that could steal your last shred of innocence, only to find an unreadable being that looked no different from yourself. He didn’t wear enough of his lethality on his skin, leaving you to spiral at the possibilities of what these chains binding you to his lair really meant for your near future.

It was no better than being a rabbit caught in a cage. There is the offer of water and now food, but the danger of your captivity, just as the chain around your leg, was a staunch reminder that none of this would be out of kindness. There is no good reason that you are here—none that could be conceived as all the terrible reasons swarm your aching head.

His expression never seemed to change as he took in every reaction you gave him, seeming to read it like new data to further his own strange purpose. When he was finished searching your jumbled tomes, whether having found his needed information or losing interest, he dragged that door open and disappeared through it before shutting you back inside that room. Only this time, you were alone with the crushing silence he had once held above you.

A silence quickly broken by the hard clack of a lock turning shut in the flimsy wooden barrier this soldier had placed between you two.

He fit the stories from old fantasies of war. An old story long left covered in dust, detailing how both sides ate away at one another until the bones were bare and empty of their marrow. He bore the red star, the mark of a demon of irradiated sands. One head severed from its ranks meant two would splinter out in its place, biting and gnashing its way through the wasteland.

The great hydra was supposed to be dead, a final rest assured long before your own birth. How wrong they all were apparently, and as you recounted those scary fairy tales, your stomach twisted harder and harder.

You tried to steady your breathing, letting it stutter and shake before it finally met an even rhythm.

‘You really did need to calm down’ The traitorous thought was the last fly to buzz through your brain before you let the muscles in your shoulders fall loose to hit the floor.

Your ankle still felt heavy with its new iron cuff, and you struggled back onto your elbows and further onto your feet, the sound of the chain dragging along the wood the only noise left to taunt you.

Your eyes narrow at the brassy knob, a small spark of defiance finally igniting in your chest only to fall short of catching a flame.

You were frustrated at best, hot tears stinging your eyes before spilling out over your dirty cheeks.

‘Why me? For fucks sake, why?”

How were you significant enough to be stolen? Did he pity you, thinking that keeping you would be better for your well-being, like a lost kitten climbing among the rocks he had scooped up?

Why would a monster want to help you? Why would he bother to care for you when he could do what any other villain would do to others who strayed too far from home?

But, this room didn’t look like a pen to keep his livestock. It had a small window at its other end, barred on the outside of the glass for your protection. The bed wasn’t shabby, only worn, and with actual blankets and pillows.

If you were to be kept, you suppose he chose to keep you well.

You turned back to the door, its knob within reach, but you didn’t jump to futilely pull or tear at it. You reach forward, a shriveled shard of hope still tearing at your heavy heart as you slide your fingers around it.

You know it was locked; you heard it happen, but you still clung to the possibility of this being a terribly real nightmare instead. Maybe your mind would let you open the door, but as you twisted the handle, it of course did not budge.

You stood closer, your head falling to your chest as you pressed your fingers to the wood. Your mouth opened with a shaking exhale of an empty scream, and new tears flooded over to wash the rest of your grimy face.

You did not expect the door to push forward on its own, nearly smacking you in the face as it knocked you back. You land on the floor unceremoniously. Still so weak and unsteady, you weren’t even a suitable match for an old door.

The man was back, standing over you with a plate in his human hand. He sighed before setting the platter of promised food on the bed, stepping over you in the process.

He spoke evenly, saying, “I didn’t mean to hit you,” but his voice didn’t carry any ounce of guilt for knocking you back on your ass. Would this have been the first time he’d knocked you down, or was it simply the only time he hadn’t meant to do so?

“Are you alright?” he asked as he leaned over your crumbled form, reaching towards your reddened cheek where the wood had initially smacked you.

You immediately shied away from his touch but didn’t fight to scramble backward.

He leaned away but offered you his less harrowing hand to help you off the floor instead of leaving you to do so by yourself again.

You never answered his last question, but as he didn’t press further, it was possible that he wasn't really interested either way.

He gestured to the plate of food he’d set on the bed and said flatly, “Eat.”

You looked over at the plate still perched on a pile of blankets. A slab of cooked meat, diced cubes of root vegetables, and a mush of something boiled, green, and leafy. It was the best thing you’d ever seen.

Actual meat the size of your hand coupled with real vegetables possibly rich with those vitamins and mineral-things the doctor used to talk about. Whatever it was, it made your tongue wet as you swept it over your cracked lips.

A small part of you still wanted to be cautious, as another balled its fists in frustration from being kept away from a beautiful plate of healthy food.

You opened your mouth, only to choke back on the words with a wet cough. You sputtered again, crying like a sad child for him to witness before finally speaking.

“Are you going to drug me?”

"No,” he answered quickly and with little care.

You watched for any signs of a farce, a twitch of an eyebrow, a quirk of a lip, anything. His eyes held their dull, disinterested blue as he waited for you to make up your mind.

You ventured closer to the plate, pressing a dirty finger against the still hot morsel of meat. It was light in color, like white meat off a rabbit, but you needed to be certain before going past this thin line you had drawn for yourself.

Your lips stuck together as you nearly whispered a squeak of a few words, “Is it people?”

The ‘P’ was sputtered by the drop of collected tears, making the sound more pronounced as it left your lips.

“No”

You looked back at him at the subtle change in his voice. With one word, one syllable, it was oddly unmistakable. He sounded a little offended, and yet he didn’t lift a finger against you.

That last ‘no’ was all you needed before throwing yourself at the plate, scooping at the wet potatoes and greens with your fingers to wipe the tasteless sludge over your tongue in ecstasy.

You tore at the meat with your bare teeth like a hungry dog in a frenzy of unending starvation.

You weren’t human anymore; no longer yourself. It was shameful how you felt. In this moment, as you tore at a lump of fat with your back molar, you wanted this more than ever.

You wanted to be a pet if it meant the promise of this minimal care. You wanted to be kept; you wanted the fresh water and food; damned be the consequences.

You weren’t thinking clearly, not until you licked the last stain of grease and green vegetable smudge off the plate with your desperate little tongue. You hadn’t realized you were panting, gasping at the air, and holding the plate with white knuckles and numb fingers as if he could fly off and never return.

His expression had shifted for only a second. A split moment where his eyes widened a single centimeter before returning to their natural steely state. His shoulders stayed stiff with new concern. It was all a subtle change you had missed during your indulgence.

“Do you want more?” He asked, his voice still tainted with that unspoken concern.

You swear you could nearly feel your heart stop at just hearing those words. You were still desperate, and you nodded frantically.

He reached carefully towards you for the plate, giving you his metal fingers instead of the soft fleshy digits of his other hand. Possibly anticipating being bitten when pulling away the saucer. You let him take it from you, watching as he repeated his earlier actions of leaving and locking you inside the room.

There was a burn of shame somewhere in your stomach, but it was greatly overshadowed by a deep desire for sustenance. And, this man, what should be a monster in your eyes, was unbothered to fulfill such a desire.

You stood in place, not reaching for the door like the captive you are, not waiting on the bed like a puppy missing its master. But, by god, you wanted that fucking food.

Chapter 4

More post apocalyptic AU

Tags : @itsswritten @cjand10 @dear-lolita @took-a-wr0ng-turn @scott-loki-barnes @ihavetwoholesforareason @potatothots @toozmanykids @wintrsoldrluvr @heletsmelovehim

[mossybee-exe]

Solarpunk Worldbuilding 2 - Mesh Intranet

*Artwork by @bird_wells214 as reference*

*Unknown artist*

As mentioned in the previous post, there is still internet in this world but it's different now. No longer is it doom scrolling that's filled with politics, drama, influences, and more. Now, it's the intranet.

The internet exists, but it's localized. Instead of one global net, each town has ther own unique mesh intranet. Communities share and upload stories, tech guides, magazines, songs, ans documentaries - all accessible for free.

"Influencers" exist in a way, but it's different now (more on that in another post).

While every Data Slate has a journal and map built in, there's a collection of unique "apps" that people can get and use.

