#i skipped some details from my own design

[isatohlee]

Get reverse animorphed loser

[netherfeildren]

Busy, Dying. Part 1;

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: In an in-between place called his life, Joel Miller is alone. In search of a cure. In need of a miracle. In want of God.

Can I interest you in a cure for loneliness? She'd asked him in a language without words. Taking it is the easy part. Letting her go is impossible.

-OR-

an a/b/o soulmates AU

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: No Outbreak AU, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Soulmates AU, Infidelity, Cheating, HEA!!!!!, Angst, Fluff & Smut, Mating Bites, Knotting, Heat Sex, Breeding Kink, Group Therapy, Social Experiments, Basically puppy training for unsocialized Alphas, And by God that man will be house trained by the time she’s done with him!, Complicated family dynamics, Discussions of self harm, Depression, Existential Angst, Author returns not with a whimper but with a KNOT, I wrote this in a very unserious state of mind beware 

A/N: Gray November, I've been down since July - but we're so back, baby. I’ve missed this so bad. I’ve missed you all, I won’t drone on and on. I hope you enjoy, and please talk to me in the comments. Update me on what I’ve missed, let me know how you’ve been and what’s happening in your life.

A great heartfelt thank you to all of my wonderful friends who so supportively cheered me on while I struggled to write this. Sincerely the best people I know. 

Love you all madly.

Word Count: 6.5K

Read on AO3

Part 1;

The old linoleum tiles are the most peculiar shade of puce, and Joel has realized there is someone sitting at the back of the room who smells… strange. 

More brown than purple—an ugly color. There’s something about it that fascinates him.

The woman that is currently speaking tells of her husband; it’s the only tale she has to tell. She’s been doing it for weeks, and they all know it well by now. Older, omega, the woman, and at the latter and less comely stage of life. Most of them here can say the same. They usually give their names, those that get up to share—although it’s never a requirement when you attend, it is highly encouraged—the sharing, he means—but he never pays much mind to them—the names, that is. That’s not what he’s here for after all—to make friends. Although, he does see how that’d be the initial assumption. 

Joel Miller is here for something more specific.

Six weeks he’s been showing up to these things now, and he’s yet to take a turn. He tells himself he’s working up to it. 

What that specific thing is…he hasn’t quite figured out. He’s listening for it, though, and intently, even if he does skip over the names. It’s the details of what they’re telling that matter to him. The hows and intricate whys of what it is that brought them here today.  

Her youth had been spent on a drunk, the woman is saying—her husband—and he’d been cruel to her in those days when there was still currency to spend in the form of her vitality. Joel nods at the puce—yes, he thinks, that’s usually the way of it. But later, there’s more to the story she reminds her audience, he drank himself into a fit, and had never been right since. The cruelty had been taken away from the marriage after that, and she’d been put in charge. 

“But I wonder,” she says, “If sometimes I don’t miss it, the way he’d been,” —if the reason she was here now, with all of the rest of them that were just like her in their own unique ways, was that she’d been left lonely after her cruel husband had been exchanged for a sick one. 

Joel nods again and wonders what sort of face the woman wears as she confesses but doesn’t bother to check. No matter, he knows they’re alike. If not in designation, then in heart. 

It’s easy, that thing, he does it too, to wish for the bad. To want to hold on to it, the thing that hurts. Addictive, even, in some cases. Missing it is easy. 

It’s why he’s here. 

And it’s what they promise you. In their flyers and pamphlets, when they stand on the corners of streets talking people up wearing that look in their eye and that slouch in their step, when they smell it on you—or in the lack there of—a mate or a purpose.

Welcome to our meeting. We’re here to find the cure for loneliness. 

That’s what they promise you by coming here. 

It’d been that word: loneliness, actually, that had caught him. L-O-N-E-liness. There was something attractive about it to him. Not a label but a state. 

You see, it was like this: Joel had seen a therapist once, several years ago, against his will and at the behest of another, who’d said all the wrong things in all the wrong ways. 

“You sound depressed, Joel,” the therapist had told him. 

He’d worn horn rimmed glasses and had a shiny bald head he could see the reflection of the overhead lights in. And worse—the non-scent of a beta which told him they’d never understand each other in the ways Joel longed to be understood. He’d—not hated him, necessarily—but felt an immense apathy for the man; more so than the regular apathy he felt for most things in his life. 

“I don’t know what that means.” 

“Very, very sad,” was the official diagnosis.

Joel hadn’t liked the sound of the word. The label. He did not like that a word so succinct could be ascribed to him and all that had happened in his life. There was no word for it. It just was. 

But there was something different about a state of aloneness, which if attributed to himself, he could accept. He had been left alone, in ways. It was a tangible thing he could look around a room inside of himself and recognize. 

They’re meetings, is what this place is—encounter groups this coalition offers where lonely demi humans can come to congregate, discuss their aloneness, what had led them to such a state; their lack of attachments, connections, mates—alpha, omega. Held in the basement of the Emmanuel Episcopal Church on Newbury street—halfway mark between his shop and house—though they never talk about religion, which he likes because he doesn’t believe in religion. 

God’s still under review. 

He wonders if the Catholics wouldn’t have them. 

Sitting forward in his seat, the metal folding chair that always leaves his back aching something fierce, he presses his elbows into his knees to distract with alternative pressure. Focusing on his fingers woven together between his spread legs, he tries to pay attention to the man who’s stood up to speak now. Older than himself, late sixties, no children, no family, no nothin’; he’d run them all off. 

But Joel is distracted. 

The smell is stronger now. Stranger too. Something full bodied, but metallic like rust, astringent bleach, built in a way that forces saliva to pool heavy between his suddenly aching gums. A mask that sits atop something of a much different chemical architecture—that’s the strange part. 

Or—no. The back of his neck itches, and Joel lifts a palm to cup his nape, quell the sting, feel the tender mark. No. The strange part is not the illusion of the smell. What it is, actually, is that he’s fairly certain what he’s smelling is someone else's blockers. Something which he’s positive he’s never consciously noticed on another person in the thirty plus years since he’d presented as an alpha. 

He has, suddenly, the quite intense urge to peek over his shoulder, certain that he’ll be caught smelling things he has no business smelling. That there will be someone just there, breathing down the nape of his neck with accusation on their tongue—boo!

Silly. But he’d known today would not be a good day. 

It’d started off wrong. The milk had gone sour overnight, the check engine light had come on in his truck, all his socks were suddenly mismatched with not a single pair to be found, and his usual route to work had been waylaid by some freak accident. A maple tree split in half, one side into a house, the other into the road. Not a sign of lightning in the sky all night long. 

Perhaps he might be compelled to believe in God after all. 

Joel does not like it when things are out of order or out of the ordinary. His life was organized in a way that never caused him strife or excess. And it was not that he was stuck in his ways, only that he enjoyed his routine and disliked when things were not as they should be. And this—whatever it is he’s smelling, whoever—is not as it should be. 

The older gentleman, an Alpha too, is still speaking. He had a daughter—has—who no longer speaks to him. Won’t even take his money. He’d had a long career in government that’d filled him with greed and paranoia and a radical view of life that refused to align with the way young people saw the world now. Perhaps he’d tried to change at certain times, but he was old and set in his ways. Or maybe he hadn’t wanted to change as badly as he should have when he still had the chance to. Happily stuck in the past. His wife had died, and his daughter had gone away from him. Too tired of his mediocrity as a father to give him another chance. 

The man sounds like he feels sorry for himself. Like he thinks himself the victim, and this one, Joel does look up at. He looks old and worn down, heavy beer pouch and thinning hair and sagging jowls. A sad and lonely man. Joel wonders if that’s what he looks like to the other people in this room, as well. 

“No man knows how bad he is until he has tried very hard to be good.” 

Joel blinks, looks at him more closely, tries very hard to find similarities between themselves. But no—not quite right, not the thing he’s looking for. Their plight is different. This man is not alone, he’s got his weakness to keep him company. 

The one thing Joel had fought like hell to keep out of his repertoire of issues. He’d run from even the possibility of it as soon as she was dead, left Texas straight for the Northeast and from thereafter, everything he’d done, he’d done with a staunchness of character. If at the end of it, that staunchness was made up of apathy or numbness or dissociative fury, well, then at least he wasn’t still that man who’d been too weak to save his daughter. 

That counted very much in Joel’s book. 

An overabundance of cold numbness, little anger, everything a static haze—an abstinent winter. That was his whole life. But then, look at him now, he was here, wasn’t he? He’d taken that brochure handed to him on that last warm Tuesday afternoon weeks ago as he’d headed back to the shop from lunch. 

Hello, sir. Could I interest you in a cure for loneliness? The young omega had said. 

It’d started like anything—an experiment or a desperate ploy. The monotony had been steady going the past few years, getting older, colder. He’d grown hard and solitary around his wound, loneliness spread like a fungus, and he’d longed for any sort of change. 

“A cure…how?” The terrible shrink had come to mind.

“Oh, nothing to fret over.” The young man had a nice smile, Joel remembers. Kind and straight toothed. Honest in the way that a stranger knocking on your door to sell you a Bible seems honest. “We call it an encounter group. People come, share, tell the tales of their designation and their lives. In the end, the result is different for different people. Some move on to a second step if they need… more. Others find what they’re looking for just through the connection of sharing. But no matter the result, you’ll see, you’ll be cured. Promise.” He’d winked, smile deepening, giving him an appreciative once over at the end of his spiel. Joel had blinked back, surprised, confused, but curiosity peaked enough he’d obsessed over it for three short days before he’d found himself stepping into the molted incense smell of the belly of a church so dimly lit he was sure not even God peaked in this sad space any longer.

“It’s that easy?” Joel had asked, childlike in his throat-strangled hope.

“That easy.”

It seemed the smile had been honest enough to sell him the Bible. 

The scent insists upon itself as the older gentleman finishes up, and Joel’s nose tickles with whatever it is it’s whispering at him. He wants to get up and walk out, run away, but suddenly his gut is tight and hot, and he isn’t sure he can actually stand up without disgracing himself in front of all these people. A wash of agonized heat moves through him, confused at what’s suddenly happening to his body. 

“We’ve got a newcomer today, sharing for the first time,” Maria, the woman who leads the group, says at the front of the room. “Everyone give her a warm welcome, it’s her first day and already she’s brave enough to jump on up here.”

There’s the shuffling of bodies in their seats, a cleared throat, the man sitting behind Joel breathes so loudly he thinks there’s gotta be some sort of medical condition going on there, the puce turns more hideous by the second, and his own heart is beating so hard in his ears the rush of blood is dizzying. He feels each thump of the thing against his breast bone in some sick imitation of a fist begging to be let out. 

The new voice begins as nothing but a murmur. 

An introduction—he misses the name. His breathing goes shallow, he’d tip over in his seat if he didn’t have both boots planted firmly against the puce. The voice gains strength and with it, Joel wishes he’d been paying attention from the start. He didn’t get to hear her name. 

It’s a girl.

She’d run away from home in the spring of her sixteenth year to join the opera, she tells them. Had come upon the city in roaring spring and thought the rest of her life would be exactly like that, pure novelty in bloom, nothing like what she’d left behind. And was deeply disappointed when the reality was nothing such. 

And Joel hears it, that disappointment in her voice at what she’d not been able to find after searching for it so religiously. This is what makes him look up at her. This, unlike all the others, he thinks he can relate to—just by the sound of her voice. The search for a thing lost which can never again be found. The fruitlessness of it all. 

At that first vulnerable, terrified glance, she’s already staring at him, eyes catching like hooks. 

He blinks once, twice—color—is sure he can hear the movement of his eyelashes passing through the air, the stick of his lids meeting—color—bright. This is it.

That wash of heat turns into a blaze, every single bead of sweat blooming on his brow is a tell evaporating into the ether. This is what he’d sensed from the start of the evening. Maybe even from the moment he’d seen that split maple. 

“My mother always said I needed to be stronger, bolder, not so sensitive.” She looks away from him now. “I grew up in an angry house where you had to fight tooth and nail not to be overrun. Because of this, I left it at a very young age, and it was the greatest fight I could muster, abandoning that house of anger. I found myself something to bring me what I thought would be joy, a job and a city, and for a time, it was enough. But starting your lonely life so young…it’s hard.” After a pause of breath, “It’s been hard.”

“And it’s made me never want to have to—exert myself,” she says, searching for the right words, smiling when she finds them, and Joel has the urgency to smile back. “Now, I never want to have to be strong. I never want to have to try. I want to only be the way that I am. I don’t care. I don’t want to have to fight. I never want to be in an angry house again. I want someone who’ll see this in me and understand and never make me work for it, that they would give it to me willingly, easily, without me even having to ask. Do you understand?” She looks about the room, and he hopes her eyes will land on him again, and even though they don’t, he feels she’s speaking directly to him. He nods, the hook of her temptation cast beneath his chin. “This is a fantasy. And it makes for a lonely existence. This idea of how I need it to be for it to be right—love.” She looks down at her hands folded atop the podium where they go to stand at the front of the group and share, and Joel wills her gaze to find him amidst the crowd again. “It’s so difficult. And this might seem very bad to you, weak willed, but it’s not. It’s only very honest. Which can never be a bad way to be.” 

Finally, she looks back at him, and it’s that loneliness of two people amidst a crowd, facing one another, knowing themselves mirrored against the other and yet still disembodied. There’s something indecent about the way she looks at him in front of all these people, the way he, in turn, looks back. A little bit like finding your own face on a stranger's body in a crowded room. Color rises to his face, and she gives him that same elusive smile from before. 

He’s the one to look away first this time. 

As the crowd disperses for coffee and pastries after the last of the speakers, he searches for her. He needs to ask her name, feels as if he’s some blighted creature without it, swears he’ll never forgo attention during a meeting again if he can fish it out of her.

He finds her at the dessert table, Maria at her side and a hand at her shoulder. Something of a thank you is being imparted between the two women. The girl is saying she’s grateful for the welcome, grateful that they’d found each other. 

Joel has things to be grateful to Maria for, also. It’d been pure chance, really, that Joel had met her. That she happened to know Tommy. She’d met his brother on a summer trek to Wyoming where they’d become friends and had kept in touch afterwards. The woman has a thing about her that ingratiates people by sheer force of will. Perhaps it’s that she’s an alpha, too. Perhaps it’s just the charisma and wide smile. The fact she’s got a countenance about her that takes no shit from anyone, that makes demands of a person whether they’ve got any give or not. Whatever the case, she’d pulled the truth of his estranged brother from Joel’s mouth like teeth, made the connection to the man she’d met as a fly fishing guide in the Tetons. She was kind enough to keep Joel updated on his brother on the rare occasion he mustered up the courage to actually ask. 

She always made him ask. 

Watching the two women stand together and share that easy thanks that Joel so urgently owes, and yet which he cannot voice, he feels, suddenly, so angry. So awkward. So humiliatingly inexperienced. So unable to grapple with the pain of human contact, the fascination of it, the humiliating necessity. 

That decade old anchor weighing him in place and the guilt of even thinking of it as such. 

I feel decrepitly alone and odd, he thinks. And how strange, no? He’d been a normal man. He has a normal job. He lives in a normal house. Unexceptional in every sense of the word. Everything in his life had been ordinary up until that one great tragedy. And then, as if none of the before had ever existed, it was as if everything afterwards was one great landslide of wrongness. The filth of it slinging mud all over his life so that nothing had ever been right after her. 

So that now he cannot even approach this girl whose name he needs to know, and Maria, to whom he owes the last surviving connection to his brother to. 

As Maria turns to go, she gives him an encouraging nod, sending him into an agony of shyness, aware of his hovering. 

The girl remains at the dessert table, perusing the pastries. He can see her fingertips dancing over the golden, sugared confections, before she settles on a plain, glazed donut. He watches the bend of her elbow, bringing it to her mouth and thirty seconds later, the empty hand reaching for a napkin. He can’t help the huff of laughter it draws from him. 

Watching the unknown creature with her back turned, he peers down the length of himself. Wood stain marred t-shirt, old work jeans and scuffed boots, he’d come straight from the shop. Looking back at her, she seems perfectly packaged and neat. The two of them, different as chalk and cheese. He tells himself he shouldn’t do it, turn around and go, leave her alone, as he steps up beside her at the table. 

Immediately, there’s the heat of her skin, the smell of her shampoo, and he realizes, and it’s silly because it should’ve been obvious from the get go, she’s an omega. The epiphany, not that she is one, but that he’d been too stupid and oblivious to notice, leaves him feeling vulnerable and angry. 

Any sort of hello that’d been coming alive on his tongue immediately dies. And he’s about to make a run for it once again when she speaks up beside him, “Would you like a donut?” Her small fingers skip over the pastries, choosing once again. “I haven’t had one yet,” she lies, “I can’t decide which looks best.” 

The dancing hand pauses over a golden brown puff pastry, seemingly coming to a decision, when she turns to look up at him. The scent of her isn’t just shampoo, not just the blockers he’d shockingly picked up on before—sharp, burning his nose—it’s her skin now, too. The dry sweat from hustling under her coat to make it to her first meeting on time salted along her limbs. Hot, sweet almonds. The shocking vermillion of the morning’s split maple comes to mind. He can smell her.

“Puff pastry?” She presses, quizzical crook to her brow at his silence and glower. “I think you really need something sweet. It’ll make you feel better.”

He wants to agree, to say he also thinks he needs something sweet. But all he can manage is a short grunt because she smells…indescribable. Honeyed musk, something heady, like she herself had just got done baking, straight out of the oven and full of sugar into his waiting mouth. 

That earlier anger, it kicks up a notch. Why isn’t he fucking saying anything? 

She shrugs, as she lifts the puff pastry to her mouth he finally manages sound. 

“You stink.”

He doesn’t know when he became such a liar.

He does know when he became such an asshole. 

A pause: mouth open, straight, white teeth ready to bite into the fluffy sweet bread. He can see her small, pink tongue, and it makes him go a little crazier.

He might be losing his mind. 

She’s got elegant eyebrows that shoot straight up her smooth forehead. The look of her skin is glorious.

 “Excuse me?”

Now, there seem to be too many words spilling out of his mouth. “You need better meds or somethin’. Need to sort your shit out. Can’t go gallivanting around smellin’ like that.”

Oh god, shut up. 

“Excuse me!” She takes a huge bite of the pastry. “I do not gallivant,” she shoots back, mouth full of sugar and Joel goes hot everywhere. “What is wrong with you?” she demands, pursing that prim little mouth as she chews, eyeing him maliciously. 

He hasn’t the damndest clue. 

She is not wary of him in the slightest, which in turn tells him he needs to be wary of her.

Another large bite, inexplicably she extends her free hand towards him—potentially going into shock and entirely out of his depth when he takes it, the vulnerability of tendon and muscle soft beneath his strength—offering him a firm shake. She gives Joel her name. 

In that moment, she has a look about her that tells him she’ll bite back if he isn’t careful, even if she hurts herself in the process. 

And now he knows you. 

-

“We might as well acquaint ourselves if you’re going to insult me. Don’t you think?” 

Peering up at him, he’s tall, well over six feet, and broad shouldered. Older, distinguished, but in a rough way, hewn oak, gray.

 “Are you typically this rude? Or is this a special occasion?”

Incredibly handsome. 

“I’m being serious.”

“I do not stink. No one has ever said that to me, and my blockers are quality. It must be a you problem.” The puff pastry really is very good. And this man really is very handsome. Coming here today was a good idea. 

One of the girls from the theater had suggested it, handing you a pamphlet with Looking for the Cure for Loneliness? emblazoned across the top, and even though she’d done it kindly, any other person would’ve taken the implication as an insult. Hey girl! No offense, but we all in the company think you’re super weird and have you heard about this support group for losers? Kind of like Omegas Anonymous!

Those hadn’t been her exact words, and you hadn’t taken offense. After the initial humiliation, you’d warmed to the idea. You’d heard of groups like these before. Congregations of demi humans where one could come to find community or connection. Be it socialization or support for people struggling with their designations and all that they implied, they served their purpose. And anyways, you weren’t in a position to be nitpicky. 

It’s true, you’re alone. 

So alone, in fact, that even the people around you could tell. Strangers, coworkers, your roommate and her girlfriend. Like some noxious cloud of loneliness following you around virtue signaling the desperate need for love and companionship and understanding you’re so in need of. 

You increasingly saw yourself as a dancer on her toes, trembling delicately all over, vying desperately to survive to the end of the song. A monster with too many heads. A Cerberus of the most gruesome sort. 

Two or three would’ve been acceptable—heads—but you'd long surpassed that and moved on to something unrecognizable and unpleasant. Desperately in need of a solution. 

“Maybe you’re the one that stinks. Maybe it’s your upper lip.” 

“My—” The rude alpha, obvious, that one, lets out a choked sound, a deeper wash of color immediately flooding his cheeks. You dip your head sideways, appraising him as you polish off your second pastry. He has pretty bone structure, masculine but beautiful, and after he’s done choking and spluttering, he can’t help but laugh a little bit. You see it. 

Beneath a mouth that looks forbidding, perhaps even a little cruel, you can sense that he is not an unkind man. The laugh tells you so.

Yet you’re not so green that you can’t recognize the gnawing hunger of loneliness in others. That mimicking gleam. There’s always a reason people find themselves in places like these, after all. His face, edged with the weariness of age, makes this obvious. He has good reason for subjecting himself to this. 

Reaching for the lovely eclair you’d been deciding between earlier, you take a large bite of it. Almond cream and a thick layer of icing on top, humming happily as you chew while he stares at you like the three headed dog. 

You hold the dessert out towards him, offering. Palm up, he shakes his head no, slightly disgusted look on his face. 

“So. You come here often?”

He blinks. “Really?” Patronizing look on his face now. 

“Why not? I am actually interested to know if this is worth my time.”

He rolls his eyes. Oh, he’s fun. “Yes, I come here often. Every Friday, for the past two months, just about.”

“And you like it?”

“Is this the sort of place one likes?”

“Oh, I don’t know. You never know what you might find.” You think he watches your mouth as you finish chewing, swallowing hard. “Anyways, I think the world is kind of over out there. Don’t you? Might as well make the best of it in here.” 

Thumb pressed against the edge of the table, he looks down, suddenly going shy again. A shy alpha, who’d of thought. 

“What did you used to do?” He asks, motioning at the crowded room full of chatting alphas and omegas. You wonder how many of them will go home together for a fuck after this. 

“When?” 

“Before this place.”

“Before this place? Nothing.” You smile at him, certain he isn’t picking up on your teasing. 

“Nothing?”

“Nope. I’ve always been here.”

“But— Don’t you…I thought...” He’s cute, shaking his head, frustrated frown slashed across his face. “You sing, right?” He pivots. 

“Sing? Me? Whatever made you think such a thing?” The sly look on your face goes completely over his head and slides to the rest of the sweets. If he wasn’t watching, you’d have another. 

“You said. You said you’re in the opera,” he gruffs back, looking visibly aggravated now. 

Such fun. 

“I’m a supernumerary,” you concede as you turn, making your way to an old relic of a pew along the far wall, tragically abandoning the desserts. 

He follows as you go, sitting a respectful distance beside you. 

“I don’t know what that is.”

“We’re the actors that fill the stage at the opera.”

“No singing?”

You shake your head. “I’m a wench, I’m a courtesan,” You bat your lashes, flirting with him, fingertips pressed coquettishly beneath your chin, “Part of a harem. I’m every woman you’ve never known. It depends on the opera.”

“I’ve never heard of that before.”

“I started as a stagehand when I first got to Boston. Worked my way up.”

“How’s it work? Lines or somethin’?”

“No lines. No anything. I’m a background actor—an extra, basically. If anything, I’m given some simple choreography direction, laugh, sigh, show fear, horror, heart break. Whatever. I’m playing pretend without actually having to do anything.”

“No working for it.”

Your smile melts to blandness. So he’d been listening, then. 

“Did you want to sing?”

“No. I wanted to be a supernumerary.”

“Strange. I’ve never heard of that,” he repeats.

“You did say, yes.” Now, your smile turns auspicious. Everyone’s here for something. “What do you do?” Perhaps this is it for him. 

Your gaze flits over the crowd, at the far exit, there’s a large alpha helping an omega into his coat. 

“Got a shop, furniture, woodworking and such.”

“You make things?” He nods. “Ah, a man of creation.” 

Sitting back to take him in, he’s got the beginning insinuations of silver speckling the dark hair at his temples, a well groomed beard, and large, intimidating hands. 

His small huff of laughter is bashful, tinged with something disappointed. “No, nothin’ that grand.” And he’s got an accent heavy at the ends of his words, not Bostonian. Southern.

“But you know, I wanted to say…”

“Yes?” You press when he loses his courage, leaning towards him, inhaling deeply. 

“Well, that I know what you meant earlier. Sometimes I can be the angry house.”

You blink once. Sit back. “I see.” 

“It’s hard work. I have to try every day at it.” 

Being the house, or not? 

“How do you stop yourself?” You cast a line, fishing for his character.

“Don’t know. Keep myself cold, I think.”

“That’s no way to be.”

“No. It’s not.” He sounds amused. You want to bite him.

“Ah, well. Perhaps that’s what’s brought you here then,” you say, twisting the toe of your sneaker against a scuff on the old linoleum, leaning forward on your palms wrapped around the edge of the pew. 

“Maybe,” he says, but a sort of pained, exasperated sound follows it. Your hanging head turns to peer at the handsome face. He stares back. 

There’s something animal afoot. Perhaps in terms of designation, sure, of course, like the rest of the alphas and omegas here. Your designations weigh heavily in the air. But also intrinsic to your two personalities. You feel you know him. That the two of you might have the same sorts of problems, desires. And as you stare at him, you think you may be equally measuring each other’s character, finding that similarity in one another. Hook the line, hook the line, reeling each other in—

His eyes move quickly between yours, over your face, and you can tell that prolonged eye contact isn’t his norm.

He has the most surprising set of bright hazel eyes like river stones. 

Suddenly, you feel desperate to pull out a flicker of sexuality in the man, hear it in his voice. Watch that serious stoicism crack. Have him say clearly what it is he’s come here looking for. At the exit, the alpha and omega are gone now. —Certain that, with him, the experience could be entirely different, exhilarating. Perhaps a challenge. He seems to be more quiet and more patient than any other man you’ve ever come across, but also more stern, maybe…angry?—taking in that wide mouth held so firmly. Far more remote too, by the far away look in his gaze. You want to see how he could be moved and what the sight of it would look like. 

“Maybe not,” he finally continues. “I’m looking for something, I think.” 

Yes, tell me. “Something like what?”

“Someone like me.”

“An alpha?”

That was something, you knew, some people were interested in. The experience of being with someone of their own designation—that power struggle.

“No,” he looks away, cringing. Strange, the word out loud seems a shock to him. “Did you listen to the woman at the start—missing the bad thing? I struggle…with that. Holding on, not letting go even when I know I should.”

You’re at an age now which sometimes makes it hard to realize or accept that what you’re living is your life. That it’s been time to grow up. That you have to remember to move forward when it’s your turn in line. 

Which is to say, that you understand him—the difficulties of knowing when to hold on and when to let go.

“Sometimes you hurt yourself because you don’t have anything else to do. Sometimes, because the alternative is much worse.”

“Holding on ‘cause there’s nothing else to do?”

“Sure. Or you’re used to it.” 

You’ll be gentle with him, you decide. He’s in need of gentle handling despite the stern face; not a puzzle so arbitrarily solved. And those eyes are still so bright, he doesn’t seem like he needs any more hardship.

“Don’t know why I’m tellin’ you this,” he says, accent heavy. 

“Well you did come here for a reason. Didn’t you?” 

Discreetly, you slide closer to him, but he doesn’t notice. Apparently lost in the realization that perhaps this was what he’d come here for, to talk to someone, to have someone listen and relate. You’re almost positive he’s never gotten up to share with the group before in all his time coming to the meetings; doesn’t look like the type.

“I came here because I’m going to take better care of myself,” you tell him. “I’m going to try harder.”

“Harder at what? Thought you didn’t want to try?” He blinks as if attempting to come out of a dream.

You shrug. “Everything—I don’t know. I don’t want to end up like my parents; drunk, angry, alone. I’m scared of it. I’ve avoided at least two of them.” 

“I’m afraid of getting older.” The dream moves in his eyes. “That I’ll forget,” he says, but you don’t ask what.

All of a sudden, he seems very real. The swells of grief and loneliness moving through him so similarly, so close to the surface. It frightens you.

Springing up, you turn to face him and he follows to stand too. You can hear the crack of his knees unfolding, and when he lifts his left palm to stifle a gruff cough, the band of gold around his finger is paralyzing. 

All of a sudden, he’d seemed like what you’d been looking for here too. There’s laughter coming from the church rafters. 

“You’re a widower?” He wants to forget, he’d said he wants to let go. 

Hadn’t he?

But instead, “What? No.” You stare pointedly at the ring, and he looks down at it also. “No,” he repeats. 

“So’re you looking for a fuck, or what?” You try and hold back the bite it comes with, but you can’t. “A distraction?”

“No. No. That’s not what I’m looking for.” 

You don’t understand, impaired by your youth, maybe you’re not supposed to understand. “Maybe it’s what you need,” you tell him, turning towards the exit before you can watch him cringe.

He follows at your heels, grabbing his coat from the hook by the doors before he’s stepping out after you into the fall blister. It’s cold and wet and glorious out. 

“Don’t you have a coat?” He demands.

“Nope.” You start walking towards Arlington Street and the park. 

“Did you walk here? It’s freezing out.”

“I did,” you turn back towards him, still moving, and he starts to follow. 

“From where?”

“Downtown.”

“Where?” He scowls at your uncooperation, the married man. Alpha. 

The truth is, he’d kind of stunk to you too. Maybe in a good way. Like no one ever had before. As glorious and shocking as the cold. Like if snow had a scent. 

Disappointment churns in your gut alongside the excitement of watching him follow you.

“I don’t think you know it.”

Your backward walk is interrupted as a hurrying stranger bumps into you, sending you staggering. Watch it, the Boston snark spits. The alpha turns to scowl, heavy boot forward like he’s half a mind to follow after the person you’ve just inadvertently assaulted. 

And it occurs to you, “You didn’t tell me your name.” How silly of you. You’d been so distracted you’d forgotten to ask, and what if you never see him again after this? What if you can’t muster the courage to come back again next week? What if he can’t?

“It’s Joel.” 

You think it sounds right. 

“I might—know it,” he insists—you smile at the dog with a bone. The disappointment pulses. “Is it far?” You shrug, looking over your shoulder. You’re going to lose yourself in the garden for a few hours, forget about him. “Why don’t you drive?”

“I like to walk,” you tell him, turning back. 

He looks at you like he doesn’t like the things you say much less the way you say them. Perhaps he can see the disappointment and is disturbed by the sight of it, but the possibility seems too altruistic. 

“You should try it sometime, Joel. You might like it too.”

His huge body seems to be shivering in the cold. 

“I think…” The look on his face has turned suspicious now. He takes a step towards you. “You’re very strange. And you’re very young. I don’t think we should be friends.”

Your heart gives a demanding thump.

 “We’re not going to be friends.” 

When you’d first spotted him in the crowd, the strangest feeling had come over you. A tug behind your belly button, a scalding heat at the back of your neck, at your wrists. Perhaps it’s merely imagination, the look of disappointment you think you see on his face right before you turn away from him to continue on walking. 

“And I’m not that young anymore.”

You’d known today was going to be a good day. Extra cinnamon in your latte, a late start to your morning, warm in bed, no rain in the sky despite the cloud cover. And your director, late for rehearsals after some freak accident had befallen the roof of his house.

“That’s what all young people say.”

Part 2;

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog

[virgobingo]

more insight on miles’ puerto rican heritage for your fics or fanart

- traditional quinceañeras (or as they are often called by puerto ricans quinceañeros) are really not that common anymore, most girls nowadays have pool parties or go on a cruise. if miles were to go to one of his cousins’ 15 birthday party, chances are it would be casual— no big poofy dress (his mom probably had one like that though)

edit: some people disagree on this. depends on how traditional your family and friend group is I guess, as well as which part of the island you’re from. on average, it seems to be a far bigger deal amongst some other latines. in my class in pr only 3 out of approx 30 girls had a big event like that. not a single one of my cousins had a traditional quince either so you could say I’m partly biased bc of my own experiences. i personally just had a big pool party

- plantains are a big part of our diet. also, pr being an island in the caribbean, coconut is in a lot of our desserts. if miles had to pick a favorite fruit I hc he’d pick either one of the two lol also please google our food, our food isn’t actually spicy so much as savory

- we “celebrate” thanksgiving like other americans. it’s about the only time we eat oven roasted turkey. for winter holidays (christmas eve/day, new years eve/day, three kings day/eve) oven roasted pork. chicken might be offered as a second option for people who don’t consume pork for whatever reason

- you’re pretty much taught how to dance as soon as you can walk. most of us have basic rhythms down. chances of miles dancing with his mom or friends at parties? astronomically high.

- the reason why our flag is everywhere, besides pride, is ‘cause it was illegal to own it. look up the gag law that prohibited us from even displaying it at our homes. so it’s actually an awesome detail in these movies

- this is my opinion/a fun fact but I feel like miles is basically an homage to black and puerto rican (specifically nuyorican) solidarity around the 70s-80s during the creation of hip-hop and rise of graffiti as a form of expression (you can easily read up on this or watch shows like the get down to learn more about this if you’re curious)

- whether you’re “nuyorican” or “from the island” spanglish is common so miles’ mixing english and spanish isn’t odd bc even rio does this as miles points out in the party scene. he isn’t a “no sabo” kid so much as someone with a strong accent. he understands his mom perfectly

- race ≠ ethnicity. there are plenty of black people in and from Puerto Rico, and miles’ pr family in the spiderverse films are designed to be for the most part afro-latine. so I wouldn’t really call him biracial

- the puerto rican day parade wouldn’t be a thing he skips, he’s gifted a special suit for it in a comic run. his puerto rican heritage is important to him!

[pullupinarari]

The Secret of Us [LH]

III. Fuck, it was chemical

summary: a 5 chapter miniseries in which Lewis chooses you to coordinate one of his new projects, but the instant spark flicking between the two of you makes the professional lines grow a little blurry. do the both of you feel the same?

author’s note: a 20 day break in between chapters 2 and 3 because I have been struggling with some kind of writer's block. this is NOT proofread, there's probably typos and nonsense words, and it's genuinely bad. I'm sorry.

warnings: this has a bit of a smutty part where some kind of masturbation tries to take place

• masterlist

wc: 11 109 - English is not my first language! Feedback is always appreciated

As weeks passed by, the romantic encounters between you and Lewis have become more recurrent. Whenever the driver was free, every weekend in his agenda was yours, flying back and forth if needed so he wouldn’t skip any of your Wednesday's meetings. 

The shared scones, the small flowers he would pick up on the way to the bakery every Sunday morning, the warm cuddles that made it seem like your bodies would merge into just one - your fingers intertwined, your limbs connected as you two spooned on the couch, with Lewis’ lips landing careful, sweet kisses on your cheek and the crook of your neck. Every single detail helped soften your heart a little more, growing more comfortable beside the man, getting more and more used to spending your free time with him. 

And every single week, your meetings would have a different meaning to them. In public, you would stick to formal handshakes, keeping your bodies and mouths to yourselves, remaining professional for everyone to see. The discreet yet intense glances that you would share, would still be there - a way to speak to each other without using words, keeping all focus in the other’s eyes, smirks, the small details in each facial expression that you would share. 