This includes but not limited to:

Mood Gardens - Like a mood tracker in a sense. A gentle, visual space where users "plant" their feelings like seeds. You can select a mood (calm, angry, happy, sad, etc) and pair it with a sound, color, or image. Others can visit your little digital garden and leave small acts of care - Like a kind comment shaped like a dew drop, or a song in the shape of a mushroom. Mood Gardens bloom or wilt based on how the person feels over time, creating a space of quiet emotional check-ins and empathy.

Story Weave - A collaborative story writing and memory keeping project. Residents can start a thread with a piece of story - fiction or nonfiction, fantasy or memoir - and others can respond with artwork, voice recordings, music or the next part of the tale. It's part art gallery, part campfire circle, and part community archive.

Masked Mosaic - An anonymous space where users can share secrets, confessions, or thoughts they're not ready to attach a name to yet. Every post appears as a piece of Mosaic art with changing colors and patterns based on tone. It's moderated with care and compassion by community - appointed listeners rather than traditional mods.

Patchwork Trades - Kind of like Facebook Marketplace. A beautifully, digital barter board shaped like a quilt. Instead of listings and posts, every item or service offered appears as a patch. You might hover over or click a patch and find "hand-drawn pronoun pins" or "will watch your cat and water your plants." When Trades happen, a thread is digitally stitched between the two patches, showing the connections growing.

BuzzHive - A social update board styled like a honeycomb. You can share what you're up to - "Baking sweet potato rolls!" "Making rain charms today." "Feeling soft + sleepy." - but instead of likes and comments, others can send reactions like tiny bees: "hum of support" "sunbeam hug" "sprout of joy" or "quiet sit with you."

GroveTube - This is where people post tutorial videos - like how to bind books with wild-grass thread, build a bee-sade lantern, or compost using only forest scraps. It also includes soft-spoken vlogs, musical performances from tree balconies, and messages from traveling members. There's no algorithm, just categories like "soothing" "skillshare" "storytelling" or "random joy."

Rest Mode/Gentle Logout - Instead of pushing for endless engagement, the intranet encourages resting offline. If someone logs out for a few days or weeks, their profile softly fades to dusk colors, with a message like, "[User] is in rest-mode. Send soft love." Others can leave soft tokens or small notes that don't alert the person until they log back in.

The Vault of Remembering - A quiet, encrypted memorial place for those who have passed on. It contains memories, audio clips, digital letters, and little symbols like wind chimes or falling stars that friends and family can leave behind. It's updated during community Remembrance days with candles lit both physically and digitally.

The ideas are free to use for whatever you want or use for inspiration! All I ask is that you CREDIT ME! And feel free to send me an ask on more details to this lovely world :)

[sergiosimptellitto]

Stars are meant to burn

Chapter 7: Honeymoon

You’re hunched over a recycled paper cup of vending machine coffee, eyes ringed with sleeplessness, going to an awkward hair growth phase after getting a bit too comfortable with some scissors you found, flipping through data sets no one asked you to process. You're not even on this research project. You just want someone to notice you.

You hear a voice behind you, smooth and amused.

“Do you even blink?”

You look up. It’s him—Marco. The tall one from the archaeology seminar. The one who smells like ink and spearmint. The one you briefly let yourself like before deciding he probably only likes the tall, artsy girls who make everything look like an aesthetic accident.

Girls who are smart, bright and kind, even if they do not need to. Unlike you, who have developed those characteristics to overcompensate.

You mumble something about needing to finish early. He sits down across from you without asking.

“You know,” he says, sipping his own terrible coffee, “all those other girls… they’re pretty until they start talking.”

You raise an eyebrow. Excuse me?

He shrugs. “You’re the opposite. You open your mouth and it’s like—you get more beautiful. Every time.”

You blink. Hard.

“That’s not true,” you say too fast, too sharp. "I'm not even—"

He cuts in, laughing, soft. “Stop. You think you're ugly? Please. You’re not pretty the way they are, no. You’re... interesting. You’re fire. And fire scares people. But it makes me want to stay warm.”

You never dated him. Of course not. He left the program two months later. But the phrase stuck in your mind like a thorn:

“You're not pretty the way they are.”

You never forgot what came after either.

"You're fire."

You just wish it didn't mean being loved only for how brightly you burn.

Then something is clinging to your leg. Something is breathing on your neck. Something is—snoring?

You wake up to the sun filtering through the gauzy curtains and an overwhelming sense of heat, weight, and wrong.

You blink. Then look down.

Bellastella is basically draped over you like an expensive, overcooked octopus. One arm flung across your stomach, one leg hooked over your hip, his face smushed against your shoulder with a faint line of drool trailing onto your borrowed nightshirt. His blazer is somehow beneath you both, serving as a half-crumpled pillow, and your leg is completely numb.

You try to move.

Big mistake.

He groans, snuggles closer, and mutters something in Italian that sounds vaguely ecclesiastical and unhinged.

“Oh my God,” you hiss, frozen in place like a victim of a very dumb, very elegant landslide. “Toti. Toti. Wake up. You’re strangling your wife.”

“Mia moglie,” he murmurs against your skin, smiling stupidly. “So warm.”

“Not romantic,” you mutter. “You are literally on my pancreas.”

You finally elbow him in the ribs, and he jerks awake with a gasp, blinking wildly. “What the—! Why are you under me?”

“You migrated like a brainless moth in the night!”

He props himself up on one elbow, hair a ridiculous mess, shirt still inside out. “This feels... very marriage-coded.”

“This feels like a hostage situation.”

You both groan in unison, trying to detangle yourself from each other and the cursed blanket that now binds you together like a chaotic burrito of questionable choices.

Eventually, you sit up, hair askew, dignity in shreds. Bellastella yawns, rubbing his face.

“Good morning, carissima.”

“Don’t. You drooled on me.”

“You make me drool, carísima moglie mia.”

“Shut up.”

“I was marking my territory.”

“I swear to God, Bellastella.”

You’ve been trying to downplay it all night. The burning sensation across your back. The pulsing itch that no scratch can satisfy. The weird heat crawling under your skin. You even waved it off earlier when Bellastella offered to check. “It’s probably nerves. Or hay. Or your personality.”

But now, you can’t sleep. Not like this.

You sit up and flip on your phone’s flashlight. “Okay,” you mutter. “Okay, I need—”

Bellastella bolts upright as if he’d been awake the whole time. “What? What is it?”

“I need help. My back is— I can’t even explain it.”

“You should’ve said something!” He’s already shifting out from under the blanket, shirt hanging off one shoulder where the buttons are still undone from earlier. “Turn around. Let me see.”

You hesitate, but there’s no dignity left in this night. You scoot around, and he gently unzips your dress again — this time not even pretending it’s anything but necessary.

A beat. Then:

“Madonna santa.” His voice drops. “Why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?”

“What, it’s just a little rash—”

“Your back looks like a Jackson Pollock painting in red.”

“…is that a compliment?”

“No!”

He grabs the ointment and wipes like a man on a mission, hands surprisingly gentle. You wince as he starts cleaning around the worst of the swelling.

“Spider?” you guess, tone half-joking.

“Definitely. Possibly recluse. You should be in a clinic, not—whatever this is. This rustic death trap.”

You hum, biting your lip. “That explains why I feel like I’m being slow-roasted.”

He pauses. “I’ll stay up. Monitor it. If you spike a fever, I’m calling a helicopter.”

“You don’t have a phone signal.”

“I’ll build one from spare parts.”

You sigh. “You’re worrying too much.”

He doesn’t answer right away, just keeps dabbing ointment in careful, silent circles. Eventually, he murmurs:

“I’d rather overreact than watch you rot from the inside out.”

You blink.

That shuts you up.

Just for a moment.

Bellastella is pacing. Not walking. Pacing. Like a man possessed. His blazer’s wrinkled beyond salvation, his hair is fluffed in ten different directions from frantic hand-wringing, and he's muttering in Latin, Italian, and what might be badly remembered Shakespeare.

You, meanwhile, are sprawled face-down on the creaky bed with a wet cloth pressed to your cheek. Feverish. Sweaty. Dazed. You had enough strength earlier to call him a “whiny Gucci scarecrow,” but now you just groan into the mattress and try not to pass out.

“She’s deteriorating,” he hisses to himself, pulling at the collar of his inside-out shirt. “This is how documentaries begin. ‘They ignored the signs. They didn’t act fast enough.’ Merda.”