But, inside the four walls of your office, the scenario was completely different. Lewis would immediately wrap his arms around your shape, his face hiding in the crook of your neck as his lips would attach to your skin, taking in your scent that he misses so much when you’re away, focusing on embracing your figure as close as he possibly can. 

While discussing project-related topics, trying to pick the right design for each piece, the man couldn’t hold himself from paying more attention to your beauty, to your features, to how soft your skin feels against his own - hearing your words, but daydreaming about how lucky he is, feeling grateful for having you, for being allowed to touch you, to discover you, to share his days with you. 

If someone would have the chance to see you together, they would immediately think of the two of you as a couple in love, so in love that everyone around you could feel the intense passion crashing between your figures. 

All the cute, romantic dates that would take place in each other’s homes, candlelit dinners, slow mornings wrapped in the sheets, loud, fun, comfortable showers, even catching some sun in the backyard - everything was an excuse for you to be together, for your bodies to be as close as if you were just one. And it feels like nothing can tear you two apart - getting to know the other more and more as time passes by, growing familiar with each other, to the point of already knowing each other’s quirks by heart.

Lewis can’t even hold back the enamoured facial expression he gives you every time, hearts mirroring his gaze whenever you come into sight, loving how he can remember each small detail about you and your personality, focusing on everything that makes you even more special in his eyes. 

Attracted by how simple of a person you are in your personal life, how you admire the little things in every day: the sun, a good slice of pizza, a laugh with your friends, a shared cuddle session on the sofa with Lewis. In his heart, it gives him an extra hope: you are a simple soul, not really caring about all the luxury that he can provide you. So, if you love a good cup of coffee and your toast the simple way, maybe you can love him for who he is, as well. 

He can’t help but dream about a life beside you, of sharing his apartment with you full-time, giving you half of his closet so your clothes would take up all the space you’d like, waiting for you to come home from work while the man cooks dinner for the two of you. Lewis can’t quite figure out why yet, but you manage to bring out his most domestic side, the side of him that wants to settle down with the right one, have babies, dedicate his entire time to his family, always with the right one - you. 

It’s a nice feeling that erupts in your chest every time you see him, actually. It’s warm, comfortable, almost protective, allowing you to feel special in the man’s eyes, especially once you are wrapped in his arms, your head gently lying in his chest, making you feel safe… almost even too much. 

The truth is: you are not emotionally available to merge yourself in a romantic relationship - at least not in the way that Lewis dreams about. You don’t dream of having kids, of getting married, of finding the love of your life. 

That would have been a thought of the old you, you are sure of it. The old Y/N, the girl who dreamed of a ‘forever’ type of love, of finding her prince charming, believing that you would be happy by his side for the rest of your life. But that’s not true, that’s not real. Reality is: love seems to not exist to you. 

After getting hurt so many times, being deceived by the men you gave a chance to (and more than one, most of the time), your heart got tired of getting broken. Maybe you are the problem. Or maybe you are just unlucky. Maybe you just tend to pick the worst men known to mankind to date. Maybe you put way too high expectations into people who can’t fulfill the scenarios in your head - probably because they always seem way too good to be true. 

So after all this, you slowly come to the realization that you are done with it: with the heartbreaks, with the tears flooding your eyes every time you tried to give your all to someone who gave you nothing back. You promised yourself you wouldn’t do love anymore, not even wasting your time thinking about it. 

And Lewis is a nice guy, you know he is. He brings you flowers, scones, and your cup of coffee. He cuddles you close, kisses your skin tenderly, wraps his arms around your figure safely, making you feel protected and cared for. And maybe that’s where the danger lies. 

Feeling your heart softening up to him is definitely not a good sensation, not for you at least. Lewis absolutely loves it when you stay in bed with him a little longer, finding it hard to leave your place in his chest, your limbs intertwined as you warm each other in between the sheets.

However, as much as your body wants to give in, to kiss him harder, to hug him tighter, the voice in the back of your head seems to never stop reminding you of how dangerous it is to give into this situation even more. You have already given too much of yourself, if you stop and look back at all the dates, all the romantic moments that should have never existed. 

You two were supposed to just have some fun together, and that’s it. In your head, the plan was to go out with him on a first date, meet him in bed, and leave right after. But the man switched everything for you. Changed your ideas, the way everything was supposed to go. 

Now, he is picking you up at work on your lunch break - parking his car a little further from your company’s entrance, so your boss won’t see him - taking you back to his place, where he has cooked a nice meal to share with you, alongside some warm kisses, tender touches, and a genuine smile playing on your lips. 

Deep down, you know that you need to push Lewis away, one way or another. You see him at work, you see him after your office hours. Your brain is continuously delving into him, all the information surrounding the man and everything you know about him. So, after another morning of leaving his house, you decide to make a decision. 

It’s Monday, 10:39 am. Inside the four walls of your office, the sound of your nails tapping on your desk are the only soundtrack stringing your line of thoughts along, mixing with the way your leg keeps bouncing up and down nervously. 

Your eyes scan the email that you just finished writing. Professionally immaculate, written in the right tone, using the most appropriate words, the few lines that inform Sir Lewis Hamilton that the project you’ve been working together on is well advanced, and, for that reason, you believe it’s no longer necessary to schedule weekly meetings with the client, informing the man that, from now on, you will only be scheduling one monthly meeting with him. Adding your boss to the recipients, you take a deep breath before clicking ‘send’. 

It’s done. The first step to keep him away from you, at least while you’re at work. Maybe that can help your brain get a break from the situation you’ve gotten yourself into. 

There’s an unsettling feeling inside of you, you can’t deny it. Maybe it’s because you don’t want to do this, you don’t want to push him away. Deep, deep down, you just want to go home to him, so you two can cuddle on the sofa again, or cook dinner together while sharing stories about what happened during your day at work. 

Your heart feels heavy. But not in a good way, when it feels heavy with love and care. Instead, it’s heavy with sorrow, pain, harsh memories that you would rather forget, but that life insists on bringing back to you. People say that you need to learn to react differently, so the same situations can stop coming to you, right? So maybe this is it. Maybe, this is you reacting differently, not letting Lewis get too close to you, like all other men did - just so he could end up hurting you, manipulating you.

There’s almost an urge to cry, quickly approaching your body as you think about everything again. It’s like a movie playing in your head, making some hot tears tingle in your eyes as Lewis is the one person who’s splattered on the front of your mind. You can’t stop thinking about how happy he makes you, how fulfilled you feel when you’re by his side, in his arms, sharing hours on end with him. 

If your love life hadn’t fucked you up so bad, you know you would be so, so happy by his side. And every time he opens up a bit more to you, sharing his deepest secrets with you, showing how he truly feels when he is with you, it only makes your heart twists in your chest even more, to the point where you can almost feel drops of blood sliding through your insides. 

Why does everything have to be so difficult? You know you are the only problem in this situation, but still: guilt occupies all space in between your organs. You’re the one who’s going to break Lewis’ heart now, just like all those other men did to you. Hurt people hurt people - you guess they’re right now. 

It’s bitter, it’s harsh and it will hurt, but you know it’s for the best. And the driver needs to understand that you’re not the one for him. You could never be. But it seems like he’s not even thinking about any of that, as your phone starts ringing nonstop with messages and calls from him. 

His name appears on your phone screen one time after the other, and it grows consistent every time you decline his calls. “I’m at work, can’t talk right now” - you text him, only to be completely ignored by him, noticing how the man doesn’t stop calling you. He is persistent, and you know he won’t stop until you pick up, even if it will take for him to dial your number countless times for hours.

Still, you stand your ground. Not replying to his endless texts, not picking up his never ending calls, putting your phone on do not disturb mode, so you won’t get bombed with his insistence anymore. 

And it seems to work for a couple hours, at least until you’re almost done with your work for the morning, finishing some essays before your lunch break. 

You managed to fight the urge to touch your phone, to open and check every Lewis’ attempt to reach you, diving in the silence surrounding the four walls of your office, matching the emptiness in your mind as your heart seems to scream on your chest - only to be muffled by the sound of you typing on your computer, trying to focus on what really matters: your job. 

That is, until you’re getting ready to leave your workplace, heading for lunch, just before your secretary is knocking on your door, rushing to let you know that there’s someone that is insisting to talk to you - even after you specifically said you don’t want to meet anyone today. 

- Who is it, Lydia? - you ask the woman in front of you, who’s visibly confused with what to do in that situation.

There’s an annoyed tone leaving your lips that you can’t quite hold back, feeling overwhelmed by the immensity of different feelings inside of you, that definitely makes you not want to see anyone or talk to anyone right now.

- It’s me - a voice erupts through the door, seeing his figure appearing behind your assistant. - This is an emergency and I need to talk to you right now, Miss Y/N. 

There he is: Lewis, standing straight as his eyes pierce yours with a ravishing intensity, almost stealing all the oxygen from your lungs. The closed facial expression on his features lets you know that he is not happy with what you did, and the thought of having to talk to him about it now, makes you bite your tongue. 

You gulp, using all your strength to hold back a sigh that wants to leave your body so desperately. Nodding at Lydia, the woman leaves your office, closing the door behind her - leaving you and Lewis alone. 

- I’m not in the mood to talk, and I was just about to leave for lunch, so please, get straight to the point - you tell him, sipping on your water bottle as you turn your back to him. Your tone is cold, uninterested, not really feeling like having this conversation with the man in front of you now. - Oh, I’ll be fast. Why the fuck did you just cancel all of our weekly meetings? - his words come out harsh, spitting all the annoyance pooling in his own figure, as well. 

There’s the question that you really don’t want to reply to, the conversation you wanted to avoid, the one you wish you wouldn’t need to have. You keep your back turned to him, as your eyes inspect the view of the city from your office. A deep sigh leaves your form before you speak. 

- As I said in my email, the project is right on track. I don’t see a reason for us to continuously meet every week, when most problems are solved, and there’s not much more that needs to be discussed in the current state of the investment. - your tone is flat, not showing much emotion as you try to remain professional, slowly turning to look him in the eyes again, standing your ground as if you were informing him of the most natural thing in this world.

And maybe you are. Maybe everything makes sense. Maybe there’s no need for you two to have meetings all the time, if the project doesn’t require it anymore. However, as much as it might be true, Lewis doesn’t want to accept it. He can’t, in his mind, fathom the idea of not having an entire morning just to yourselves inside of your office, where you would exist for his eyes only - in the exact same way that he feels like he has been existing just for you, as well. 

He sees you almost every night when he is in town, he has you entirely to himself on the weekend’s when he is on break from racing. But still, he can’t help but feel anxious for Wednesday to arrive every week. 

Every Wednesday morning, he wakes up with a tingling feeling in his chest, sensing some nervousness surrounding him as the man anticipates your meeting. He chooses an immaculate outfit - a professional one, to match yours, as he tries to guess what color you’ll be wearing that day, wanting to look good for you, wishing you can desire him just by looking at him, as soon as he walks through the door of your workplace. 

Even if you are really just talking about business and not doing anything forbidden, he loves the adrenaline of taking over your office, moving around as he pleases as he reaches for the opposite side of your desk, only to disturb your focused and professional mindset - by stealing kisses from your lips, wrapping his arms around your waist when you leave your seat at the chair, adorning the skin of your neck with open mouth kisses, loving the way you have to suppress a moan every time he does it, seeing you snaking away from his arms for your own sake, since your boss is in the room next door.  

But even if he doesn’t do anything, he wants to look at your gorgeous face, pray to every small crevice of your skin, begging god to allow your soft hand to touch his as the most intelligent words leave your mouth - blowing Lewis’ mind, as he can’t help but feel so lucky that he has the opportunity to unveil your brain in such an intimate, personal way, seeing how you shine in your field, the way you deserve, like the star that you are. Above it all, he wants your presence. He wants to feel comfortable and warm just by hearing your voice, your laughs, seeing your smile. It has become his weekly boost of serotonin, and he doesn’t want to give up on that. He knows you have a lot of projects to work on, and a lot of meetings to attend, but you can give them any other day. Wednesday belongs to him. 

Walking over to meet your silhouette, the man seems to soften up as he feels your gaze up close. His face is mere inches away from yours, and his fingers are gently reaching for your hand, caressing your skin softly as he tries to ground himself from all the anger that was running in his veins just some minutes ago. He knows you’re right; but he doesn’t want to lose you, the time he has with you. He feeds himself off every second that his eyes land on you, so he tries to convince you to go back on your decision.

- Don’t do this, baby. Please. You know how little time we have to ourselves, and this weekly meeting makes all the difference. - he pleads. 

You know that, that’s why you’re canceling all of them, wanting to cut short all the time you have with him, especially when you spend it in between his arms. 

- Don’t call me baby. We are just work partners that have slept together a few times. That’s it and we are nothing more than just that, Sir Hamilton. - his name sounds cold in your lips, especially due to the way you avoid eye contact with him, the closer he gets to you. 

His eyebrows are furrowed, looking at you with such intensity as he tries to read you, your closed facial expression, your body language. The way your arms are crossed in front of your body, as if to protect your figure, how you force yourself to look away from him, trying to pretend that he is not even there, right in front of you, his frame meeting yours slowly and carefully. 

- You know that’s not true, Y/N. What we have is chemical. And you are so, so much more than just sex to me. - Lewis whispers, his body standing tall in front of you, as his face tries to follow yours, wanting to be as close to you as possible. 

His voice is soft, even sultry as he knows that you agree with him. What you two make the other feel is no joke, and it definitely is not just something that you can label as ‘casual’. It’s not a feeling that you can just turn off tomorrow if you feel like never seeing him again. 

And you know that. That’s why you don’t reply to his statement, gulping as you feel the tip of his finger gently caressing your thigh, slowly pulling up the fabric of your skirt as his eyes never leave you. 

- Say you don’t want me, Y/N. Say it and I’ll leave. I’ll leave this office and your life for good, if that’s what you want. - he is serious as he tries to find answers in you. 

You can’t say it, of course you can’t - the last thing you want in this life is for him to leave you… even if you feel that’s the best thing for the both of you. You bite down your tongue again, sensing some tears threatening to spill from your eyes, due to the constant battle that you have to fight against your own feelings. 

Lewis knows it. And he can see the shine in your eyes growing as you try your hardest to fight back the tears as well, not allowing yourself to relax, to open up, trying to keep your composure - but you don’t have to do it around him. He accepts you just the way you are, with all your flaws and qualities, he wants you to be comfortable enough to be yourself around him, without any masks.

- Baby girl… - he calls softly, melting as your gaze finally connects with his, your arms finally uncrossing with a small sigh leaving your lips, a silent sign that you are giving in again, not having it in yourself to hold the façade that you are trying to carry around with you. 

When you open your arms to welcome him, Lewis immediately attaches his lips to yours, his hands gluing themselves to your waist, holding you close so you can stop running away from him. 

The warmth of your mouth on his own feels right - it’s the only sensation that he longs to chase every day, waiting as much as necessary if that means he can get a taste of your cherry lips once again, even if that moment only comes to him late at night. 

After all, you’re his constant. Believe it or not, knowing that he has one day of the week where he is guaranteed that he will be allowed to see you, even for just a little bit, it’s enough for him - because, in the middle of the driver’s insane world, your meetings, your kisses, are the only thing that can bring him some sense of stability. 

Whenever your bodies meet, you feel alive. You can’t deny that no one else makes you feel the way Lewis does, and maybe you are dumb for trying to turn off this glimpse of light and hope that he has brought you, but, right now, you can’t even think about it - and most importantly, you don’t want to think about it. 

At this moment, as the man is pressing your body against the full-height window that allows your body to have a panoramic view of London, his hands confidently travel through your silhouette, making you focus on his touch, on his sweet lips that are magnetized to yours, allowing your brain to escape the cage of intrusive thoughts that seems to desperately try to tear you two apart.

Your tongues are fighting a silent battle, as your hands snake around his neck, pulling the man even closer to you, as if it was possible, as if your figure isn’t already trapped against the window. For a moment, there’s just the two of you, your gentle hands, your heated kisses, your bodies screaming for each other, feeding yourselves off the neediness, the desire erupting through you. 

Picking you up, the man sits you on the desk, standing in between your legs while your mouths are still connected. Your hands instinctively reach for his shoulder blades, while his fingers slenderly travel down your figure, leaving his print all over your body as he feels the way you grow more touchy, more needy for him. 

It’s like his mouth has power over you, the man being everything you need when your days get hectic, your patience gets low, your body gets tired. Lewis is the one solution to all of your problems, and the world seems to stop, everyone else seems to disappear when his tongue is drawing patterns on the skin of your neck. 

Your breathing grows erratic, your hands reaching for the back of his neck now, your fingers gently pulling on his hair as you bring the man even closer to you, desperately wanting him to make you feel more of the fire that he is slowly lighting up on your body, making you forget about everything else. 

His lips feel hot against your cold skin, that grows warmer due to his touch - gentle, yet so thoughtful, heavy against your soft skin, touching you in your favourite places. He kisses your sweet spot just below your ear, massages your boobs slowly but seductively, making you moan into his mouth, in the middle of a meeting scene that your tongues portray. 

You’re ready for him, like you always are; your body always reacting to his presence, to his aura, to the way you’re both immediately attracted to each other as soon as your eyes land on each other. You don’t want him to leave, you want him to own you, to possess you, right here and now, not giving two fucks about the fact that your door is unlocked, and someone can catch you two - getting a show of the way Lewis’ hand reaches for your core, now that your skirt is all folded up past your hips. 

Your boss could come in right now, finding it strange that Lewis wanted to see you in a hurry. He could question himself about the driver’s clear emergency need to talk to you, worried about some serious problem taking over the project you’re working on together. The man could burst inside your office - he owns the entire place, after all. But instead of being met with a brainstorming session, he would just be met with a provocative image in full display for everyone who wanted to see the way Lewis rubs you through your panties, making you gasp for air, as you try your hardest not to moan loudly. 

The driver learned every detail about your body quickly over the weeks you’ve been together, knowing you and your reactions like the palm of his hand by now. He touches you where you need him the most, kissing down the way of your unbuttoned blouse, his lips feeling how your heartbeat pumps incredibly fast in your chest, feeling it on your skin as he sucks a small hickey just above your left boob. 

Lewis’ fingers rub circles on your pearl through the fabric of your underwear, his digits feeling your wetness soaking the cloth of the lace lingerie that rests under your professional, perfectly neat skirt suit. 

His eyes burn your figure as he loses himself in your sounds, on the way you use him to hold yourself up, trying to keep it together - but clearly failing. He can’t help but groan slightly at the sight in front of him, loving to see you losing it, him being the only reason why you ruin your composure at your workplace, forgetting about all your professional duties when you’re near him. 

The man’s bulge grows in his pants, dreaming about taking you right here, in your office, merging his body with yours while your silhouette effortlessly lays on the desk, in between the piles of documents, papers, information about all the projects you’re working on, all the meetings you have with other people right inside this room. But never in the same way you meet him. 

The air around your figures grows thick, hot, almost making you feel like there’s steam erupting from your bodies, revealing all the desire and passion that you feel for each other, clouding your minds as your kisses and desperate touches speak for the two of you. 

Moaning Lewis’ name quietly, your eyes let him know how badly you want him, and he wants to give in to your needs and pleads so badly, finding it hard to keep it even just slightly together as you try to take off his jacket. 

However, as the fabric starts sliding down his arms, ready to fall to the floor, a gentle knock on your door startles both of you, making your instincts kick in, as you immediately distance your bodies, composing yourselves. 

Quickly fixing your skirt and blouse, you share a compromised look with Lewis while clearing your throat and taking a deep breath, before allowing the person to walk inside. 

- I’m sorry to interrupt, but your next appointment is here, Y/N. - Lydia peaks through the door gently, informing you that you don’t have any more time to dedicate to the driver now, and that your activities will have to be postponed until you’re out of work. 

You nod at her words, seeing how she closes the door again, giving you a couple more minutes to say goodbye to the man in front of you. 

Lewis closes the gap between your bodies again, kissing you hungrily one last time while his soft hands cup your face. 

- My place after you leave work? I’ll cook us a nice dinner - he mumbles while his lips are still faithfully glued to yours - pecking them over and over again, giving you only the chance to nod at his invitation. 

You try to regain your breath as you see him walking out of your office, leaving your body to feel cold and helpless without his touch, his presence, the influence he has on you.  

For the rest of the day, your brain doesn’t seem to be able to concentrate on anything else. Lewis is splattered on the front of your mind, but, unfortunately, it’s not just because of how skilled his fingers are against your skin. 

Your mind works as a factory, creating problems that don’t really exist anywhere besides inside your head. And again, you find yourself feeling guilty. For letting him in again, for giving in to his silky touch, to his warm lips. Losing your mind for him, forgetting about how serious things could have gotten if someone caught you two touching in such an inappropriate way, inside of your office. 

Sighing, you lean on your chair as you stare at the ceiling. There you are: fighting another battle with yourself, forbidding your true self from feeling, from loving who you love, from being happy. Lewis is the one who makes you feel alive. Your heart knows it, so stop denying it. 

However, your brain begs you to be more rational than this. Put your brain cells to use, remember everything that has happened before. All the pain, the cries, the screaming, the hurt, the loneliness that crept on your bones every time you gave love a chance. You can’t do that to yourself again - especially not now, that you finally managed to recover and stand tall again, after all the falling that the damn sensation in your heart put you through. 

Even if you try to play numb and careless, your heart isn’t frozen all the time. As the sun goes up, it instinctively searches for a love, for a reason to beat faster, for someone to drain you in adrenaline, a motive to lose your mind and strictness, reminding you how we all should lose our postures sometimes. 

While your heart is carefully on the look during the day, your mind becomes awake at night, unlike the rest of people, forbidding your body from getting any sleep or rest whatsoever - replaying the most traumatic events of your life, making you relive the way your figure used to contort while you cried yourself to sleep for weeks on end. 

Lewis might just be the one for you, if you think about it with your heart, with all hope and romance that can still inhabit inside of you. But, your brain doesn’t let you believe it, telling you repeatedly that you will be better off without it, letting love go, enjoying just a little fun instead.

Your body hurts, physically feeling the toll that your thoughts take on you. And as your shift comes to an end, you drag your feet across your office, packing up your belongings, so you can finally go home - Lewis’ home, actually. 

Inside his apartment, the man tries his hardest to cook another immaculate dish for you, even while already knowing that you don’t need much to be happy - you appreciate his effort and company either way.

Lewis was lying if he said that he didn’t feel his chest heavy with the urge to see you again as soon as possible, praying that time could go by faster, so you could finally be knocking on his door. 

Having to leave you in the morning, closing the door behind him as he left your office was always the hardest part of the moments he had with you. The distance, the time when you’re apart, are the things that kill him. And every time he hears the doorbell finally ringing, an eruption of anxiety floods through his veins as the man rushes to see you, to get you inside, so he can hug you, kiss you, nestle you on his chest again as you two love so much. 

He wants you, entirely. He doesn’t want just your body, or the steamy moments that you share together. Above all, he wants the kisses, the laughs, the cuddles, the dedication that he is willing to give you. He wants to feel his heart beating faster every time you walk inside his place, always noticing how your smile and your perfume make everything around him seem brighter, happier. 

That’s why he is so desperate for you to come home, to him - as his fingers slightly tremble every time he thinks about the set of keys to his place, that rest in his pocket. A set of keys that will hopefully, belong to you very, very soon, so you can open the door to the place that will be your home as well, officially fully unlocking the door to his heart, as well. 

You finally get to his house, ringing the bell - igniting another loving fire inside of the man, without even knowing anything about it. Lewis opens his arms for you as soon as he opens the door, welcoming you warmly with his embrace, holding you tight and close to the driver’s shape, landing soft kisses on your head as his fingers gently tangle with your hair. 

A deep sigh escapes your body as you wrap your arms around the man’s figure tightly as well, almost holding on to him for dear life as you try your hardest to quiet down the whirlwind of thoughts that has been haunting all day. 

Lewis feels some frustration tensing your muscles, his hand rubbing your back up and down, not breaking the hug until you decide to break it. He senses that something is bothering you, but he has no idea about the tears that escaped your eyes while you were in the car, letting out some of the exasperation that crept on you for hours, since the minute that he left your office. 

Still, it feels like he can put you together, gluing back all your missing pieces with his touch, being patient enough to hold you for as long as you need. And you appreciate it. You appreciate his time, his effort, the silence that strings you two along, the way he doesn’t rush to ask you a bunch of questions immediately, giving you time and space until you decide to talk, not minding the silent touches at all either. 

Once you break the hug, you finally reach to land a small yet soft and caring peck on his lips. Looking into his eyes, you force a small smile to paint your lips and Lewis notices how tired you look - however, in his mind, you just had a tough day at work. He doesn’t even imagine that it was so much more than that - and that he is the reason behind all it. Still, you don’t say much, so the man gets the hint, serving you a plate of food as a way to let you know that he is here, right by your side, and he is going to take care of you for as long as you let him. 

Sitting at the table, you mess with the food on your plate for a second, taking a small bite of it before turning your attention to Lewis’ features again. His eyes are soft whenever he looks at you, and a genuine, kind smile is splattered on his face while he looks at you completely enamoured. 

Silence is still filling the space around you two, while your thoughts are loud in your mind. You can’t help but think of how amazing he is, how he is so thoughtful to always cook you dinner, caring about you like no other man ever did. 

But still. He’s just a man. Just another man that will, eventually, leave you behind once he finds someone better than you. And you notice the love in his eyes; of course you do - he is not subtle at hiding it at all, but maybe he is not even trying to hide it. 

The thing that Lewis wants the most is to be truthful about his feelings. He wants you to know every single emotion that you make rush in his blood, every new sensation that you introduced to him with your presence, with your intelligence and spirit. 

That’s why his hand instinctively reaches for his pocket, where the set of keys that’s destined to you still rests. And as you finally speak to let him know that his cooking is amazing, he just gives you a smile, getting ready to talk to you.

His heart starts beating faster in his chest, clearing his throat while his leg is nervously bouncing up and down. Man up, Lewis. Come on, do it. Do it for her, for you, for your future with her. – the man thinks to himself. 

- I’m glad my cooking can help you a bit after you have a stressful day at work. - Lewis tells you softly. 

You raise one eyebrow slightly, instinctively thinking to yourself that it wasn’t just that. It wasn’t just “a stressful day at work”. Work was just fine, and your day would have been better if he hadn’t showed up at your office, demanding to speak to you after your attempt to distance yourself from him - starting an eruption of different thoughts and feelings inside of you. But still, you don’t reply to his statement, and you decide to show him just a smile in reply. 

Taking a deep breath, the driver decides to continue his train of thought. 

- You know, I really love having you around. I love when you come to my place after you leave work, I love how you have the power in yourself to make every space feel lighter and brighter as soon as you walk in. It’s like magic. - Lewis confesses, feeling all the anxiety running through his body as he tries to read your facial expressions. 

There’s not a lot to read, though. You have an expressionless face, your features don’t show much, while contrasting with your brain, that’s working like the devil’s office. 

You hear Lewis’ speech loud and clear. And the alarm inside of your mind immediately rings, as if an emergency has surfaced. There’s too many ‘I love’ in his line of thinking, and you know how this will end, if you don’t stop him right now. 

So, to avoid hearing an ‘I love you’ coming from him in some minutes, you decide to cut the message the man is trying to pass. 

- I enjoy the time we spend by each other’s side as well. At the end of the day, we’re just having fun. I’m glad this isn’t something that we need to take seriously. - you can almost hear Lewis’ heart shattering as soon as the words leave your mouth, seeing his face falling, the smile disappearing. 

He gulps. His hand leaves his pocket, trying to forget about the keys, the words that he was about to say, the love confession, the idea of you moving in with him - or at least the scenario of you having the keys so you could erupt through his house every time you wanted to. 

You don’t want it, and you just made it very clear, now. No words can describe the way Lewis’ heart has dropped at what you just told him. Sadness immediately washes over him, and you can see it. You notice the shine disappearing from his eyes, his face showing you a dull expression, where all the brightness and happiness have disappeared from. 

And looking back at you, he sees how you look at him coldly, almost as if you have no remorse about it. Seeing his heart shattering in front of you, and still, it’s like you can’t feel a thing, in his eyes.

But you can. Oh God, you feel so much - you’re just good at hiding it. Your face is closed, but your heart is open, ripped in the middle, sensing all your feelings, thoughts and pain washing your figure from the inside. You do feel guilty. You didn’t want any of this to happen, but you need to protect yourself, you need to put an end to all the infinite ‘boyfriend moves’ that Lewis does to you everyday. 

He is not your boyfriend, even if you would love for him to be. But you’re not the one for him, and you could never be. Unconsciously, you ask yourself why. Why did those words leave your mouth? Why is your brain winning, pushing him away, even when your heart is screaming in your chest, making a lump form in your throat from the agonizing pain as you fight back the tears that your body wants to let out so much. But you have no response to your instincts. Maybe it really was a mindless move, but one that’s right. One that will protect you from getting even more hurt in the future. 

You’re both hurt now, though. And the dark, heavy silence that sat at the table in the middle of your bodies lets you know it. It’s like a wall that separates you two, now, making it seem pointless that you’re still here, sitting in front of each other. 

And it’s like Lewis can sense that you’re thinking about leaving, as he finally breaks the silence to reply to your statement. 

- Yeah, you’re right. No strings attached, just two individuals having fun and enjoying their time together. - he replies, forcing a smile on his features as he goes back to eat his food, as if nothing has happened.

You can’t help but feel startled by his words, your eyebrows furrowing at his attitude. He was basically on the verge of confessing his love to you and now… no strings attached? You try to read him, but you can’t. 

Turns out that Lewis isn’t as transparent as you thought he was. On the inside, he is so hurt that this pain could make him disappear in seconds, turning all his feelings and dreams of a life with you into ashes. And he can’t believe that these words just left his mouth, either. But, in the end, the man would rather have you on your own terms, than not having you at all. 

Just two individuals enjoying their time together. That’s why you end up watching a movie on the sofa that night, even if both of you feel stiff from the conversation you had at the table, as if you’re afraid to touch each other after the things that were said. Still, you want the other’s company, so neither of you really wants to leave, or cut the night short. 

You end up sleeping in his bed, feeling way too overwhelmed with all your feelings and struggles to drive back home. And as much as this might sound bad after what you told him, you know that you can always find solace in the man’s embrace. 

But now, as you lay peacefully asleep beside him, Lewis connects all the dots in his mind and everything seems to make sense. He was always amazed by the way you would just go back to work on your computer after having sex with him, not wasting any more time cuddling him in bed right after giving into your pleasure and needs. 

You would always tell him about your tight deadlines whenever he called your name to meet him in bed again, but maybe it was never about the projects and the deadlines. It was because you never saw him as the cuddle type, really, as the type to actually get to know you. And as much as he is so sweet, so thoughtful with you, you never fully opened up to him - always keeping a very private side of you completely locked and unreachable, forbidding anything from coming out, and anything from coming in.

And he understands it now. You never really wanted him, you never really cared about his feelings, you definitely didn’t fall as hard as he did for you. You could feel his love reaching for your heart sometimes, but you never really allowed yourself to touch it as much as you could, as you are able to do. You know how dedicated you are when you are in love, and Lewis definitely deserved that side of you. But unfortunately, he is paying for all the things that other men did to you, and he has to put up with this personality that you created - one that doesn’t believe in love, that doesn’t even want to talk or think about it. 

It runs in your family, really. Your mum and dad had a terrible marriage, you grew up surrounded by fights and lies, the image of what ‘love’ was supposed to be, doesn’t look the same to you as it does for the majority of people. And sometimes, when you think about, you question life, you grow frustrated, and you even put the guilt on your family, on your parents from getting married, for bringing you to this world to such a fucked up childhood, that never taught you what real love felt like, looked like. But there’s no point in putting the blame on someone else. This is your life, and you just need to deal with things the way they are.

Now, while your head is lying on his chest, your arms wrapped around his figure as you find some heat to help you sleep, his fingers play with your hair, his hand softly travels up and down your back while he still leaves some gentle kisses on the top of your head. And whenever he gets the chance to hold you close like this, breathing in your scent, he realizes how good it feels to finally have a bit of you, besides all the times you block him out. Lewis can’t sleep, and the thoughts of every word, every moment shared between you two, fly through his mind, not letting him get any rest. Instead, he just wonders what he did wrong, where did he fail, why don’t you want him just as much as he wants you. His brain kills him, haunts him, to the point that the driver can feel some hot tears threatening to spill from his eyes as he keeps looking down at you, imagining the incredible future that you two could have together, but that will never happen. 

He catches himself hoping, almost praying, that at the end of all this, you won’t regret him - that’s a thought that he can’t even fathom, one that he will not be able to deal with. It’s crazy how, over the months that you’ve been seeing each other, he felt immediately hooked, and that sensation just keeps growing more and more every time he looks into your eyes. He belongs to you. And it kills him, because now he is attached to someone who is going to get rid of him anytime soon, when you get bored out of your mind and he doesn’t seem enough to fulfill your wishes and needs. 

His heart races in his chest as he can’t control his emotions anymore, and Lewis grows scared that his heartbeat might wake you up from your slumber. So, carefully lying you back on your pillow, the man leaves the bed, desperately to find a safe corner where he can just breathe and let everything out of his body and mind. 

He finds some peace and quiet while sitting on a stool in the kitchen, under the dim, yellow-ish light of the stove. Fidgeting with his fingers, Lewis tries his best to take deep breaths, trying to calm down his state. But instead, the more he tries, more tears escape his eyes, as the man allows them to slide down his features.

The salty water feels cold against his skin, staining his cheek as he hides his face in his hands, questioning why is this happening to him, how he can get rid of these feelings and situation now. The love he has for you won’t fade so quickly, and he knows he will suffer a lot when trying to forget you, because even now that he still has you in some way, he can’t help but see you everywhere when you’re not by his side. 

Lewis quickly realized that he was falling for you, but he never really knew that you were so much, that you mean this much to him. After all, you came into his life in a glimpse of hope and fun, but you brought time with you, patience, kindness, happiness - things that he sometimes lacks on a daily basis full of work duties. Still, he has it all with you, because you have that effect on him. 

And now, you ripped all hope from his figure, leaving him dark, cold, hurt and full of doubts. While his fingers clean the tears from his face, he can’t help but wonder: what is he supposed to do now, with a burning heart that stays still in his chest, waiting for yours to come by, to come closer, so they can meet once again and make love while you’re just simply talking or looking at each other, sharing small touches such as the tips of your fingers slowly intertwining across the table. 

Everything has more meaning to him when it’s with you, whether it’s a kiss, having pizza together, singing in the shower. There’s no way this is just ‘two people having fun’. It was way too intimate, way too chemical, way too real. However, right now, it doesn’t really matter what he thinks, nor what his anxiety tells him. You made it clear that this is nothing that you want to take seriously, and he can’t force you. And just like history always shows, someone always ends up in ruins.

As you’re turning in bed, your arm mindlessly reaches for Lewis’ side, searching for some more comfort and warmth - only to be met with emptiness in his pillow. Slowly opening your eyes, you look around the room, noticing that you’re alone. 