He holds up your phone like it might spontaneously get service if he glared hard enough. No signal. Of course not.

When he turns back, you’re shivering under the blanket.

That’s it.

“Okay. Alright.” He kneels by the bed like he’s about to start praying. “Here’s the situation. I’m going to do something very brave and possibly illegal.”

You crack an eye open. “Please… don’t.”

But it’s too late.

Bellastella kicks into action. He rummages through your bag with all the grace of a drunken raccoon, pulling out socks, chargers, lip balm, a wrapped chocolate, and finally—

“Your moisturizer. Yes. I will use this.” He frowns. “Hydration is health. Right?”

“No—no, that’s for—”

He’s already dabbing it onto your temples like you’re a fancy scone.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, genuinely. “You’re the competent one. You’re the adult. I just talk my way through rooms and sign things.”

Your eyes flutter, too tired to respond.

Bellastella presses the back of his hand to your forehead. “If you die from spider venom in the countryside, I swear to God I’ll forge your signature and fake a will.”

You groan. “Romantic.”

“I’ll make you seem so rich. It’ll be tragic. A whole scholarship fund in your name. The Tiana Bellastella Memorial for Women Who Put Up With Idiots.”

He slumps beside you, burying his face in the pillow for a second. Then:

“I should’ve made you lie down earlier. I should’ve noticed.”

You manage a soft, dry laugh. “You noticed everything… except the dying.”

He shoots back up. “No more talking. You’re on vocal rest. That’s a medical thing.”

You’re too exhausted to argue. You close your eyes again. The sheets shift as he rearranges the blanket around your shoulders.

And, just before you drift off, you feel it:

A hesitant hand brushing your hair back from your forehead.

“I swear I’ll take care of you,” he murmurs. “Even if I have to learn how to boil water.”

That’s when you realize: you might actually die.

But if not, you’re definitely going to milk this for a month.

You wake up feeling like your body’s been steamrolled by an antique tractor. Your back itches like hell, your head throbs, and your throat feels like it was used as a gravel road. But you’re upright. Alive. And most alarmingly—

Bellastella is nowhere in sight.

You sit up, the blanket falling off your shoulders, and—

“Oh no,” you rasp.

The smell of coffee hits first.

Then burnt toast.

Then something you can only describe as “optimistically egg adjacent.”

You shuffle your way into the little kitchen-slash-bathroom-slash-hallway of the cottage and there he is:

Hair wild, shirt buttoned almost correctly (only two are wrong), sleeves rolled up, socks mismatched, and expression deranged with purpose. He’s holding a cracked pan like it insulted his ancestors.

“Ah! She lives!” he shouts. “Your fever broke. Your cheeks are pink. Or possibly just flushed from rage. Either way—breakfast!”

You glance at the table. There is toast. There is also what might once have been an egg. There is also a whole lemon, uncut, just sitting there like it was invited.

He pours you coffee like it’s a ceremonial rite. “You scared the hell out of me.”

You sip. It’s actually… decent.

“You okay?” you ask.

“I am fantastic,” he says with a smile that looks 90% forced. “I survived a sleepless night, learned basic first aid via Wikipedia screenshots, and also discovered I have an allergy to hay. And dust. And possibly poor-quality mattresses.”

He sneezes violently into his sleeve.

“And you, madam,” he says, voice nasal now, “have been the subject of rumors.”

You blink. “What?”

He plops down opposite you. “Apparently I am a rich industrialist who brought his foreign little wife to the countryside for fertility blessings.”

You choke. “What—”

“Mm-hmm,” he says with full drama. “They say I have a villa in Milan, that I married you after falling in love at a yacht auction, and that you’re a silent, obedient type. Which is rich.”

“You look like an underfed sugar daddy,” you mutter. “And fertile wife? Seriously?”

He shrugs. “You looked flushed and tragic. Very Madonna col Bambino. Plus, we did that whole yelling-at-each-other-while-lost act, so… clearly married.”

You sigh, resting your head in your hands. “This week is cursed.”

“You’re welcome,” he says smugly. “I give you authentic Italian immersion. Food, countryside, near-death experiences, marital accusations.”

You peer at him. “And you? You okay?”

For a second, he falters. His eyes soften.

“I’m fine,” he lies. “The rich industrialist’s wife had it worse.”

You watch him. He didn’t sleep. He’s twitchy. Nervous. But doing everything he can to keep the spotlight off himself.

You lean back.

“Fine,” you say, sipping again. “But you’re getting a nap. No arguments. That’s an order.”

He salutes.

You roll your eyes.

And somewhere outside, an old woman mutters to her daughter, “I give her five months before she’s pregnant with twins.”

The church bells ring like they’re announcing divine judgment—and frankly, it feels personal.

Your legs still ache, your back still stings, and the heat is making your vision go soft around the edges. Yet here you are, being paraded into town like livestock on market day.

And Bellastella? Bellastella is glowing.

Dressed in one of his obnoxiously good suits (God knows where it came from), hand resting gently on your lower back like he’s escorting a duchess, eyes squinting smugly under the countryside sun. He even has the audacity to offer you his sunglasses.

“Smile,” he murmurs, “they think you’re glowing.”

“I’m about to pass out.”

“You’ll do it gracefully. Like a fainting bride.”

You squint at him. “I hate you.”

“Darling,” he says, helping you down a step. “They already think we’re trying for twins. Don’t ruin it.”

A cluster of locals waits just outside the church courtyard. Women in black kerchiefs, men with suspenders, a few kids holding olive branches or goats. You smile weakly. One of them crosses herself. Twice.

Then, the whispering starts:

“Guarda com’è pallida… è già incinta, secondo me.” (Look how pale she is… I bet she’s already pregnant.)

“Si vede che la tratta bene, sempre vicino a lei.” (You can tell he treats her well, he’s always by her side.)

“I morsi sul collo…? Eh, si amano proprio.” (Those bites on her neck...? Ah, they’re really in love.)

You glance at Bellastella. “What are they saying?”

He leans in, grinning. “That you’re the perfect Catholic wife. Modest. Fertile. Beloved.”

You freeze. “Did they just—did someone say—fertile?”

He beams. “They’re blessing our future children.”

“Oh my God.”

“I know. We haven’t even picked names.”

You groan. “Please. Let lightning strike me.”

“Una donna così silenziosa… che fortuna ha avuto lui!” (A woman so quiet… he’s a lucky man!)

“Stop smiling like that,” you hiss as he waves to the townsfolk like an aristocrat at a charity gala.

“They think you’re too tired to speak,” he says smugly. “I told them you prayed so hard for our marriage you’ve lost your voice.”

“You told them what—”

“Pssst. Don’t ruin your image.”

“Devono venire a messa domenica prossima, il prete li benedirà per la fertilità.” (They must come to Mass next Sunday, the priest will bless them for fertility.)

You lean toward him. “What did that one say?”

He puts a hand on his heart. “That you’re radiant in your suffering.”

You narrow your eyes. “Salvatore. I swear to God.”

“They’re inviting us to a fertility blessing.”

You start walking away. He follows, smug.

“Darling. Your fans adore you.”

“I am going to kill you.”

He taps his chest. “Our child must know love and drama.”

“We are not having a fake child.”

“Tell that to the women planning our baby’s baptism.”

You’ve been walking for five minutes—maybe ten? It feels like thirty. The dust clings to your skin like regret, and the sun has begun peeling what’s left of your patience. Bellastella rambles on about how he's sure the local mechanic can “absolutely” fix a French-imported rental engine with a wrench and good intentions.

You're trying to nod, to smile, to look like a picture of rustic matrimonial bliss.

But your legs wobble. Your vision tilts. Your knees give a warning.

Then—

You stumble.

Before the world can finish tilting sideways, a pair of arms catches you, strong and immediate.

“Woah, amore mio—easy, I’ve got you,” Bellastella says, his voice too gentle, too convincing.

You collapse into him, whether by instinct or exhaustion, you don’t know. Your cheek presses against his chest—his still inside-out dress shirt—and your hands grasp the lapels like you’re clinging to life itself. His cologne is faint but warm.

Behind you, you hear the collective gasp of an entire generation of Italian elders.

“Hai visto? L’ha presa tra le braccia come nei film!” (Did you see that? He caught her in his arms like in the movies!)

“Ah, l’amore vero… si vede quando lui protegge così.” (Ah, true love… you can tell when a man protects her like that.)

You barely whisper, “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.” His voice is low but panicked now, soft and fierce. “You should’ve told me it got worse.”

“I didn’t want to ruin your… little countryside performance.”

He lifts your chin, just enough to look into your eyes. His expression shifts—something real, not smug or sarcastic.

“This isn’t a performance.”

You blink up at him.

Then the illusion cracks: he hears a click.

A woman takes a photo. Another waves at him.

“Dio li benedica! Guardali, sembrano un dipinto.” (God bless them! Look at them, they’re like a painting.)

He flashes a smile, but his grip on you doesn’t loosen.

“I’m carrying you,” he mutters.

“No you’re not.”

He sweeps you off your feet before you can argue. You yelp, hitting his shoulder weakly.

“This is undignified!”

“This is heroic,” he says through gritted teeth, “and if you throw up on me, I’ll still love you. As your legally fake husband.”

You bury your face in his shoulder as the townsfolk applaud.

“God help me,” you whisper.

“Already did,” he replies. “He sent you me.”

You groan loud enough to make a baby cry in the distance.

You’re half-conscious in Bellastella’s arms when the mechanic’s bell jingles—a rusty little shop flanked by a garden of junked Fiat parts and one lonely Vespa.

“Buongiorno!” the mechanic calls from under a car, sliding out with a creak. He’s wiry, with hands that look like they’ve been soaked in engine oil since Mussolini fell.

Bellastella adjusts you in his arms like a Victorian heroine and flashes that same devastating, very Catholic, absolutely conniving smile.

“Buongiorno, signore. Mia moglie… la mia bellissima moglie… she’s not feeling well. We had a minor issue with the car…”

The mechanic straightens up, wiping his hands. His eyes fall on you—fever-flushed, limp in Bellastella’s arms—and he gasps in the sacred language of small-town scandal.

“Madonna santa. La tua povera sposa! Ha l’aspetto di una che aspetta… due gemelli forse!” (Holy Mother. Your poor bride! She looks like someone expecting… twins, perhaps!)

You groan in English. “What did he say.”

“He said you look radiant,” Bellastella lies smoothly.

“Non deve stare in piedi in questo stato! Deve riposare, povera creatura!” (She shouldn’t be standing in her condition! She needs to rest, poor creature!)

Bellastella nods gravely. “Exactly what I was saying.”

“E tu, marito devoto, come ti prendi cura di lei! Un uomo raro!” (And you, devoted husband, how well you take care of her! A rare man!)

He kisses your forehead. “I do my best.”

You slap his shoulder, weakly.

“Now,” Bellastella turns, solemn-faced, “we’ve been through a lot. God sent us here. And perhaps… you can help us with our little vehicle.”

The mechanic nods furiously. “I won’t take a cent! Not from you two! This… questo è amore vero!”

(This is true love!)

Bellastella humbly clasps his hand.

You squint at him, suspicious. “What did he say now?”

“That love is the most important engine of all.”

“You’re abusing small-town hospitality.”

“Legally married hospitality,” he corrects, placing you gently on a worn-down bench and wrapping a towel behind your back like a shawl. “Now rest, carissima. I’ll go supervise the miraculous healing of our rental.”

You close your eyes and mutter, “One day they’ll canonize you, Bellastella.”

He salutes. “I’ll settle for beatification and a complimentary oil change.”

You arrive at the mechanic’s garage just off the dusty main road. The sun is higher now, baking the peeling red paint on the peeling sign: “Officina Meccanica Bianchi.” You wobble in Bellastella’s arms, and the old mechanic—a craggy man in stained overalls—watches from under a grease-smudged cap. His wife stands behind him, arms crossed.

Bellastella sets you down gently.

“Guardate un po’: la giovane signora sembra affaticata. È sua moglie?”

(Well, look at that: the young lady seems exhausted. Is she your wife?)

Bellastella nods proudly.

“Sì, mia moglie.”

(Yes, my wife.)

The mechanic’s eyes soften. He turns to his wife.

“Offriamogli un favore. Non possiamo far dormire così i coniugi, vero?”

(Let’s do them a favor. We can’t let a married couple sleep on the road, can we?)

His wife uncrosses her arms and huffs a laugh.

“Un favore per una coppia sposata! Per l’amore di Dio!”

(A favor for a married couple! For God’s sake!)

Bellastella beams.

“Grazie, davvero. Non so come ringraziarvi.”

(Thank you, truly. I don’t know how to thank you.)

The mechanic pats Bellastella on the shoulder.

“Portaci il motore. Lo controlliamo e ripariamo gratis. Per la salute della signora.”

(Bring us the engine. We’ll check and fix it for free—for the lady’s health.)

Inside the garage, you sit on a wooden crate as Bellastella hurries to pop the hood of the rental. The mechanic and his wife exchange knowing smiles, whispering.

“Lei è così gentile con la sua moglie. È un vero marito cattolico.” (“He’s so kind to his wife. He’s a true Catholic husband.”)

“Speriamo abbiano tanti bambini.” (“Let’s hope they have lots of children.”)

Bellastella catches you eye-rolling.

“Don’t mind them. They’re just impressed by my ‘fatherly’ instincts.”

You lean against the crate, wincing.

“I’m still not pregnant, you know.”

He offers a crooked grin.

“Then they’ll at least believe we’re trying. Now hush, or I’ll pretend we named the first one after you.”

The mechanic emerges with a rag, wiping his hands.

“Tutto è a posto. Il motore è riparato. Non ci pensate più.”

(“Everything is fixed. The engine is repaired. Don’t think about it anymore.”)

Bellastella claps the mechanic on the back.

“Cinque stelle! Come avvocato, prenderò nota del vostro nome.”

(“Five stars! As a lawyer, I’ll make sure your name is known.”)

The mechanic shrugs.

“Bastano due parole buone in chiesa. Buona fortuna!”

(“Two good words at church are enough. Good luck!”)

You both stand, Bellastella refusing to let you help pay even a cent. You step out into the sun, the repaired car gleaming and rumor-ready.

He takes your hand and bows, too proud and too happy for something so simple—but in this cursed countryside, simple miracles are worth celebrating.

The sun hits your eyes as you step out, and you almost forget the throbbing itch running down your leg. The countryside smells like basil, oil, and warm dust. You squint at the car like it’s a returning soldier. Bellastella is still high off the mechanic's praise.

He twirls your hand in his like you're ballroom dancing and says with all the pomp of a man proposing in front of a vineyard:

“My darling wife, shall we return to our honeymoon of misinformation and misdiagnosed ailments?”

You roll your eyes, letting him spin you once before planting your feet again.

“We need to talk about how we’re going to get through the next few days without further escalating this small-town Catholic drama into a full-scale pastoral soap opera.”

He leans back against the car door, arms folded, too smug for his own good.

“What drama? You look like a mythological vision, and I’m the idiot who fetched water and accidentally married her.”

You cross your arms too.

“You know what I mean. The way they look at us.”

He shrugs. “Jealous. You can’t blame them.”

You snort. “Well, yes, but who wouldn’t? You’re a white heterosexual rich idiot who on top of that is conventionally attractive.”

That stops him.

Actually stops him.

He blinks at you like you just confessed to a federal crime. His arms slowly drop to his sides. The smugness melts into something stunned, something raw.

“What?” he asks, voice lower, more honest than he probably means it to be.

“I said you’re a white heterosexual rich idiot who on top of that is conventionally attractive.” You blink, impatient. “Did you not know that?”

He frowns, uncertain. “I mean—I have good taste. I wear good suits. I vacation well. But… me? Attractive?”

The words are foreign on his tongue. You realize with a twist in your gut: no one’s ever told him that without strings. He’s always been admired, never quite seen.

You shake your head.

“Yes, idiot. You’re objectively hot. And tall. And dumb. It’s unfair.”

He recovers, just barely, pushing his sunglasses on with too much flair.

“Well then.” He clears his throat. “Guess I’ll try to live up to your vision.”

You both climb into the car—two idiots, one feverish, one reeling, both pretending the compliment didn’t change anything.

It did.