On any other night, you would turn to your side and go back to sleep again, patiently waiting for the man to come back to bed. But tonight, there’s a heavy weight lying on your chest as well, as if your conscience feels all the guilt pooling over you due to what you said earlier. Like a magnet, you get up quickly, walking through the corridors until you see his shadow sitting at the kitchen. 

Sitting on a stool with his back to the door, some small sniffles escape his body from time to time, making you stop in your tracks. Leaning your silhouette on the door frame, you pay attention to the man’s movements: how his fingers wipe the tears from his face gently, the way he continuously shakes his head ‘no’ to himself, as if he is denying all his thoughts. 

The sight truly is heartbreaking, and it’s enough to make you feel even worse than you have been feeling all day. The fear of getting hurt made you push Lewis away, even while sharing the bed with him, making him feel used and kicked to the side right after. The fear of not being enough, of being replaced by someone better, made you hurt the man that always treated you like a priority, even in the middle of his chaotic routine and schedules.

Even while being away, Lewis would send you cute ‘good morning’ texts, he would send flowers to your house, surprising you with them after a stressful day at work, alongside a loving card and your favourite chocolate. Even when he has little free time, he always thinks of you, calling you, talking to you, wondering how you’re doing, letting you know how he can’t wait to be back to London, just so he can be by your side again. 

No, this isn’t something casual - and you know that since the beginning as well. Ever since the first kiss, sparks flew from your figures, erupting into the sky, almost showing the whole world how happy you feel whenever you’re together. But still, your brain and heart would fight an intense battle, trying to get you to listen to both, but you always let your brain win - the fear of getting hurt again is just too big. 

But you never wanted any of this. You never really wanted him to leave your life, you never wanted to push him away. Instead, you just want him closer and closer, and if you both could be together, cuddled on the sofa 24/7, that would be ideal for you. So, seeing the man you love crying, heartbroken because of something you said - that you deeply regret, kills you. You don’t want to keep playing this façade, you need to finally be honest to yourself, above all, and admit your feelings. You know you feel safe enough with Lewis to do it. 

Taking a silent deep breath, you walk inside the kitchen, startling the man as your hand carefully lands on his shoulder, catching his attention. The driver immediately rubs his face with his palms, wiping away all the tears that could still linger on the surface of his skin, trying to pretend like he had not been crying just now. 

You sit beside him, looking at him with all the attention and care in the world. To tell the truth, Lewis feels way too self conscious to enjoy your intense stare on his figure right now, so he looks down at his hands again, trying to focus on anything but you. 

- What are you doing here, this late at night? - your voice sounds soft and quiet, trying not to break the glassy silence that surrounds the environment around you two.  - I just couldn’t sleep - he says, and it’s not a lie. But it’s not completely true, and you know that you will need to take charge of this situation, until he feels comfortable to open up to you again.

Leaning your head on his shoulder, his figure welcomes you instinctively, relaxing his tense muscles just so his body doesn’t feel so stiff when you lay on his skin. 

- I think it’s time for us to be honest, Lew - you land a kiss on his arm, looking up at him when he meets your gaze, while still staying silent.

It’s time to use your heart, and not your eyes. It’s time to relax your mind, and allow your feelings to show, pouring them out to the man in front of you without feeling scared, showing him your most vulnerable side. 

- Lewis, I’m scared… - you start, feeling your voice slightly trembling already as you try to open up to him, and show him why you’re so complicated, why your mouth says one thing while your heart feels another. 

He still doesn’t say a thing, giving you time and space to organize your train of thought, to fight all the demons in your mind without pressure - but his eyes never leave you, reading every crevice of your face, every lie telling him how much you regret what you said, and the way things have been developing. 

- Love is not really something that I know how to do. My parents’ marriage was a fiasco, I grew up with a very distorted image of what love looked like. As I grew up, I tried to look for true love in everything, in everybody. But, as much as I would try, every romantic relationship I was in, ended up with me being completely heartbroken, ruined. I lost myself many, many times because of failed romances and cried myself to sleep so many nights. I’m actually such a sensitive person, I feel everything, I feel everybody, but it’s just easier for me to put on this ‘frozen heart’ persona. Because, this way, I don’t suffer. I don’t let anyone in, I don’t let any of my feelings out, always trying to protect myself the best I can.

As you start explaining, Lewis’ arm instinctively wraps around your figure, rubbing your back softly while you’re the one letting it out, crying in front of him. It feels weird to be honest and vulnerable after so many years of pretending, and as you do it, you just allow your pain to take over - but, in the end, this is who you are. This fucked up person, hurt, the result of so much trauma, constantly intoxicated by the other’s manipulation. 

The more the cold tears paint your face, the more you realize how frail you actually are, how many problems you still need to bury and fix inside of you, and the fear grows inside of you again - but now, you’re scared that Lewis will be the one leaving you alone after knowing all this about you, perceiving you as being ‘too much to deal with’. 

- But then you showed up in my life, and changed everything. Changed the way I looked at life, how I saw my days at work, how I enjoyed my free time outside of my office. When I’m around you, I feel safe. So, so safe, maybe even too much, and that’s what makes me think, what makes me realize that I am falling for you more and more every day. And that’s why I slowly started to try and push you away. I was just trying to ignore these feelings that pop up in my chest every time I’m around you, trying to keep myself from suffering again. But the funny thing is, the harder I try, the more I hurt myself, and now I’m hurting you too… And, deep down, I don’t want any of that. I don’t want to push you away, I just want to pull you closer, and to explore our connection even further. Because you were right. We’re so much more than sex. I can’t stop thinking that every other person in my life, I just met them by chance. But you, Lew, I met you because I had to. And I need you - even if it’s really hard for me to admit this.

A river of tears is still silently sliding down your features, while Lewis gives you all the time to be honest with your feelings, and with himself. There’s a sensation of relief in the air after your words come out, a feeling that both you and Lewis can recognize inside of your hearts. 

One new, single tear escapes the man’s eyes as he gives you a soft smile, his thumbs working to wipe away all the remains of sadness from your face. A moment of silence settles in again as the driver takes a deep breath. Even if he smiled at you, even if his facial expressions seem much lighter now, you can’t help but listen to the anxiety that reaches your brain now - still scared of his reply, of him realizing that you aren’t made for him. 

You absolutely dread the thought of losing him, especially now that you were so transparent about your feelings, your reasons. He is the only person that truly gets you, in your good and bad moods, that knows how to deal with you in the best way - and because of all that, you only love yourself when you’re with him, when you’re feeling understood and held by him. 

It might have been just a couple of seconds, but it felt like an eternity to you, until Lewis decided to finally speak up.

- I knew you were the one for me since the first time I saw you. Since the very first flirt, the way you called me a prick, how your eye rolls were enough to make me feel silly and warm inside. And after our first kiss, I was sure of everything I felt. And even if you have your fears and problems, I have mine too, baby. But I could never give up on you, never. I just want to make our little bubble the safest I possibly can. I want you to always feel secure and understood around me, so you can recover from everything that happened to you in the past - something that will never happen again with me by your side, love. - the man guarantees you, his hands cupping your face as you sniffle quietly at his sweet words. 

Cutting the distance between your mouths, the driver lands the sweetest, softest kiss on your lips, leading you to hold his face closer, with your hand resting on the back of his neck. It’s slow, gentle, and warm. It feels like a cure to you. 

- I had a spare set of keys in my pocket, while we were having dinner. I was going to give it to you. Please, take them - I want you to be here as much as you can, I want you to come in and out as you please, even if I’m not here, this place is a bit yours as well now. Do you have any idea of how many times I’ve been lying on the sofa, and I just daydream about you walking in without me expecting it? I want those kinds of surprises, the ones who allow me to spend more time with you - Lewis confesses, whispering in your lips as the tip of his nose gently nudges yours, making a genuine smile appear in your face. 

Your chest races in your chest, not really believing that any of this is real, that he is still willing to fight for you, not giving up on your complicated self, but instead helping you recover from everything that hurt you.��

- I want to take things slow, Lew… - you say low, almost ashamed of what you’re asking him, but he really understands you for who you are, and he knows that it’s hard for you to completely open up and face all your fears at once.  - We have all the time in the world, my love. I’m not in a rush. I could never be when I’m with you, I just want to make the most out of every minute that I spend by your side - he immediately replies, pecking your lips softly again. 

There it is: the shine that you love seeing so much, back into the man’s eyes as he looks at you - now, with the vision of a future by your side, the scenario that makes the blood in his veins run faster through his body. And you can’t see it, but you can feel your eyes glowing as well as you look back at the only man that always made you feel welcome in his arms, cared for, that sees you for you, lightening up parts of you that no one else knows about. 

With the moon reflected on your features, Lewis opens his arms to nestle your body closer to his, hugging you close as your head rests on his chest, finally letting out a deep sigh of pure relief. 

Maybe, all that pain, all the cries, all the trauma wasn’t in vain. Maybe everything was necessary, so you could find the right man for you, the one you truly love, the one that loves you right back in the same amount and intensity. Even after hurting him, pushing him away, breaking his heart in a million pieces just a couple of hours before, Lewis is still the pure, selfless soul that holds his hand out for you to take, the one that’s sympathetic, that does everything he can for you, your happiness, your wellbeing, willing to hop on this journey with you. The one that forgives you.

So now, it’s time for you to hold your soul, setting yourself free from all the guilt and shame that has lived inside of you for so many years now, breaking the generational curse that your family has been buried in when it comes to true love - praying that your kids won’t inherit you and the feelings you attract. 

And as you cling on to Lewis’ figure harder, you thank life for putting him in your way, for giving you another chance at learning how to be loved, for allowing you to find a cure for your heart. Hugging him tighter, you set free Lewis’ power - may he heal you, may you two cure each other, creating a happier future together. 

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Skinnamarinkstump Linkdump

I'm on a 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me TODAY (Feb 15) for a virtual event with YANIS VAROUFAKIS, and on MONDAY (Feb 17) for an event at KEPLER'S in MENLO PARK with CHARLIE JANE ANDERS. More tour dates here.

It's Saturday and I'm on a book tour, and the world is in chaos, and there are more links to write about than I could fit in to this week's newsletter, so time for a cubic linkdump, the 27th such:

https://pluralistic.net/tag/linkdump/

Let's start with the best thing I saw all week: a 3D-printed, spring-loaded, clockwork chess pawn that uses a magnet to sense when it has reached the end of the board and SPROING! turns into a queen:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CSOnnle3zbA

The whole video is a fascinating account of the design process, from idea to prototype to finished item, but if you're impatient and want to skip right to the eyeball kick, it's at 12:27-12:35. And if you want to print your own, the files are $12 (cheap!):

https://www.patreon.com/WorksByDesign/shop/queen-pawn-3d-printing-files-614491?source=storefront

Regrettably, not every tech project is a good one. This week, Google abandoned its AI ethics pledge. Unlike most AI ethics pledge, which are full of nonsense about not accidentally creating a vengeful god that turns the human race into paperclips, Google's AI pledge was actually very important, in that the company promised not to make AI that violates human rights, international law, or privacy. There comes a point where harping on Google's abandoned "don't be evil" motto can feel a little hacky, but in this case, I'll make an exception. My EFF colleague Matthew Guariglia tears Google a much-deserved new AIhole over this latest heel turn:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2025/02/google-wrong-side-history

Not all bad technology is evil. Some of it is merely very, very stupid. How stupid? Check out Thom Dunn's Wirecutter review of The Heatbit Trio, a space-heater that uses Bitcoin-mining GPUs to generate some of its heat, very slightly offsetting the cost of warming your room – but at a rate that would take decades to recoup the $700 price-tag. Thom got some spicy quotes from Molly White for this one – possibly the first time she's been cited in a home appliance review:

https://www.nytimes.com/wirecutter/reviews/heatbit-space-heater-review/

Staying with crypto freaks for a moment here, Adam Levitin dissects the cryptocurrency "industry"'s latest chorus of aggrieved whining over "debanking":

https://www.creditslips.org/creditslips/2025/02/debanked-by-the-market.html

As Levitin writes, banks aren't kicking cryptocurrency "companies" off their books because the government wants to punish them. Banks have a very good reason to want to avoid doing business with high-dollar scams that have highly correlated implosions, which is to say, times when everyone wants their money back from the cryptocurrency "company" the bank is handling charges for. For a longer explanation that gets into the nitty gritty of bank supervision, check out Patio11's excellent, detailed explainer:

https://www.bitsaboutmoney.com/archive/debanking-and-debunking/

As all the real heads know, "crypto means cryptography," and cryptographers continue to contrive privacy marvels. This week, Kagi – the best search engine, a million times better than Google – released a Privacy Pass authentication plugin, which lets you login to Kagi and run searches without Kagi being able to connect any of the searches you make with your account:

https://blog.kagi.com/kagi-privacy-pass

As an sf/crime writer who sometimes (often) searches for information on committing ghastly crimes and 'orrible murders, the fact that my favorite search engine will be technically incapable of tying those searches to my identity is quite a relief. Read my review of Kagi here:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/04/teach-me-how-to-shruggie/#kagi

If you're one of those marvel-contriving hackers, cryptographers, security researchers or tinkerers, you should really consider attending this summer's Hackers on Planet Earth (HOPE), 2600 Magazine's (now) annual (formerly biennial) hacker con. They've just posted their CFP – get those submission in!

https://www.hope.net/cfp-talks.html

Well, I have to post this and get ready for this morning's virtual book tour event with Yanis Varoufakis:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xkIDep7Z4LM

But before I go, one more link: Kevin Steele's 2005 essay on Hypercard, "When Multimedia Was Black & White," an absolute classic, and a beautiful meditation on the art and promise of early hypertext:

https://web.archive.org/web/20240213190609/http://www.kevinsteele.com/smackerel/black_white_00.html

I've known Kevin for most of my life, long before he helped found Mackerel, the pioneering Toronto multimedia company. Long after Mackerel, Kevin went on making wonderful things. In 2023, he published a monumental act of portraiture – a "sequential art" time-series of panoramas of Toronto's hip, ever-changing Queen Street West strip:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/13/spadina-to-bathurst/#dukes-cycle

Comparing Kevin's more recent work with that lovely old essay reveals deep correspondences and the progress of a unique and creative soul.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/02/15/intermixture/#debunking-debanking

[alexanderwales]

One of the software concepts that I found useful to bring over to writing is the concept of technical debt.

Technical debt is the additional work that gets created when you choose a fast option over a good option. It's "debt" because there's a very good chance that at some point you're going to have to repay it: you hardcode in some variables, deciding that you'll figure out the proper way to do it later, and eventually, surprise! It's later. You have to implement the solution you were putting off. And because you've been using the kludge for so long, sometimes that kludge has become load-bearing, and you have to spend quite a bit of time unraveling and refactoring. One of the reasons it's called debt is because you have to pay interest on it.

And the thing is, it's not always wrong to accrue technical debt. Sometimes it helps you get to working on the important thing, and can clarify design details or implementation concerns, and sometimes you can just ship without ever having to do it the "right" way. Sometimes you can wriggle out from under that debt and never suffer any consequences from it, even if there were theoretical consequences when you made the decision to do it the fast way.

The way that this applies to writing is mostly in terms of worldbuilding, character building, and plotting. You can sit down and map a whole novel out without writing a single word, whipping up character bibles and setting details and everything that you might possibly need, all before you write a single word.

... or you can accrue some debt and just gun it, writing as you go, making things up, adding them to some kind of tracking document or just not even doing that.

And as with code, there will come times you have to pay that debt back with interest.

Sometimes you skimp on a character's backstory, and then a few chapters down the road you need to make a decision about it, and suddenly there's a bunch of editorial work as you have to make sure that everything you just decided on matches up with what you've already written. A more extreme example would be writing a mystery novel where you haven't decided on what the answer to the mystery will be until very very late: it would either produce a bad mystery or require tons of rewriting.

As with code, the difficulty is knowing when you're incurring technical debt for a good reason and when you're shooting your future self in the foot.

Here are my rules of thumb for writing, in terms of what's acceptable technical debt:

Plot stuff should not wait. You should have a resolution for your story within the first few chapters of writing that story, and ideally, before you even start.

Everyone (and everything) gets a name the first time it appears. You cannot say "the gardener" a dozen times because you don't want to think of a name for the gardener.

All magic systems and superpowers and whatnot should be rigidly defined before they come onscreen. This doesn't need to be known to the characters, and "soft" magic has less of a requirement, but having rules be thought up midway through a fight scene is essentially the definition of generating technical debt.

Descriptions take little effort to bring into alignment, so can be skipped on first draft, so long as there is a description there. Having descriptions written afterward can help to understand mood and requirements of the scene.

Backstory is really variable, depending on how relevant to the plot it is. If it's going to be driving conflict, it needs to be worked out ahead of time. If it's flavor, it can be winged.

I am, of course, not the best follower of my own advice, and sometimes for very long webfic it's impossible to plan that much in advance. And of course I never go into every work having had every idea I'm going to have, and some of those ideas are good enough to include even if they disrupt a plan and require some refactoring.

[a-court-of-fics-and-errors]

Yearning

The sequel to part two: Feasting on You

This part contains no smut, but does continue the story of Eris and the Reader yearning for a babe. (You can skip it if you just want to banging, but I needed to give myself a LITTLE BIT OF CONTEXT.)

Contains: Fluff, loss of a partner, sexism, Beron Vanserra making me want to commit anarchy, hope of pregnancy, crying children, a female being made to feel small, jealousy, class discrimination.

Word Count: 3,495

Summary: As you continue to work through the quiet reality that you may not be able to have a child with your mate, Eris Vanserra, you are still required to continue your duties as second to the High Lord. You are holding court with your mate and council when a female comes with a request for aid, bringing her own children with her and causing you to ache for a babe of your own to hold in your arms.