You sit in the passenger seat, legs curled under you, trying not to scratch your spider-bitten skin into oblivion. Bellastella is fiddling with the radio, humming something Sinatra-adjacent and smug as ever.

And then it hits you.

Like, really hits you.

Oh no.

Oh no.

You told him he’s attractive.

Out loud.

With your actual mouth.

And worse—he knows now.

Worse than that—you weren’t lying.

You glance over at him. Stupid, stupid man. Hair ruffled from the wind, one hand on the wheel, that tan from being somewhere rich and ridiculous, that jawline that looks like it was sculpted by divine nepotism.

And he’s smiling. Like a smug cat. Like he knows something you don’t.

And he does.

Because oh no—

You find him hot.

Like genuinely.

Like "I’d accidentally kiss you in a church pew" hot.

You look away, violently. Stare out the window. Pretend you’re just thinking about death. Or tax fraud. Anything else.

“You’re quiet,” he says, glancing at you. “Shall I be concerned or grateful?”

You grit your teeth. “I’m just planning your murder.”

“Charming,” he replies. “That’s how I know you care.”

You groan and hide your face in your hands.

This is bad.

You’re fake-married. Stranded. Ill. Possibly cursed. And now, to top it all off—

You have a crush on your idiot fake husband.

Who’s good-looking.

And knows it now.

And worse, he didn’t even gloat. He just smiled like he’d tuck it somewhere quiet and dangerous and use it later to kill you softly.

You peek at him again. He’s tapping the wheel, humming like he’s never once ruined a woman’s sense of stability.

You’re so doomed.

“How many men—or women, I know you have your charm with them—have called you beautiful?” he asks, so sure of the answer that it isn’t if—it’s how many.

You blink. “Women? Many. From all ages, actually.” You smile faintly. “The girls I used to tutor. The toddlers I babysat. The old women on the street. The girl from the university cafeteria once said I looked like a doll.”

You glance down. “That one stayed with me. It’s the nicest compliment I’ve ever received.”

Bellastella looks at you like you’ve just admitted to being raised by wolves.

“What about boyfriends?”

“I’ve never had one.”

He freezes, orange slice halfway to his mouth. “Not even a one-night stand?”

You shoot him a flat look, but it lacks heat. You know him. You know his tone isn’t mocking, just... confused. Curious. Genuinely a little appalled at the injustice.

“Nope.”

He tilts his head. “But you’ve had admirers.”

“Men usually call me funny or brilliant.”

He recoils dramatically like you just stabbed him in the ribs. “Ouch.”

You snort. “What?”

“No, no, I’m just mourning for every man who had access to you and still thought the highest compliment was ‘funny.’” He leans back, shaking his head. “Madonna mia. Tragic.”

You chuckle despite yourself. “What, you don’t think I’m funny?”

He looks you dead in the eyes. “You’re infuriating. And lovely. And much, much too intelligent to be handled safely. But yes. Funny. Unfortunately.”

You shift uncomfortably under the weight of the moment. “You’re not going to start calling me ‘doll,’ are you?”

He grins. “Only if you promise to never have a boyfriend.”

You blink. “Why?”

He smirks. “Because then I’ll have competition.”

Your heart hiccups.

He doesn’t seem to notice what he’s said. Or maybe he does—and just keeps peeling his orange.

You stare at him, blinking once. Then scoff, looking away. “You’re such a flirt.”

“I’m Italian.”

“You’d flirt with a curtain if it fluttered the right way.”

“Only if it were a very sensual curtain.”

You roll your eyes, half-smiling despite yourself. He’s always like this. Warm, exaggerated, insufferable. You tuck the moment away with the others—half-sincere, half-ludicrous. You know better than to take it seriously.

Still, your voice is a little smaller when you ask, “Why would there be competition?”

He hums. “Bah, benne.” Then more softly: “But tell me… have you ever had your heart set aflame for any ragazzo yet?”

You glance at him, surprised by the question. The way he said it—not mockingly, but with something quieter in his voice. Almost… hopeful?

You shift your weight. “Well… there was this one guy. Back in college.”

He straightens a little. “Oh?”

You nod, staring out at the countryside. “We worked in the same lab. He was funny. Smart. Thought I was annoying, I think, but he listened when I talked about my thesis.” You smile faintly. “Once he told me that most girls were pretty until they opened their mouths and became ugly—but I was the opposite.”

Bellastella’s expression tightens. “Che complimentone.”

You laugh. “Right? It wrecked me for years.”

He listens like you're telling him how the world ends.

Eyes sharp, expression unreadable—he’s way too invested for a story from your dusty college years.

“So,” he says, leaning in just slightly, “what did you do?”

You shrug a little. “He broke up with his girlfriend of three years.”

Bellastella raises a brow. “Ah. The plot thickens.”

“She was a bimbo with acrylic nails and perfect curled hair,” you say—then pause, catching your own words. “Which, by the way, doesn’t make her any less worthy. She was kind. Gorgeous. Not dumb. I only said that because I was jealous and miserable and convinced being a mess with a degree made me superior.”

Bellastella blinks, genuinely surprised by your tone. Then something flickers—respect, maybe.

You continue, quieter. “When I finished the master’s, he came to find me. Waited outside the department. Said he’d made a mistake. That I was ‘the one who made him think.’”

He’s silent. Leaning against the old Fiat, face unusually focused.

“He came close,” you say. “Told me he always knew, deep down, I was different. Leaned in to kiss me—”

“And?” he asks, a touch too fast.

You smile.

“I slapped him.”

His mouth opens slightly. Then closes. “You… slapped him?”

“Yep.”

Bellastella throws his head back and laughs, loud and delighted. “Santa Maria. I knew I liked you.”

You smirk. “Because I commit light violence when morally justified?”

“Because you don’t fall for cheap poetry and post-breakup kisses. And because—” he sobers slightly, “you didn’t tear her down to feel bigger. That’s rare.”

You shrug. “She wasn’t the problem. He was.”

He stares at you a second longer. Then mutters: “You really are the opposite. Not pretty until you open your mouth. Then you’re… something else entirely.”

You don’t ask what he means.

And he doesn’t say.

He leans back against the warm hood of the car, arms crossed, that lazy grin returning to his face like it never left.

“You know,” he says, voice casual—too casual—“you’re really quite gorgeous.”

You blink, taken aback. “Wait, what?”

He shrugs, eyes flicking down to your mouth, then away. “Yeah. Stunning. Until you open your idiotic mouth and start talking about, I don’t know, the semiotics of public transport or the moral superiority of eating expired yogurt.”

Your jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

He waggles his eyebrows. “And suddenly, there she is—the strange little gremlin philosopher of my nightmares. My wife, everyone.”

“I hate you.”

“You don’t,” he says smugly, watching your face like it’s a chessboard he just won. “You wish you hated me. But deep down you’re thrilled. This is the most attention you’ve gotten from a pretty man who knows how to use conditioner.”

“Oh my God, you’re insufferable.”

“You say that,” he says, already moving toward the driver’s seat, “but you still let me tuck you in last night, mogliettina mia.”

You glare at him, cheeks warm. “You stole the blanket.”

“I shared the blanket. Communal property. Like marriage.”

You mutter something deeply unholy under your breath in your own language. He’s smiling again as he starts the engine, tapping the wheel with far too much satisfaction.

And you?

You’re not smiling.

Not at all.

…Well. You do. Just a little. The kind of smile you try to swallow before it escapes—treacherous and involuntary, curled at the edges. He’s ridiculous. A walking ego in sunglasses. But somehow, impossibly, it’s comforting.

Right then—because life is cruel—his phone buzzes on the dashboard.

He glances at it, lights up.

“Ah! Sandra, bellissima!” His voice smoothens like silk, sliding into that softer Italian he uses when he wants something. “I was wondering when you’d call!”

The name—Sandra—sinks its claws in. You look away.

Of course.

Of course.

Just when the air was beginning to shift, just when your thoughts were crawling somewhere dangerous—somewhere like hope—reality calls back.

A beautiful name. Probably someone with perfectly curled hair and the kind of heels that don’t sink in the countryside dirt.

The kind of woman who knows what to do with a man like him. Who fits in the passenger seat of a Maserati without a tote bag full of antihistamines and backup books.

He laughs into the phone, says something low and fond in Italian. You don’t need to understand the words. You know the tone. Darling, I missed you.

You shift in your seat, eyes on the road. The repaired engine hums. The sun’s still bright. The countryside looks like a painting, and yet all you feel is stupid.

Stupid for smiling.

Stupid for thinking—

He’s still talking. You reach into your bag and pull out your water bottle just to do something with your hands.

You don’t interrupt. You don’t flinch.

But you also don’t smile again.

[otakuluvmurillo]

“Sup, the names Octavia, Via for short. And I’m gonna be your worst nightmare~”

Meet Octavia, Daughter of Stork and Luna

Carrier Pilot and Demolition Expert

💚 Octavia Bio 💚

Name: Octavia

Nickname: Via, Daddy Little Girl, Mini Stork, and Merbnerd

Species: Hybrid, Half Human & Half Merbian

Gender: Female

Skin Tone: Almond

Hair: Electric Blue

Eyes: Amber Gold

Personality: Octavia who is both curious and sweet like her mother, she has her father’s paranoid but love for danger. But be warned, she may be cute with her mother’s baby face on the outside, on the inside she’s mischievous and dangerous when it comes to being out to fight along with her friends. Like her mother, she loves to be a troublemaking rebel and bend the rules to succeed. However, she does have a habit of expecting doom from every encounter, she is also hypochondriac like her dad, but deep down she does have a softer side when she trusts the squadron, her friends, and family, especially when she’s selfless, but not when it comes to her guitar that she never lets anyone touch it. Especially Apollo.

Homeworld: Terra Celestial [Narrator: I made this one up]

Likes: Crystals, Reading, Star Gazing, Music, Horror Movies, Danger, and Creatures

Dislikes: Cold and Pink

Background: Octavia was born in Terra Celestial and is a hybrid of half human and half merbian, being the daughter of Stork and Luna who are members of the Storm Hawks. She has earned the title of being the Carrier Pilot and Demolition Expert thus being the best racer of all of Atmos taking Taurus title as the best racer, Octavia spends most of her time in the Condor building things, playing her guitar or violin, but also working on new gadgets for them. All she ever dreams is to travel all around Atmos and learn about all the terrifying creatures, natural disasters, and danger out there despite her paranoid fears and rumors she hears. She was recruited by Velvet who wanted to forge the next generation of the Storm Hawks, which Octavia reluctantly agrees to join.

Family:

- Luna [Mother: Alive]

- Stork [Father: Alive]

- Aerrow [Uncle: Alive]

- Mags [Uncle: Alive]

- Velvet [Cousin: Alive]

- Piper [Aunt: Alive]

- Capricorn [Uncle: Alive]

- Finn [Uncle: Alive]

- Grace [Aunt: Alive]

- Junko [Uncle: Alive]

- Gemini [Aunt: Alive]

- Radarr [Companion: Alive]

- Deimos [Grandfather: Alive]

- Marietta [Grandmother: Deceased]

- Moonlight [Great Grandmother: Alive]

- Hilal [Great Grandfather: Alive]

- Oberon [Uncle: Alive]

- Celenia [Aunt: Alive]

- Scorpio [Uncle: Alive]

- Ravess [Aunt: Alive]

- Antares [Cousin: Alive]

- Estrella [Cousin: Alive]

- Cyclonis [Aunt/Mentor: Alive]

- Aquarius: [Aunt/Mentor: Alive]

Best Friends: Velvet, Knuckles, Adam, Apollo, and Azul

Friends: Sonata, Dove, Suzy Lu, Billy Rex, Davey Digger, Bobby Bones, Tritonn, Burner, Blister, and Harrier

Love Interest: N/A

Enemy: Falco, Dark Ace, Repton, Leugey, Spitz, Hoerk, Crow, and Harpy

Rival: N/A

Weapons:

- Crystal Energy Axe Guitar

- Bombs: Glitter Bombs, Smoke Bombs, Flash Bombs, Paint Bombs, Stink Bombs, and etc

Skills:

- Melee combat

- Gravity Manipulation

- Moonblast

- Binding

- Sky-fu

- Stealth

- Acrobatics

Voice Actor: Alyson Stoner

Quotes: “It doesn’t matter what we do, we’re all gonna be doomed either way”

Trivia:

- Octavia may seem to have her mother’s rebellion character, she still like her dad

- She is a hybrid of a Merbian and human

- She loves crafting bombs but also loves collecting data about deadly creatures to add in her entry

- She can play the guitar but also the violin, thanks to Ravess

- She hates the cold but prefers it, lol

- She loves all types of music

- Octavia has the tendency to be nosy

- Octavia LOVES danger

- She has two different skin tones

- Octavia can read 20,000 words per minute

- She don’t play about the Condor, she will destroy anyone who insults the Condor

- She wishes for a pet

- Octavia’s boots are red and blue cause of how she can shift the gravity pressure, red for air pressure and blue for gravity

- Octavia is an outstanding driver and racer

- When Octavia is angry, sick, relaxed, or frustrated, her ears go down just like her dad

- Octavia can leap 10 times her height, though not enough like her dad

- Octavia loves both swamp baths and normal baths

- When Octavia was little, her first words her papa which he made Stork tear up so much

Theme: Bad Reputation by Kylie Cantrall

Battle Theme: Flame by KATSEYE

~ Inspiration of my Oc ~

Marceline: Being the musician she is, Octavia takes up the talent of being a musician like her mother who loves to play music with her axe guitar that she has as she loves to sing and create music on her free time. Especially when the songs she sings have a meaning to it, for example “That Distant Shore from Steven Universe” is Octavia loves that song very much cause she has a goal in mind and her feelings of her time spent with the Storm Hawks and the Condor.

Maomao: Octavia practically focuses on learning to survive and thrive in whatever way her environment demands her to, just like Maomao. But what catches the inspiration is when Octavia is unaffected by Apollo’s charms along with many of the male sky knights charms, but besides that she is also possesses a insatiable curiosity, sharp witted, calm, and mature enough to know how to read people and situations but a large part of her is how she is accepting kindness and forming relationships all around her. But beware, she tends to hiss whenever she gets irritated by Apollo’s comments when he tries to be flirty.

Chie Satonaka: Octavia has an enormous strong sense of justice and desire to protect others, especially when it comes to her family and friends, mainly her mother. Exactly like Chie, she does not hesitate to intervene and speak out, she wants to protect her home terra and Atmos. She also constantly training her sky-fu moves and challenges herself when she uses her powers and the binding thanks to Cyclonis and Virgo’s training including overcoming her fear of losing her mother after hearing what happened to her grandmother, Marietta.

Roxie: Being the punkish and rebellious Pokemon trainer she is, fits very perfectly with Octavia since she has a habit of breaking the rules and doing things her own way. Not to mention that Roxie is also a musician as well, she is rather determined and stubborn whenever her father gives her a stern lecture of how dangerous it could be if she decides to rebel, however she still cares for her father and tries to stay out of trouble. Sometimes.

Nora Valkyrie: Even though Octavia has a gloomy, rebellious, and punkish side of her, she also developed a cheerful and bubbly personality just like Nora. Besides her personality Nora is extremely skilled in combatant, able to fight with a large hammer while performing acrobatic flips and spins with minimal effort, just like Octavia who developed that skill from her mother’s training, not to mention skilled marksman when she need to throw her bombs at the target giving her the opportunity to knock her enemies out with a sleepy gas or stink bomb, however she tends to also use her glitter and paint bombs to blind the enemy as she seizes the opportunity to knock down her enemies with her axe guitar.

Chuuya Nakahara: Just like her mother, Octavia inherited her mother’s ability to manipulate gravity around her, allowing her to manipulate and make gravitation just like Chuuya Nakahara. Not to mention how Octavia can alter the gravity of anything she touches, along with standing and walking upsides down from the ceiling. The boots she wears are what allow her to change the gravity around her, Red for air pressure and blue for gravity. On the plus side, it makes her stylish and fashionably fabulous in those boots.

[bereft-of-frogs]

happy friday! I am so tired. I am so ready for weekend. phew.