Writing:

A few days slipped by, and while the persistent anxiety of not producing an heir gnawed at the edges of your mind, you hesitated to bring it up to Eris. What was the point? You questioned yourself. Yet, the nagging thought kept returning—unrelenting. The Healers had reassured you during your last consultation that conception required nothing more but time and patience, and there was no precise science to guarantee success. Much of it relied on the stars aligning, just right, and the coincidence of perfect time. You had hoped that by creating ample opportunities for coincidences might increase the odds. But it appeared that fate preferred to mock you with its own cruel designs.

Moreover, bringing it up with Eris might only burden him with distractions from the litany of other responsibilities he had before him. You didn’t want him to feel obligated to comfort you over something you felt shouldn’t have been a problem to begin with. Still, you found yourself lying awake late into the night, trapped in the swirl of thoughts. It clung to you like a dense fog, unwilling to lift. One moment, you seemed resolved to let it go and let nature take it’s course, but the next had the heavy weight of uncertainty pressing down harder.

Among your myriad of duties was holding court with Eris. The Autumn Court, rich with deep-rooted traditions, convened every few weeks for this purpose. These sessions were open, designed to allow the citizens direct access to the High Lord with their grievances and requests. Though Eris often found himself unable to resolve many of these issues, he cherished this time as a vital opportunity to connect with all the beings he governed. He believed it was crucial to uphold the tradition where those residing within his borders would have their voices heard.

Unlike his father, Eris had wanted his mate present at these gatherings. He hoped that having a female presence in the room, attentive to the requests presented, might inspire some of the court’s females to bring forth their own matters. His intuition seemed to have borne fruit, as more females seemed willing to engage.

Eris leaned forward in his intricately carved, high-backed throne, his eyes narrowing with intense focus as the male standing before him detailed the problems caused by a persistent drought in the southern region. He spoke of the desperate hope for relief from the poor crop yields. You maintained a carefully crafted facade of attentiveness, lightly nodding along as Eris asked probing questions, questions to which the male eagerly responded, eager to explain his plight. Finally, Eris clapped his hand against his thigh with a decisive smack. “Wonderful! We shall continue to monitor the rainfall levels, and until they have increased, your production quota will be reduced by twenty-five percent.”

The male before you beamed with gratitude, his smile wide and genuine. “Thank you, my lord and lady, you cannot understand how much weight this lifts from our shoulders.”

Eris returned the smile, his expression warm and reassuring. “It’s no trouble at all. I am grateful you made the journey here to discuss it, and I wish you the safest return home.”

The male offered Eris a light, grateful smile before turning. His footsteps echoed softly in the grand room as he exited, the heavy doors swinging closed behind him with a resonant thud.

Eris turned to his right, speaking to the council seated beside him. This was yet another aspect of holding court that you despised; it was one of the few responsibilities that forced you into the proximity of Eris’s father. You did your utmost to avoid meeting his gaze, pretending as if he were absent entirely.

At the far end of the room, the announcer cleared his throat, his voice cutting through the air as he introduced the next audience. “Lady Sibel of the Northern Forests.”

The grand doors swung open, their hinges creaking with age, revealing a petite female dressed in a rather plain garment. She stood hesitantly in the threshold, accompanied by a smaller figure—a little boy, no more than four years old, with a mop of curly brown hair and a smudged face peeking out from behind her skirts. His tiny fingers clutched the fabric tightly as he gazed curiously down the hall.

“Let’s go, Peter,” the woman beckoned softly. She reached behind her, gently taking the child’s hand, and began walking down the center of the hall. Her initial nervousness was evident, but as you offered her a polite, reassuring smile, her tension seemed to ease. She came to a halt before you, licking her lips nervously and fidgeting slightly as she prepared to speak.

It wasn’t until she stood directly in front of you that you noticed the tiny bundle snugly strapped to her chest, adjusting ever so slightly beneath the soft folds of fabric that nearly blended into the drape of her gown. Your heart caught in your throat as you heard the delicate, melodic coos emanating from the bundle.

“My lord,” the woman addressed Eris with a respectful nod before turning her gaze to you, “My lady.”

Eris inclined his head in a gesture of polite acknowledgment as she continued speaking. “I apologize for any inconvenience, but I have come today to seek assistance for myself and my children.”

You swallowed with difficulty as you noticed the little boy shyly retreating behind her flowing skirts once more.

“My husband,” she gulped as though holding back tears, “Was lost to an accident on the famr, and despite my efforts to maintain our land, it has become overwhelming for me to manage alone. Especially with the little one,” her hand gently reached behind her skirts, tenderly tousling the little boy’s unruly mop of hair, “and the newborn,” she glanced down with a soft, protective gaze at the precious life cradled close to her heart, “I’m just not able to care for the land like my husband was.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Eris offered, his voice laced with genuine empathy and shared sadness. The female merely nodded, her eyes glistening slightly as she swallowed hard.

“He was a good husband,” she observed slightly.

The small bundle issued another coo, though this time it seemed tinged with a hint of irritation as it’s mother lifted her hand to the babe. Her fingers tenderly patted it’s tiny back while she softly swayed to soothe it.

From the place beside Eris, Beron’s voice cut through the quiet, cold and unfeeling. “What are you here to ask for?” he demanded.

The female’s eyes flicked nervously toward Beron, and before she could muster a reply, Eris interjected, “What can we provide to ease your burden?” His words were carefully chosen and soft in delivery.

Collecting herself, the female took a quick breath and steadied her gaze. “I was going to ask if there’s any possibility of selling a portion of my land back to the court, so that I might have more time to care for my children,” she explained. Her voice trembled as she spoke, her eyes flickering between Eris and his father.

Beron let out a cruel, lifeless laugh that slithered into your bones, igniting a furious blaze within you. “You’d rather squander the property your husband left you in death than secure another male to shield your estate?” he spat, each word dripping with disdain and venomous mockery.

The female’s eyes filled with terror and disbelief, her fragile features—etched by years of sorrow—now laid bare as you could see memories of endless, tear-stained nights in a home meant for her families own growth, now empty and dark. “No, my lord. I cannot just recklessly give away this land without weighing the cost. If only I had more time beyond the tending, I could properly care for my children—” she began, her voice trembling, only to be brutally cut off.

“Countless females had lost their husbands to accidents and still clawed their way to survival—by finding another male to shoulder their burdens and entrusting him with their wealth,” Beron snapped.

Shaken, the female stuttered as her small babe emitted another disgruntled squeal. “I understand, my lord. But my husband was my—and my children’s—entire world—I cannot just replace him with another,” she pleaded, her voice quivering.

Beron’s lips curled into a sneer of scorn as he retorted, “Clearly you’re more than capable of bearing more children. With such fertile allure, I imagine you’d easily lure another male eager to impregnate you again—to secure his own lineage. And more children mean’s more hands on the farmlands.”

As his voice thundered louder, the little babe’s cried echoed ominously around the courtroom. “It seems you have no genuine desire to change your lot when you were born with every advantage to rise above. Instead, here you stand, clawing for handouts instead of doing what females have always done, which is to use their sex to their advantage.”

The babe erupted into wails as the small boy sought refuge beneath his mother’s skirts while the sorrow-stricken widow let silent tears trace down her cheeks. She tried desperate to interrupt the tirade, but Beron’s relentless mockery drowned out her please.

Finally, Eris intervened, his voice crashing over his father’s like a raging storm, “Enough!” he declared, and you could swear the light along the walls trembled in response.

The courtroom was flooded with silence that pounded in your ears other than the wailing screams of the babe. The mother’s tears came more heavily now as she turned her face down to look at the tiny bundle that squirmed angrily in their sling. She pat at the babe, shushing it, trying to soothe them but her own despair seemed to only make the babe more irate.

“I will remind you that you are no longer the High Lord, and have no right to make such statements in the presence of my court.” Eris hissed towards his father.

But as your mate unleashed a torrent of scolding upon his father, struggling to wrangle the court back into submission, you sprang to your feet, urgency propelling you down the stairs of the platform toward the distraught female.

She was consumed by hot, wrenching sobs, desperately attempting to soothe her screaming babe, her voice trembling as she shushed it. The small boy clinging to her skirts had joined the chorus of cries, his tiny hands clawing up at his mother for solace.

The guards that flanked the walls stepped forwards, readying themselves to intervene, but you waved them back, your focus laser-sharp on the sorrowful creature before you. The heated argument between Beron and Eris faded into irrelevance, your entire being centered on the female.

“I’m so sorry,” you breathed, your voice barely a whisper as she lifted her tear-streaked face to meet your gaze. She recoiled slightly, as if fearing your approach would only bring further reprimand. You slowed your pace, softening your demeanor. “I’m so, so sorry,” you repeated with a fervent sincerity.

She shook her head, her voice trembling, “He’s right,” she admitted. “I shouldn’t have come here asking for help.” Her sobs deepened as she jostled the babe.

“No, no—” you interjected, stepping in front of her with determination, positioning yourself like a shield against the oppressive council of males seated before her. “You came to us for help, and we will help you. Regardless of what one member of the council may think.” You vowed it to her.

The babe emitted another piercing wail, the small boy in his mother’s skirts crying out, pleading for her. You extended two hands towards the infant, urgency in your gesture. “May I?” you asked, your voice resolute.

The female looked down at her screaming infant, then to her son, grappling with the impossible task of soothing them both while negotiating her livelihood. Her eyes flickered with hesitation before she nodded.

The female gently supported the babe from below, her hands steadied as you reached into the swaddled sling. Your fingers wrapped around the warm, wriggling body of the tiny being, feeling its softness and fragility. It let out a series of piercing screams as you lifted it, bridging the space between you and its mother. You pulled the babe closer to your chest, your hand cradling them under their rear, while nestling their tiny head with a delicate smattering of brown curls in the crook of your elbow.

The little one continued to wail, its gummy mouth opening wide in protest as you gazed down at it, your heart instantly clenching. You began to rock them gently, feeling the weight of their small form in your arms. They couldn’t have been more than a few months old, barely able to hold their own head up as they kicked and squirmed in fear. Another wail escaped their lips, tiny arms flailing upwards as you shifted your weight from one foot for the other, soothing them with a soft, rhythmic shushing.

The mother leaned down towards her toddler, lifting him onto her hip. She held him close, whispering quiet reassurances that only a mother could offer.

As you looked down at the infant, the rest of the world seemed to fade away. The cries grew softer, transforming into more discontented grunts, as you gently patted their rear through the soft, protective layers of blankets they were swaddled in.

“Shhh, little on,” you whispered. “It’s alright, I’ve got you.”

The babe finally opened their eyes, and you were met with brilliant blue pools peering back at you, even as tears streamed down their pudgy cheeks. “Hello sweetheart,” you cooed. “There you are. It’s all okay. It’s alright.” The little one sniffled lightly, their tiny hiccups and grunts punctuating their squirms. You leaned down, pressing your lips gently to the small babe’s forehead, your eyes closing as your inhaled the deep, intoxicating scent of the newborn. It was an enchanting aroma, fresh and new, a blend of clean linens and warm milk.

You pressed a gentle kiss into the velvety softness of their forehead, your body swaying slightly as you hummed against the babes skin. The babe, once restless and protesting with indignant squawks, now seemed to nestle into you, emitting sniffles and coos.

You placed another gentle kiss before leaning back, allowing the little one to faze up at you with wide, curious eyes.

A soft smile spread across your face as you murmured, “I know, sweet thing. I’m not mama.” You carefully lifted the babe, slightly turning them toward the female who was wiping away the tears of her toddler. “But mama’s right there; she’s okay. I promise, I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

The babe’s eyes, still shimmering with unshed tears, began to soften as their tiny hands unclenched from the tight fists they had been balled into. “Look at you,” you whispered, “you’re so beautiful. Look at your little nose and lips.” With tender care, you brought your hand up to gently wipe away to hot, shiny tears that streaked down the infant’s reddened cheeks. “I promise, we’re going to get it all figured out.” You leaned down to meet the curious gaze of the little one. The babe’s eyes were wide with wonder, fixated on your face as if drinking in every detail. You lingered there, lost in the mesmerizing, tiny expression that danced across that small face.

Then, a deep male voice broke through and your gaze shot upward to where the tall figures sat, looking down on you and the female. Your eyes met your mates—a quiet smile dancing on his lips—his eyes softening as he watched you rock back and forth, cradling the little one securely in your arms. With a warm, knowing smile, you returned his glance.

“Lady Sibel,” Eris began, pivoting to face the female who still held her toddle close against her hip, “we want nothing more than to ensure the continued prosperity of your family. And when the time comes for you to expand into the farmlands once more, we are committed to preserving that opportunity for you.”

The female shifted slightly as she swallowed. The babe let out another gentle coo, and you looked over with an affectionate smile, exaggerating your expressions slightly to coax a smile from the infant.

“That being said,” Eris continued, “we would be honored to tend the land on your behalf, to nurture its fertility. And when you feel either ready to bind yourself to another partner, or one of your children matures enough to work the fields themselves, we will restore the land to your family name.”

The female’s voice wavered as she stammered in shock, “My—my lord—that’s incredibly generous of you.”

Eris raised his hand slowly and gently shook his head. “Your husband cared for the land for generation. It would be wholly unjust for your to lose it merely because of the tragic circumstances you have had to bear. Removed that burden means your children can flourish and thrive.”

Tears welled in the females eyes, shimmering with both sorrow and relief, as a small, hopeful smile broke through as she finally spoke, “My lord, I truly cannot thank you enough for this—and I swear, I will find another companion as soon as I can.”

This time, you interjected softly, your hand resting lightly on the female’s shoulder. “There’s no need,” you said. “Take all the time to grieve the loss of your husband, and if you find someone wonderful, we will rejoice with you. But if your future unfolds in the warm embrace of your children alone, rest assured we will be just as content. It is your life to live and your path to choose.”

She nodded, her lip quivering as she turned once more to Eris. “My lord, my lady, you are too kind.”

“We are here to care for you,” Eris replied with sincerity. “It is the sole purpose of our duty—to ensure that you not only survive, but live.”

The toddler nestled his soft, curled hair into the crook of his mother’s neck, finding comfort in the warmth of her skin as she tenderly pressed a kiss into the curly brown mop atop his head.

“We will have a contract drawn up for your signature and brought to your home as soon as possible,” Eris continued, his voice steady and reassuring.

The mother nodded gently, whispering soothing words into her son's ear, “Alright my darling, it’s all okay.” With a gentle motion, she let him slip down from her arms to the floor, where the boy immediately sought refuge behind her legs once more. Eris continued to relay the intricate details of the plan as the mother approached you, arms outstretched to reclaim her infant.

Your heart ached with the impending loss of the small, perfect being, the sweetness of their scent lingering in your senses, a fragrance you wished could envelop you all day. But the child wasn’t yours to keep. They belonged to another. Reluctantly, you allowed the mother to take her baby back, and as she did, your arms felt suddenly empty, a hollowness settling deep in the pit of your stomach.

The mother offered her thanks once more before making her way toward the hall, her toddler’s small hand securely clasped in hers, the baby snugly swaddled in the sling against her chest. As the doors closed behind her, you turned to face Eris, feeling the sting of tears pricking at your eyes as you began to ascend the steps. You forced the tears back, choosing to ignore whatever derision Beron might throw your way as you resumed your place on the throne.

Eris glanced at you from the corner of his eye, his hand extending out to rest gently on your knee. He squeezed lightly, offering a touch of reassurance as you continued to hold back the tears pressing insistently at your lids. He knew. He knew how hard it was for you to let go of the babe, to watch another cradle their own child, what you longed for with every fiber of your being.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, you turned to face Eris, locking eyes with him as he peeled back the raw layers of vulnerability. His gaze held a fierce tenderness, an intense longing that mirrored your own burning desire. In that fleeting, electrifying moment, amidst the imposing grandeur of the hall and the crushing weight of the responsibilities on both your shoulders, you were stripped down to your most essential selves. Two souls intertwined by a love so profound, it defied all boundaries, yearning desperately to bring forth a child to share in that love. In that instant, you were not the High Lord and his Mate, but simply a mother and father, consumed by an unyielding hunger like thousands of others across the country, aching for a tiny babe to cradle and cherish. Parents with a relentless longing for an unborn child.

Part 4: Red to Entice You

[classfiedyapper]

LADS MEN SEEING YOU IN TRADITIONAL WEAR FOR THE FIRST TIME (Desi Version Pt.1)

(Content under the cut cause I am gonna ramble first😭)

SFW, fluff, mildly suggestive I think?

AN: guys!!!! I am crying the reaction for my last head cannon post was very overwhelming I was expecting like 5 notes and maybe 2 re blogs but damn you guys showed me so much love so I felt like it was my responsibility to pay back for such kindness, so here it is.

Also asks are open for those who want to request something, it doesn't have to be Desi centric anything you want, xx.

Ps. The outfits described are inspired by the ones I have owned lol. (Sorry got in too depth of the details you can skip thats)

Ps. Part two will be out in two days max.

Xavier

It wasn't everyday you choose to dress up in your traditional wear, not because it wasn't something you wanted it was only because there weren't that many occasions.

So, when one of you closes cousin got hitched you knew you were going to go all out, because hey! What is a Desi event, if not a better version of Met Gala.

Xavier was quite excited to see you too mostly because you would not stop buzzing about the saree you had ordered from the boutique , every time you two met since the day you ordered it, you couldn't keep your mouth shut, you chose not to show him anything or tell him the color since you wanted to see a raw reaction.

The day arrived quickly you waited for Xavier to arrive at the venue since you had went to the brides home and got ready there and went with her to the venue, as much as Xavier wanted to go with you as he felt a but awkward, he understood that right now you needed to be with your girl.

One of your other cousin escort him inside the venue as he was now also a cherished member of the family and it wasn't long when Xavier's eyes, that somehow were a little too good at spotting you no matter the crowd, fell on you and he held his breath, completely and utterly stunned.