📚 reading/watching/listening to:

☢️ [ audiobook] Midnight in Chernobyl - Adam Higginbotham: I still barely understand how nuclear reactors work. One of these times the explanation will stick. It's interesting though, and the narrator is doing a good job. Fun times doing my little data entry tasks while listening about people wandering around highly irradiated disaster zones with a horrified look on my face.

🤖 [ audiobook ] Fugitive Telemetry - Martha Wells: Technically I have not started this, it's next up, but I finished both Rogue Protocol and Exit Strategy. I'm so mad at Rogue Protocol for both that ending 😭 and also for making me so aware of how much I am exactly like ART and Murderbot when it comes to media. When I got to the ending, I was cleaning my apartment and had to stop and stare into space for a minute, and then instead of picking up the next, I just went back and listened to the beginning of Caliban's War instead. And I was like. Ah. I’m doing the thing. The thing ART and Murderbot do. It me.

☄️ [ book ] Catalyst - James Luceno: I'm still stuck on this. So close to the end though. It's dragging a bit. I didn't have a lot of time to read this week because of meetings and work lunches, but also James Luceno has never really been my favorite. They're nothing technically wrong with it, I'm just not sucked in so I've been less dedicated to actually sitting down and finishing it.

🌌 [ tv ] The Expanse: I was feeling a little meh about the latter half of season 2, their adventure on Ganymede wasn't what I was picturing, but season 3 is an improvement so far. I didn't look up if anything changed in terms of the directors (I know the writers stayed pretty consistent) or budget, but I feel like everyone is giving better performances and some of the effects have been phenomenal. (I realize that probably is why they got cancelled off SyFy but the increased budget for some of this stuff makes it worth it lol.)

🛸 [ tv ] The X-Files: No I haven't stopped thinking about 'Triangle' oh my god. That was so fun. Season 6 is off to a great start, they're doing some fun stuff with the directing style. It is extremely obvious that they moved production from Vancouver to LA. I'll miss the thick pine forests and constant drizzly weather of places like "Virginia" or "Ohio", but plot-wise it does make sense to have access to the desert so they can do stuff with the southwest and Area 51. And I’m sure it was convenient for the production staff and actors.

🤖 [ tv ] Murderbot: I liked episode 3 more than the first two, possibly because there were no Sanctuary Moon scenes. I feel like the only one who doesn't like the Sanctuary Moon scenes, they just tip a bit too into unwatchable cringe for me. I wish the episodes were longer, 25 minutes is just a bit short, I keep feeling like we've just gotten into a rhythm and then it's over.

☔️ to do:

Post first chapter of longfic I've been working on for quite some time. I am a little nervous but also just due to how niche it is and one of the warnings attached,I think it should be a fairly quiet response, which is for the best. I'm proud of it but there's a lot going on in my brain about it that's causing some insecurity lol.

I think I have to restart a scarf I'm working on. I realized I mixed up the right and wrong sides and it's messing up my colorwork. It's not *bad* but I really wanted it the other way, and it has a couple other issues that I think it's worth starting over on. I might get it together and bind off the sweater body I've had languishing for a while. I have time tonight because I have quite a few things to watch and I'm skipping my run because it's like 40 degrees and windy out. No, thank you.

I'm running away to the woods to speak only to my parent's dog, who I'm dogsitting. I had such a social week, I am so ready for quiet. Going to stop in town for lunch and to use a giftcard to the local bookstore I've been sitting on. And obviously, bringing all of my laundry.

Plan for the weekend (aside from dogwalks) is to work on on a few oneshot drafts. I've had one like half done for a long time and I'm hoping to finish it for an upcoming event, one that I spit out last week in one of those fugue 'I just wrote 3k words' states, but it needs a little collective tissue, and a few half-outlined concepts that I can poke at. Will be nice to work on some shorter things for a bit, before hopping back into another long one.

[kawaoneechan]

Fucking armatures.

A fucking week of building up the confidence to try... and all it did is confuse me more.

It's no use to work on these other things when something as actually kinda freakin' important as animation is missing. Or at least it seems that way to me.

And by all means it makes no sense. This thing Vaartis found for me, it seemed so clear. Especially compared to Wicked Engine and Godot, or even the UFBX viewer sample.

It has six different files including the identifier m_InverseBindMatrix, each of them exactly once. Four of them are different takes on loading models in different formats and libraries, including UFBX, and all of them do the same thing: get the inverse bind matrix and store it in a more library-agnostic data structure.

A bone type that has a name, a local transform, an inverse bind, and a list of child bone IDs.

That's what I have too. Great.

So that's the part I copied last week. Then I spent the next seven or eight days building up confidence and re-reading the code to make sure I got it all.

The fifth file defines the bone type and can be ignored.

The sixth file applies the transformations. So that means only two of the six files matter here. How bad can it be?

Okay so set the final matrices to the local transforms, check. So basically turning the upper arm and forearm separately.

Then in this UpdateJoint function...

Multiply the parent bone's matrix by the child's. Okay, check.

And then go through all the bones again and multiply in the inverse bind matrices for each. Seems clear enough.

So here's Project Special K's take on the above:

And CalculateBoneTransform is...

So here's the kicker: if I do not change any goddamn thing about a model's bones' local transforms and then recalculate, you'd expect it to give me a T-pose.

It does not. Because here's the local transform for the player's head bone and the inverse bind matrix for the same.

And the resulting final matrix?

Identical to the inverse bind matrix.

Which looks like this:

Unless I do the test thingy where I tilt the head back 45°:

That's not even the right axis!

And if I remove the third step and don't apply the inverse bind at all things are upright, the player model certainly is T-posing, but also tilting the head back has its pivot point near the feet instead of at the neck. Which is... also no good.

I am all out of rope.

Unless someone can tell me exactly what I'm doing wrong here, I see no way Project Special K can be finished. And I'd really rather not let eighty-something people down.

Source code that only Vaartis or those with a copy of VS2015 can compile here, if it helps.

Now, if you'll excuse me, it's 00:32 and I need to get up early so I'm gonna go cry myself to sleep now.

[dr-futbol-blog]

Childhood's End

There sure are a lot of strapping young lads in this episode.

In Childhood's End (S01E06), we start sowing the seeds of jealousy that we find upon multiple instances both Sheppard and McKay express when it comes to the other's interest in a woman or a woman's interest in them (possibly this already started at the end of the previous episode with the handsy nurse; there Rodney was miffed, here Sheppard is miffed). Jealousy due to romantic rivalry between two men would make sense in a heteronormative context (women are paying more attention to my friend when they should be paying attention to me) but, uh. That is not and never will be the case with these two.

McKay mentions Samantha Carter at the outset and while he doesn't see the faces Sheppard pulls, we sure do. The thing is, McKay doesn't even say anything particularly incriminating. It's the mere tone of his voice when he mentions her name that Sheppard seems to pick up on.

Devil's advocate: Sheppard finds it distasteful that a fellow officer is being objectified. He finds 'locker room talk' crass, even though there's barely a hint of it here. Okay. But then he does this:

This lip thing is something that we see Sheppard do when ever he does not know how to deal with difficult emotions (a notable example is following the hug Elizabeth gives him after he survives a suicide mission in The Siege, Pt III). This is self-soothing behaviour.

The episode also starts with an example of something that I really don't like but which clearly stems from McKay's insecurity: indicating that he is of a superior intellect and that Sheppard is dumb ("I'm sorry: Yes, energy field good"). Yes, he also did that to Sam in the very beginning ("I have a weakness for dumb blondes"; let's preemptively insult the attractive person to take the sting off the inevitable rejection). He did actually already start this with Sheppard at the outset ("I knew that, of course. I'm just surprised that you did").

This is also one of the reasons I think 38 Minutes (S01E04) would have worked much better later on in the season: in it, we have another instance of McKay asserting his intellectual superiority over the others ("I apologise for being the only person who truly comprehends how screwed we are!") because he "reacts to certain doom a certain way" and Sheppard, being in the bind that he is, cuts him short real quick: "You've got to stop using your mouth and start using your brain!"

This is something that we return to time and again. McKay panics and starts going off on everyone around him focusing on all the wrong things, and Sheppard cuts through the fog to get his attention back to solving the problem.

In-universe, McKay is one of the smartest people alive. Some have argued even the smartest. According to Daniel Jackson, he could have won the Nobel Prize several times over. Yes. We later learn that Sheppard is of above-average intellect but obviously he is no match for Marty-Stu McKay because no one is.

Only, when it comes to strategy and strategic thinking, Sheppard is light years ahead of McKay.

This is a very good example of that: Sheppard is teaching McKay how to communicate on a mission. Be succinct, to the point, give only the information that is relevant. Clear communication and simplification of data is vital operation protocol, especially in scenarios of certain doom. Everyone knows that you're smarter than them my guy, he's just trying to keep you and everyone else unharmed.

This episode also marks the hilarious beginning of Sheppard's poor sense of direction. In fact, neither of them can keep a straight line with regards to orientation.

Sheppard can orient himself in the sky but not on land. McKay, as we later learn, cannot keep to a straight line on the ground or in the air.

In the episode, Keras and Sheppard bond real quick. The young village elder seems smitten. Good god, he looks Sheppard intensely in the eyes and says: "I’ll be honest with you, Sheppard. There’s nothing I’d like more than to spend more time talking with you… But it’s not possible." You know, like straight dudes do.

Sheppard also seems to like the boy just fine, although how much of his behaviour is designed simply to stop Keras from doing something he thinks is morally bankrupt is up in the air. They are sitting together, walking together, exchanging personal information.

There's also this:

Keras: Would you stand witness? Sheppard: Me? Well, what do I have to do? Keras: Just be there, as I prepare. We gather the strength from those close to us for the Sacrifice to come.

In the few brief moments they have spent together, they've apparently become close enough for him to ask Sheppard to witness his suicide ceremony. He even takes an arrow to the chest for this man he has just met.

What's real interesting, though, and which I'll return to in connection with Teyla's baby later is when Keras asks Sheppard whether he has any children. He responds: "Me? No. Not yet, anyway." Not yet. Not yet but he might want some one day.

The thing is, McKay's entire arc in this episode deals with him and how he is with children. He starts by being extremely annoyed by them like he's a big child himself. Ford tells the kids: "He's just upset because you're smarter than him." But by the end of the episode he has come to care for these children. He keeps them safe and protected, and makes sure that they haven't been hurt or traumatized by the ordeal. The persistence of these children changed him, and now he seems like he might make a great parent some day. And while they are antagonized by him, the kids also seem to really like him.

Now, what possible, possible reason could you have to bring up one character's desire for children in the future and showing what an excellent parent another character would make in the same episode? Hmm?

[katyspersonal]

"It is fucked up that Bloodborne only has two and a half black people and Yamamura" is one of the most bewildering comments I've ever heard on Bloodborne tbh. Like, it had me genuinely stare into void for six minutes.

It is true that there aren't many people of color in Bloodborne, but Yharnam IS inspired by Victorian times Czechia, so it makes sense majority of characters are white? Still! We have Henryk and Suspicious Beggar, both with very brown skin and implied Loran descent (Loran having strong Egypt vibe too!). Yamamura is Japanese, for sure! We have a Yahar'gul Hunter found in the same underground prison as Yamamura that is a black man, and there are other Yahar'gul hunters who are black/brown that seem to be similar to Henryk's descent. Simon is lighter brown and shares face data with Djura's Apprentice! Djura's Ally is brown. Bestial Hunter has been transformed with.. well, beasthood, but from his face data we can get a hint he used to be a PoC too.

It is not that they're all suddenly "not important" except for three either! Not a fan of "this character doesn't count because no one cares about them uwu" mentality. From the looks of his fate, Yahar'gul Hunter from underground jail was a detractor from Yahar'gul like Antal, and might have helped Yamamura to run! You definitely remember the trio that ambushes you in Yahar'gul, each fighting in a unique way, where did the "they're polycule" takes go all of a sudden? Besides, over half of Yahar'gul hunters use Church weapons, they could have been the victims of starting repressions against foreigners, and unfortunately the ones visually foreign were the most vulnerable. Forced to work with the one guy that accepts EVERYONE as long as they're useful. (Also yes, a potential much more dark explanation for lacking PoC in Yharnam than it being inspired by Middle and Eastern Europe). Djura's friends are certainly important, they stayed by his side, and one of them even continues protecting the beasts after his death! Djura's Ally is even mentioned in Bloodborne's official guide as the one that aids Djura! Bestial Hunter is implied to have been the member (if not owner) of Oto Workshop that was BETA Powder Kegs! Soulsborne characters are often as interesting as the fans WANT them to be!

That's like 12 people of color, not 3! I think the thing we can agree on is absence of women of color. Yurie is a misinterpretation since Zullie datamined her (simply blonde with grey eyes) face data late and her name actually being Julie is not exactly a viral knowledge. With Eileen, she doesn't have face data and voice actors do not bind to any specific interpretation, but even if they did it would not explain why specifically English VA should be crowned as "canon" one. Why not French or German or Italian or Portuguese then? Why not Japanese original, after all? We weren't given female characters of color as far as canon goes, unfortunately, but personally I think Bloodborne is not THAT devoid. You just need to look beyond just the characters who have more evident dialogue and story, Soulsborne games like to tell their stories I silence!

[sonicasura]

The impact of metal against stone.

The vibrations of dozens if not hundreds of pedes running around scared.

The vicegrip of a half-put together medical berth.

Megatronus struggled to get out of his restraints, finding that the Pit masters had detached his cannon from his arm. He finally wretched the blasted metal binding him off—it’d another thing of the berth was magnetized… Only then did the former gladiator’s processor catch up to the present. Or rather the fact the Vehicons were running around like glitch-mice in absolute panic.

Dreadwing and Knockout had their respective weapons drawn though seemed to have no immediate target to aim them at. Soundwave was hunched over his cassette, data cables out and sparking. The Decepticon leader questioned what sort of threat had his best (and the rest of the crew) in such hysterics.

Then, one of the walls splintered outward in several rock chunks. Megatron snapped to alertness within an instant as old instincts were set alight. Something was here! Unseen!

He may be down his primary weapon, but the Champion of Kaon was not defenseless!

——————————

‘This isn’t working.’ The human half thought.

‘What do you mean? We’re getting every single Eater Bit it summons!’ The digimon half thought back, feeling a little insulted?

‘It can spawn these endlessly.’ They countered, feeling overall ridiculous arguing with themself technically. ‘The first Eater Legion formed when Hudiemon’s human half partially hacked one and made the Eater Bits…’ Knowledge was partially linked between the two halves and the Arcturusmon on a hole. But like with any mass storage of data, it took keywords to narrow down the parameters. ‘Someone has got to be at the center of this thing. Human or cybertronian. Someone’s unwillingly supplying the Legion the power it needs to attack.’

‘I did not know that about Hudiemon. So, what exactly do we need to do to free them or stop the Legion at large? What’s keeping it going?’ The Digimon half queried, sending another shockwave to knock several Bits apart.

‘It can sustain itself so long as a single Eater Bit exists nearby—so we need to get all its minis together with it and launch an attack.’

The digimon half mulled over for it for a moment, leveling their own arm drills to their face. ‘I don’t think this or the contagion will be able to hit them all at once. Not if we want to keep the others from being infected…’

‘We need to change.’

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

{Slide Evolution Sequence}

{Arcturusmon into:}

“Siriusmon!”

If there was one positive to digivolutions, it was the fact base instincts came pre-programmed. The digimon half of the bio-merge was downright giddy at accessing both his Megas!

——————————

A white light suddenly appeared several feet above them—revealing a relatively small cybertronian(?) with two blasters at the ready. One shot from its blast revealed a smal miniature creature that was vaporizered. It flickered out of the visible spectrum leaving all the Decepticons sorely confused at the events.

.

.

.

After a small while, the uppermost portion of the sky suddenly combusted into white fire. Several vibrations of heavier beings could be felt walking away from the area. Everyone there was perplexed beyond belief at what happened.

Megatron only glared as Soundwave displayed images of the white armored creature. He knew that presence since their last two “battles”.

It was the damned white reptile!

It looks like someone amongst the Decepticons is fueling the Legion by accident. The question is whom? Might be Megatron considering he's been fueling up on Dark Energon like a drug addict.

Plus his addiction was cut short so any lingering parasite would look for other ways to sustain itself.