There you stand in all your glory with a shimmering rose-gold saree that draped gracefully around you. The blouse, fitted and elegant, had delicate embroidery along the sleeves and the saree’s border was adorned with intricate silver embellishments, glinting softly like scattered stars. It hugged your frame, flowing down to the floor in smooth, silky folds. Bangles jingled on your wrists, and a golden pendant rested against collarbone beautiful and henna design on your hand and the hair up do decorated with with white flowers, completing the timeless, ethereal look. Xavier's heart was thumping loud, he gave you a once over. You looked nothing less like royalty. Some he would willingly bow his head in front of and be honored.

"Xavier!" You called out rushing towards him, or well trying too, and pulled him in an embrace and his arms wrap around you almost dropping the gift he had brought with him, catching a few look from the aunties but you did not care one bit, you had been separated far too long. "Xavier I was waiting- uh Xavier?" You pulled away from the hug to look at him only to be met with his piercing sapphire gaze "why would you deprive me of such look, my star." he almost sound offended at the fact you never graced his eyes with such astounding beauty before.

Regardless of his accusations you chuckled "are you trying to say that I look pretty?" You say your head tilted.

Xavier shakes his head with a sigh "pretty is such small word, I don't think that's how I will describe it" he says, he reaches out touch the the strand of hair that you meticulously left into curls, they wrap around his finger and Xavier leans down to kiss it since he couldn't kiss your face like he wanted, worried he might ruin the makeup. Mind full of the fact you must have spend good chunk of time and effort to perfect it for the event.

"Then how would you describe it" you poke, there was no way you would let him go, after all you wanted to look pretty for him too.

Xavier's loving gaze intensified into something more lust full "how about I show you instead my little star" he says looking down at your neck line, shamelessly peeking at cleavage and spoke "is there a room-ow" he was cut off, you pinched his arm with a flustered face "Xavier! The event haven't even started and you are trying to ruin my look" you whisper yell at him and he only smirked. "What can I say my little star, the way you look right now I will not be keeping my hands of you" Xavier declares as if it was the most obvious thing in the world and you roll your eyes "as if you ever keep your hands off me" you say and he just shrugged "I will touch what is right fully mine, you can not stop me" he says kissing the crown of your head, he could feel the pout forming on your lips. " can't you compliment me normally for once, xavy?"

His lips quirked up in smile, his hand finally moved from your waist, now holding your hand as he brings it up to his face placing gentle kiss on the knuckle, peeking at his name on your wrist, that made him much more smug "you look gorgeous my love" he kisses the fingers "graceful" another kiss, this time on the wrist right by his name "elegant and-" he takes deep breath before continuing "breathtaking"

A blush crept up your cheek and you giggled, now satisfied and you opened up your mouth to say something when one aunty who was turning green with envy, decided to interrupt "oh you two, the the function is about start move along" she scolds, Xavier turns to her his face contorted in annoyance, he looks back at you and you shook your head the turn to the lady "we will be right there, let's go Xavier!" With one last look you both left the woman alone.

And for the rest of the night Xavier followed you around holding your anchal, making sure no one bothers you in any sort of way.

Zayne

Black on black is zaynes favorite combination for most of the occasions, and even now after you had infiltrated his wardrobe and his life, he still had lots of outfit in that color code. It was your first time wearing something like this since ever since you came here to linkon it was hard to find traditional wear, zayne had it custom made it for you by a well known boutique owner, and you thought it was time to finally wear it and show it to him.

So, for tonight's hospital banquet you decided to follow that, you figured that's what he will show up in black on black again so might as well match together like the power couple you are.

So you picked out the brand new qameez suit, knowing zayne he would be nagging you in the next 5 minutes since that's when they had planned to leave the house. You picked up the pace, completing the light gold eye makeup with prominent eyeliner, stepping back you examined yourself from head to toe, feeling pretty confident in your look.

It was a simple yet stylish black outfit, consisting of a long, straight-cut qameez with subtle sequin embroidery scattered across the fabric, the shimmers under the warm light. The qameez had a round neckline and sheer, full-length sleeves with delicate patterns that added a soft texture to the otherwise plain design. Underneath, it had a matching black shalwar falling just above the ankles.

A lightweight black dupatta, its edges adorned with embroidered motifs that mirrored the design on her qameez. A small, round white clutch with a beaded pattern, which stood out against the dark tones of the attire. You add matching jhumkas.

Just then your Mr.husband called out "we are late darling" making you roll your eyes out "five more minutes!" Calling back and leaned over the counter and begin to apply a deep shade of red that looked confident and classy kind of sexy with over all look.

Zayne walked in cleaning his glasses, putting them on with practiced ease "Dear we were suppose to-" his words were caught in his throats as he looks at you "oh.." He unconsciously steps towards you while you were still applying the red lipstick adding a little bit of a gloss on top if it, your eyes moved up to look at him through the reflection "hmm?" Before going right back to task at hand, lightly smacking your lips making sure nothing was out of line.

Zayne clears his throat "nothing, its just....I was aware you'd be looking beautiful in this attire but I what I did not expect you to look this...ravishing" he breaths out. In an instant could feel swarm of butterflies creating havoc in your tummy "mhm? Ravishing? Dr. Zayne this is a modest outfit I was suppose to look modest and classy" you couldn't help but laugh at the iron as you turn to face only to meet his smoldering gaze that you were still somehow not used and got easily flustered.

He steps closer only couple feet away from you, your back pressed on the counter. "I know I am well aware, however, its not the dress my love" he holds your chin making you look up at him l, his eyes on your redden lip "its you who is ravishing" he says as he smirks, his pointy canine on display.

And just like that something in you short circuited, stuttering incoherently you tried to shoo him off saying you needed to find your heels, but he remain firm. "I got you something" he says in his breathy tone opening the jacket of his coat and fishing out two pair of gajrays, that he wordlessly puts on you and you had the biggest smile on your face that was until you noticed he was wearing grey and brown suit instead. Zayne notices your brows knit together and he knew what was coming, you going on a rampage "zaynie, I thought you were going to wear black you always wear black all the time and so I wore black too I told you I was gonna wear the black attire you got, and so you should have gotten the hint to wear black too instead you wear grey and fricken brown I mean we were suppose to look like power couple tonight mmf-" he cuts you off, a finger pressed on the plush of your lips "no need to be fussy I'll go change for you, begum" and just like that you were melted, making his smirk bigger, tsk its too damn easy now for him. You nod and he removes his finger, red stain of your lips on his finger that he licks off making you blush harder "okay okay go now" you says pushing him out not wanting to look at his smug face because damn it this man had you eating out of his palm at times.

And you know what? You wouldn't have it any other way.

Rafayel

Rafayel had been screaming-crying-throwing up, begging on the floor, for you to wear a lehnga for him. He had saw you once scrolling through your Pinterest looking at pretty lehnga and was hit with tremendous force of inspiration. Rafayel had painted you, a lot, like way over the normal amount should be. In many ways and using different color hues and settings, they were all so stunning, you loved them all so much and honestly it was such and ego boost every time he showed his painting of you, but he always complained about not being able to capture your true beauty. That was until he saw you looking at the Pinterest and realized he hadn't seen you in your traditional wear ever, let alone paint you in it, and right after that day he had been on your case to wear it for you.

Its not that you didnt want to wear it was just that you couldn't find one. When you made the mistake of telling him that you found him on the phone with none other then The Zainab Chotani. You knew you had to intervene. You told him you will find a dress on your own but it was too late he had placed the order one of the elites of south Asian fashion because of course his darling couldn't have anything less then that.

"Cutieeeee how much longerrrr?" Rafayel whines from outside the locked room, you had strictly told him not to enter or he will be getting his ass kicked, as protest rafayel had camped outside, sitting by the door, waiting.

Once you were ready you took a deep breath and leave the room. She made her way to the studio and sees him sitting on the stool with a big canvas in front of him, he was sulking ofcourse.

"Just a little longer this stupid fricken teeka, is NOT fixing" you reply to him, it was taking long yes because your beloved lemurian had ordered you a Bridal lehnga. you could here shuffling outside followed by loud knocking "then open the door and let me in I'll help" the impatient artist says but you you wouldn't let him nuh uh. "Rafayel I am almost done please just go to the studio I'll be there damn!" You exasperated "fine...always so mean to me" he mumbles and steps back going back to the studio.

You wore a stunning sky-blue bridal lehenga, intricately embroidered with shimmering silver and gold threadwork. When you twirl the lehenga flared gracefully like gentle waves of the sea, detailed patterns across the skirt, which caught the light with every movement. The fitted blouse was equally adorned with embellishments, a modest neckline and long sleeves that added an elegant touch.

"Rafayel....I am here" she says and he turns too look at you excitement brimming his eyes but that soon turned into awe.

Draped over one shoulder was a rich maroon velvet shawl, contrasting beautifully with the cool blue tones of her outfit. The shawl was bordered with elaborate gold embroidery and scalloped edges, giving it a regal finish. Another lighter blue dupatta, matching the lehenga, was delicately placed over her head.

Her jewelry was traditional and elaborate, a maang tikka rested on her forehead, a teardrop-shaped pendant. She wore a choker necklace layered with cascading strands of pearls a visible ode to his lemurian heritage, adding depth and luxury to her look. Her hands were adorned with intricate henna designs, enhancing the overall bridal look.

And rafayel....well poor guy had fallen from his stool, he had tried to get up very quickly and tripped. "Raffy!" You tried to approach him but he was on his feet already moving towards you "I am fine I am okay, its just you....wow" he breaths his hand reaching out barely touch her face, an artist admiring a masterpiece, scared to ruin it. "You like it?" You ask holding his hand leaning onto his touch. "I love it" he replies in a reverent tone.

Rafayel holds both of your hands kissing each of them, the action making you blush a crimson shade, turning your face away "don't" he warns "let me admire you" he says as you turn back to him. Rafayel drops to his knees feeling like thats how he should be, where he should be. "Maybe I should just marry you now, its been too.damn.long" he says vulnerability lacing his voice.

The thought made you giddy and you pinch his cheek "well i am in a bridal lehnga, let's just do it" you says and he smirks getting up from his spot and aiming straight to get his coat "let me find my shoes and we are done" he says making you giggle "you know I am joking you silly fish" you follow him and soft sound of your Bengals echoes. Rafayel turns to you and pout "tsk now that's just mean, but whatever you say cutie, just know I will not be waiting long" he says and make you roll your eyes at him again until you see him going over his canvas and removing it

"I am, its just this canvas isn't big enough to capture what I have in mind" rafayel smirks.

"Wait weren't you going to paint me?"

And this is basically the story behind his mural of you in the living room, you with your lehnga all spread out and him on with his head on your lap.

[local-lamppost]

Act 3 Thoughts

Watched Wicked, came home, waited 20 minutes, binged Act 3. I do not recommend this lifestyle. Anyway...

I was so satisfied with where we ended up, but I would have also appreciated about 20 minutes to an hour more. It felt like some beats were skipped over, they wanted to get to specific endings and didn't have the time to wrap them up as neatly as I would've liked.

Maddie is a good example. She's a plant for Ambessa, okay but when and why did she become one? She couldn't have been one before Cait being named commander and when we next see her she's pushing for Cait to take power back from Ambessa. Did Ambessa just message her right after Cait and Vi started working together again as like a "the woman you love's actual love is back in the picture, you can either wallow or get revenge with me", but also made a smarmy remark about Cait 'at least being warm' or something. We didn't need to absolve Cait or villainize Maddie for their 'relationship' because they didn't even have a relationship-just a coping mechanism for Cait, similar to Vi's drinking. At best it was all unnecessary and at worst a waste of time.

Away from that, I want to focus on some good.

I am officially a JayVik shipper now. Them disappearing into a void together, encircled with each other, after Viktor spend however long within timelines/multiverses in hopes of finding a Jayce able to bring him back to his humanity? Come on, they needed to kiss. Especially after Jayce and Mel's low key break up. Honestly we were denied the three of them working together, because they would have been unstoppable.

Speaking of Mel, I love her. I love her design, her powers, her matricide, her taking command of Ambessa's armies, etc. I wish we could have seen more of her adapting to her new powers, finding peace with what she now is. There could have been a cool interaction with Viktor over how Arcane power has changed them both for better and worse.

I don't think Mel's story is done. With other characters, I can see them coming in for future story arcs as like, cameos or background details, but if the next LoL story is in Noxus I fully expect Mel to be a major player again.

Back to Jayce. I like Jayce, that could be my Arcane hot take, and I definitely want to write something more in depth on him. On all the characters really. For now, I'll just say that his determination to destroy everything he has built, because the only creation worth saving is his relationship with Viktor is just... glorious.

Viktor was amazing. I love Viktor in the lore, and they took his traits from the lore and amped them up to eleven. His body being destroyed and rebuilt, the process of which has chipped away his humanity and mutilated his dreams. He lives up to his own quote: "In the pursuit of great, we failed to do good. We have to make it right."

Ekko is a character I never realize I miss. That sounds mean, it probably is, but I am never the less so happy to see him every time. It's like finding the missing piece you didn't even know was lost: that is Ekko to me. His mini adventure in the parallel universe was adorable. Us getting to see what could've been alongside learning what matters most to Ekko, him getting a taste of a near perfect life and still choosing to return to his own time. That's why Ekko is the true hero of this story.

In terms of Jinx, I'll just say I'm not a hundred percent sure she's dead. The airship leaving at the end followed by her scribbled sign off, plus not getting a dead body shot. It was definitely left open ended. Her looking to do something good, to not mess up, alongside her fear of not wanting to try again because she is just tired of failure, of being a Jinx, was too real in many ways. I will go in depth on her at a later date.

Caitlyn's arc is going to be argued about, no question. It needed more time (see the start of this long post) to make her point of her anger burning away, of it not being sustainable, hit harder. I would have made her realize what her anger was doing to Vi, have Jinx point out that they really are acting the same in their treatment of Vi, and use the whole Ambessa was literally stoking the fires of her hatred to help fit what time they had left. Honestly just have Cait learn Ambessa was the one behind the memorial attack, that would be a much better way to explain her anger diminishing enough to look beyond her own hurt to realize and take account of her mistakes.

Vi, as usual, needed more screen time. Not necessarily because her story would've been helped by it like in act two, but just because I wanted her to have more time to enjoy her life. I went into act three with the sole hope that Vi would have a nice day, only for her to loose everything again. The only people she has left are Cait and Ekko, and god help anyone who tries something against those too now. Her ending being the chance to finally rest, to lean on someone else, was beautiful. She is my favorite character and please let her have only good things in the future, she was traumatized in almost every scene this season please-

Nobody tell Vi that in a universe where she died young everyone else ended up living. It would destroy her.

Vi and Cait relationship was great. I wouldn't say it was rushed in act three, because it felt like it was where it should be for a final batch of episodes, if that makes sense. It felt like the set up was Cait being genuinely remorseful and Vi just wanting someone in her life who wanted her in return. It helps that they have great chemistry and that when given the chance they fit so neatly together. I think Jinx encouraging Vi to be with Cait is what sold it to me. Jinx realizing how much Vi has given/sacrificed and giving her blessing for her sister to be happy with someone she disapproves of; not to mention Cait pulling the guards from their posts to give Vi the chance to actually meet Jinx in order to have that conversation. All in all, it comes down to Vi's "I don't care" because that's really all there is too it for them. Vi is done being miserable and Cait makes her happy, vice versa. Cait is someone Vi can rely on, Vi is someone Cait can find strength in.

Spitfire round:

Sevika being made a councilor

Every single one of Mel, Cait, and Jayce's designs were 10/10s

Vi not being given an actual uniform, just armor and the gloves

Jinx cutting her hair further to match Vi

Ekko getting his crystal sword/bats

Heimerdinger dying after living a life where he could make his city something to be proud of

I was fully expecting Vander and Silco to kiss in that one shot

Everything with Benzo

Loris' name being said

Vi humming the song and the song being their mother's lullaby

Viktor being held within the Herald

Sky leaving so Viktor was free to bring Jayce to his space mind palace

Caitlyn's rifle never surviving

Fishman McBlue being the only one of Cait's soldiers to stick to his guns and stay loyal

Sevika and Shoola side eyeing each other

Vander and little Vi and Powder with the bunny

The bunny being a passenger on Jinx's balloon

Singed's messed up family getting a happy ending

[utopya-cc]

Preview) Passionate Gifts| Functinal Designer Bag

Hi everyone. I hope you are all doing well! I have some exciting things to share and show you🤩!

✨This is one of the most exciting updates that I have made. There is more to it than what you saw in the preview video. The video covers just the animation; there are a lot of other features!

Basically, the update will have a whole new mod! So please Try to read the full post. Don't skip to the download page; there are some important things to know before Downloading it and using it,

The New Animation:

Let's start with the animations. This interaction has multiple animations that they may play each time you perform it. (just some small cute variation to the main animation)

One major new thing with this interaction is that it's staring from the back. Your sims will come from the back to give the gifts.

The Pros are: I think it looks great, I think coming from the back adds to The intimacy and surprise element of giving gifts, But the Cons are the game interactions are all face to face, so doing it like this isn't the best and the smoothest way to do it,

The New Designer Bag Gift:

The Designer Bag will cost your sim $1500 Simoleons ( I think it's well worth it; more on it later in this post!). The new interaction is located in the passionate gift pie menu under the romance category, with its own Custom Icons.

There are 12 in total swatches/brands that you can get. I will show you some of them now and let you explore the others.

I first planned to make it into a one-box gift, and then you can change the swatch by build buy, but it was a little bit inconvenience for the gameplay, and I didn't like it that much,

So I had to push it a little bit further, and thankfully, I did manage to figure out how to add all of them (it was one of the main reasons that extended the release date),

So now, every time you give the gift, your sims may give and receive one of 12 different Designer Bags. Each bag has its own Package Box, and the gift will change depending on each swatch. So, basically, there are twelve new gifts in this update.

You can still change the swatch by build-buy, but I think it is more fun to let your sim choose. I have also added a small mechanic to lower the chance of giving Duplicate swatches if you already have that bag in your sim inventory.

(I just want to mention that I added a surprise animation when they see the prize tag! It's just a small detail that I thought it would look cute 👇) 

The Interaction Outcome:

After performing the interaction, your sim will receive the Designer Bag and its own custom Package Box. Also, your sim will receive some Buffs and moodlets for both the target and the actor,

As I said, each bag Has its own custom package box. You can sell it for 20§ or decorate your house with it. It can also work as a pedestal for your bag. I have added a slot to it so you can put stuff on it:

The Fully Functional Bag:

Now, let's start with some more exciting stuff. The bag is fully functional🤩! You can wear it and rename it. It is also live draggable, so you can live-drag it whenever you want, and it comes with its own inventory.

First of all, how do you wear it? You can easily do that from your sim inventory! Just click on it and click on (Wear). You can wear it with any outfit you like!!

It will be shown in the queued interaction on the left side of the running interactions. You can remove it by canceling the interaction.

While you are wearing it, you can't access the bag; you have to remove it first, and then you can access it or live drag it.

By wearing the bag, your sim will get a confident Buff.

Also, wearing the bag will slow the decay of some of your sim needs. My idea behind that is that wearing a bag makes youre sim more organized and less likely to get tired.The modifiers aren't that crazy; I think with them, it's just more fun to remember to wear it before going on a walk or to the coffee shop.

I have also added some buffs to other sims around you. For example, they may be amazed by seeing your sim wearing a Designer brand, and your partner may feel flirty if they see your sim wearing their gift.

The bag is Live draggable; you can drag it anywhere you want and open it. Each bag will have its own separate inventory, which can store almost anything and help organize your sim's inventory better.

The bag will be fully functional. I am planning on some existing features for it, and I will post some sneak peeks soon, so keep an eye out for that.

There are twelve Bags for your sim to have. I mean, I can imagine that Wealthy Sims will have at least two or three bags, so I have added the (add-to favorites options); you can do that while the bag is on your Sims inventory, so you can keep track of youre favorite used bag while carrying multiple ones for your different Outfits. And you can also rename them!

Of course, you can also collect all of them just to fill and decorate your Sims' closet. So, I have kept the option of buying it from Build Buy. Most of the bag's features will work, minus some gift-related ones.

To access the bag inventory, You have to place or live-drag it first; you can't open it from the inventory.

Showering or sleeping will remove the bag automatically. (I am blacklisting the interaction where youre sim removes the bag by hand, so if I have missed something, let me know)

The sim who receives the Designer Bag Gift Will automatically be the owner Of that Bag,

DOWNLOAD:

[the-cosmic-cauldron]

🧚🏽‍♀️𝒫𝒾𝒸𝓀 𝒶 𝒫𝒾𝓁ℯ: 𝒢𝓊𝒾𝒹𝒶𝓃𝒸ℯ ℱ𝓇ℴ𝓂 ℳℴ𝓉𝒽ℯℛ 𝒢ℴ𝒹𝒹ℯ𝓈𝓈 🧚🏽‍♀️

Welcome to 10 Days, 10 Posts from The Cosmic Cauldron! Over the next ten days, I’ll be sharing a blend of astrology and tarot posts, each designed to spark your curiosity and guide your journey. If you find my content interesting, fascinating, or engaging, be sure to click the follow button for more! Ready to dive deeper into your personal journey? Head to my homepage and book a reading — you won’t regret it.

ᑭIᒪᗴ 1

Here, I am your Mother Goddess, offering you some advice for your healing journey and your current stage of life. First, I want you to focus on positive things. Sometimes we lose track of the good, but it’s important to recognize the positives each day. I encourage you to write down or verbally affirm three positive things each day, even if it’s just speaking them to yourself in the mirror. One of those positive things should be about you—how you look, how you act, and appreciating yourself. You need to learn to appreciate and affirm yourself. This will help you stay positive and, more importantly, build confidence. Self-acceptance is essential for you right now.

I also want you to stop being so impulsive and spontaneous. While those traits can be exciting, I believe this is a time for you to slow down and create a plan of action. Rather than acting on a whim, take your time and be patient. Life will unfold in its own time, and you have many years to do everything you want to do. Focus on what you can do right now—establish that in the present. Accept where you are in your journey, including the pain, your past, and even the parts of yourself that you might not like. Even if something doesn’t feel wholesome or it makes you feel less confident, accept it. Acceptance is a crucial part of your life right now.

Instead of seeking validation from others or focusing on what others think of you, focus on self-acceptance. This will be freeing for you. By focusing inward, you can cultivate patience with where you are right now. Instead of rushing to move forward, allow yourself to embrace your present reality. Accept where you are, what you have, and what you can do with the tools and resources available to you right now.

You need to be more intentional. Take your time, plan, and stop rushing. Don’t expect things to happen randomly. Accept your reality and use what you have in this moment. Focus on yourself—your work, your effort, and your development. This phase of your life is about self-acceptance, and it’s time to put in the work. Lay down the groundwork, pay attention to the details, and don’t skip over them. Set goals, make plans, and be intentional. This requires inner work, not trying to gain approval from others. Start liking yourself and put the effort into developing your true self during this time.

ᑭIᒪᗴ 2

Here I am, your Mother Goddess, offering you advice for the healing stage you are currently in. One thing you need to focus on is that not everyone is going to agree with you, resonate with you, or be on the same page as you. Don’t try to force your way or get people to see your perspective. Some people are only interested in asserting their own views instead of understanding yours. Not everyone will be understanding, and it’s important to accept that. If someone is not receptive to what you’re saying, accept them for who they are. Trying to change their perspective or improving yourself to fit their expectations is only exhausting your energy. It’s causing you to become frustrated, aggressive, and out of alignment with your true character. You’re investing your energy into people who aren’t reciprocating the positivity you deserve.

Right now, your focus should be on self-protection. Protect your energy and find ways to shield yourself from external influences. Outside pressures are strong, but this is a sign that you need a stronger core. Start journaling and reflect on who you are, your opinions, values, and beliefs. Stand firm in them. 2025 is the year to stand strong in who you truly are. Be clear when communicating with others, and let them know that while you are emotional, you won’t allow your emotions to dictate how you communicate. A clear mind is essential for you right now.

This period calls for you to step away from the crowd and reconnect with yourself. Take time to meditate, journal, and channel your thoughts and words in a way that isn’t excessive or full of resentment, bitterness, or anger. Aim for balance and communicate from a place of confidence and clarity. Accept that there are situations in your life you may not feel good about, but to protect yourself, you need to understand how you ended up in those situations. Self-protection involves understanding the root cause of your circumstances.

If you’re grieving, frustrated, or sad about something, ask yourself: What is the core of this emotion? Did you put yourself in this situation? Did you lack boundaries or intention? Did you lack clarity? These are the necessary questions you must ask to start honoring your happiness, joy, and peace. Self-protection is about honoring these aspects of yourself. By understanding the experiences that led you astray from your true self, you can set new intentions to focus on your happiness, joy, and peace moving forward.

Let go of the idea that everyone needs to agree with your life or respect your decisions. Not everyone will approach you in a respectful way. Now is the time for you to take space for yourself, to re-establish your sense of self-protection. This will help you avoid falling into the same cycles of hurt and pain. Let go of your defensiveness, anger, hostility, frustration, and animosity. Shift your focus inward so you can protect yourself from negative situations and move closer to happiness, joy, peace, and love.

ᑭIᒪᗴ 3

Hi, here I am, your Mother Goddess, offering advice for the healing stage you’re currently in. This period is all about honesty and truth. You need to tap into both. The thing is, you’ve been seeing things through colored glasses, perhaps a bit of delusion. And that’s okay—sometimes delusion helps us manifest things, but it can also hinder our authenticity and clarity when it comes to facing the honest truth in our lives, which is necessary to heal wounds.

It seems like you’re going through a lot emotionally and mentally. There’s a lot happening in your life that you simply don’t enjoy, and it feels overwhelming. It’s important now to be honest with yourself about where you’re at. Don’t sugarcoat it—take the time to sit down and have an honest conversation with yourself. Write in your journal, make a video, or even record voice notes on your phone. The key is to be clear and honest with yourself. I sense there’s some self-deception going on, perhaps because you’re repressing emotions or avoiding dealing with them. But these emotions are affecting the way you think, clouding your mind, making it chaotic and hectic.

We need to get you out of this chaotic place, and the way to do that is through clarity and honesty. This period in your life demands this. You need to confront those truths, even though they will be hard. It may feel like you’re being tossed around in a blender, shaken to your core, but guess what? It will lead to something great. You must explore your own truth and authenticity now.

Your mind is cloudy, and when you start confronting these truths—when you acknowledge that your life is not where you want it to be—you’ll start to understand the root of the problems and where they came from. Look at the past for what it truly was, not what you wish it had been. Accept that certain things happened in the past, and no longer view them through rose-colored glasses.

Once you can see how your emotions were affected by those situations, you’ll begin to understand how those emotions have clouded your mind. Your mind has become unclear, scrambled, and chaotic. Now, you need to figure out how to release these thoughts and emotions. Journaling is a great tool for this. Whatever method works for you—writing, recording, or speaking—use it to clear your mind. Brain dump everything so that you can think and communicate more clearly. This will help you start engaging with the world more authentically, without your mind holding you back.

Trust me, facing the truth and being honest with yourself will cause some upheaval in your life, but over time, it will smooth things out. It will lead you to live a beautiful life, rooted in authenticity. You’ll be able to show up as yourself, and the old wounds will begin to heal because you will be living in your truth.

ᑭIᒪᗴ 4

Hello, here I am, your Mother Goddess, offering guidance for the healing period you’re in. This time calls for you to let go. The theme right now is simply to release—the anxiety, the overthinking, the self-doubt. I know it’s not easy, but I’m here to guide you through it.

The first thing I want you to realize is that things you think are personal are often not as personal as you believe. People act based on their own thoughts, not yours. And while they may interfere with what you want, you cannot allow their actions to become a reflection of who you are. Instead, allow people to just be. Let them be, and choose how you want them in your life. You hold the power, not to control their actions, but to decide how you respond and what role they play in your life based on their actions.

Instead of constantly getting caught up in your feelings, always feeling the need to defend yourself or speak up, and getting into altercations with people who don’t think like you—let it go. This is the time to release so much: old habits that no longer serve you, outdated beliefs about what success is, and what you believe is good for you. It’s time to adopt new, positive beliefs rooted in femininity, love, nurturance, art, and creativity. You need to become more fluid, allowing yourself to enjoy life more and embrace the fruits of your labor.

Take your self-care to the next level. Really invest in a solid routine that focuses on nurturing yourself. Change your environment if necessary. If your room or house feels stale, change it. If you’re wearing the same clothes, switch it up. You need change. Let go of all the things you’ve been holding on to, believing you needed them. A key area is your self-care routine. If you don’t have one, it’s time to establish one. If you already do, then re-establish it for 2025. Let go of last year’s habits and create new ones to care for yourself. What will you do for yourself this year?

It’s time to let go of the past. Let go of what you thought you had to be, and choose who you want to be in this moment. Focus on filling your cup and prioritizing your emotional well-being. If you’ve been focusing outwardly on others, it’s time to shift inward. Start small—maybe it’s watching a movie with a tub of ice cream, or going to your favorite restaurant, but begin somewhere. Shift from giving to others all the time and start giving to yourself. It’s time to look up and nurture yourself.

Stop twiddling your thumbs—make decisions for yourself. It’s time to let go of the old. Apologize to others, accept your own shortcomings, forgive, but most importantly—move on. You need to release and let go. Write things down and then burn the paper as a symbol of release. Record a video expressing all your feelings and thoughts, then lock it away. In a year, look back and see how far you’ve come.

Letting go is essential now. Let go of old possessions, material items, emotions, lack of forgiveness, neglecting self-care, focusing too much on others, defensiveness, anger, animosity, frustration, anxiety, self-doubt, and worry. Free yourself to move forward and focus on being present. Ground yourself in the now, not in the old version of you. Focus on who you are becoming, and begin building this version of yourself from the ground up.

[worrynoodle]

Okay. Now that I'm caught up, I would like to put in my two cents on this.

⚠️Warning, if the whole fandom panic thing stresses you out, please go ahead and skip this, but I tried to make it reassuring. There's no need to go worrying yourself over rumors and hearsay. ⚠️

For one thing, there's no amount of asking and pressure that is going to make any of the show creators reveal the ending. That isn't how tv shows work. You wait, you watch, you see. It also isn't fair for those of us who hate spoilers for them to constantly be asked for.

Two. I know that a lot of us on here are neurodivergent and have anxiety, and a HUGE part of that anxiety can be the unknown, especially about things we care very deeply for and identify with. This show and its characters hold a very special place in our hearts, and we fear not knowing the ending, especially with a big bang cliffhanger like s2e6. But please try to sit in that discomfort and allow yourself to feel your feelings without panicking.

Third, this story has been beloved for 30 years, yeah? Of course, OF COURSE, it's not going to be a bad ending! It's obviously something that all of the creators involved have been passionate about. Why on earth would it end badly? And all of them - Neil g, Terry p, the directors, the actors, the cast and crew, set and costume designers, the hair and makeup crew, ALL these wonderful people - put an unfathomable amount of care and thought into every aspect of the story.

Next, please, please, please try to remember the show on its own, right? All the details, all the scenes building Aziraphale and crowleys history individually and as a pair weren't put in there for no reason. Take what we actually see on screen and separate that from metas, theories, fanart, and fanfiction. We all love diving into what each detail could mean, but remember, it's all speculation until it concludes.

The story, what we have so far, is kind of a mostly completed puzzle. There's a lot of missing spaces, that's the season three bits. And right now we can't see the bigger picture but you have to remember that each piece of the puzzle was made by the people who painted the whole picture. Every piece that we have was made to fit with the whole story so once we have all the "season three pieces" they're going to fit right into place as they're supposed to.

And maybe, if you have very very high expectations - like very specific headcanons for how you think a perfect ending would look like - maybe it wouldn't be too bad to lower your expectations and open your mind to new possibilities. Ones that can be just as good!

So please, take a deep breath. Count to ten. Get your hot chocolate, your tartan blankets and comfy chairs, pull up some happy-ending fanfics and remember that it's all going to be alright. It's 2024 and this isn't Sherlock

[bi-badass-geek]

Hades 1 vs Hades 2 Designs

● Hermes besides Hypnos was first character that made me think when i saw him oh some time has passed since Zag's escapes indeed, makes you feel that time skip. In this particular debate between those i'm really digging both but if needed to say which i prefer would go with second. I feel it should be said he sure rolls nicely with longer hair i would say darker outfit too but that's probably because pallet that's used for levels.

Ps. I saw post that mentioned how his ring is the same as ones Charon is wearing in first game and if it's a hint at something i'm here for it!

● Zeus for this god specifically there is discourse about how his pose is less dynamic and oh boy if i don't agree with that so much. In first game you see him and his look makes you think yeah this is the king of gods while in second game man is just there with posture i take often because i'm useless gay that don't know what to do with my hands and feels like they took all this might and put it into chiseling his nipples & abs into his golden chestplate. Not to mention the detail of missing the iconic bolt! Don't think it needs to be said but 100% would pick Hades 1 design out of those options.

● Poseidon the King of the Sea another example in my humble opinion where they went with flattening that dynamic looks exchanging it for man that just standing there chilling which is good for him but where first screams cool uncle second one goes uncle that wants retirement. I really like how we can see the trident now tho and need to point out his outfit sure got more print on it. When it comes down to pointing out which one is the winner in my eyes it would be 2020 one.

● Aphrodite if she wasn't the one that got thrown into drama because people double standards and hypocrisy. Design from first game and the pose straight up makes you think of love, lust, seduction all the things that are associated with said goddess. As for Hades 2 version i have no clue why it feels like this considering it's actually the opposite because we can see armor on her legs now but she feels less covered for me, do i find it negative or in any way problematic? Not one bit let the woman show off all her assets all day long! Really love the adds of her weapon and shield makes you immerse in the store of oh fights are happening around these parts. From seduction to i stand here at the ready kinda vibe and i'm really digging it.

Ps. Another post i read was about fact that her war paint i will call it (not 100% sure if that is it or just line for the giggles) is reference to Ares and considering her myth i really like that touch!

● Hypnos was the first OG i saw and was like man not only catching up on his sleep but also got such glow up i absolutely adore the design. Not to say he looked bad in Hades 1 but there it was like okay nice to Hades 2 like Damnnn and his lil helpers that keeps him up! Love the fact that of all things they made him be tucked into his cape like burrito.

Ps. I really do hope by the end of the game we get to wake him up so he can try out that nectar that we all leave there waiting.

● Chaos so many things to say and at the same time silence says it all. Seen people focusing on fact some out there call them he or how it's a downgrade from previous but don't even elaborate why they think that because everyone has right to have their own preference but at least put it into words instead of going trash next..there was also notion how they resemble Meg and while i see where people get that idea from for sure before reading that my mind didn't went there at all. I think both designs really work with someone who is primordial originator and how time goes so can their form. I find it very fascinating that they put old skeleton with new one and adore galaxy under suit makes me think of Nyx right away and how they're connected. Can totally see how between those two gamers got major stance that left reminds them more of male and right of female beings but at the end of the it chaos is chaos. Gotta take chair routine from Meg while they at it! The face on the shoulder surely throws me in loop tho fits? Sure. Does it disturb me in micro scale? Yes. About frames and poses don't have much to say cause both caption the essence of i mind my business everything unrelevant until i say so.

Ps. I know it's about physical aspect but let me say Chaos roasting Mel about how her brother is amusing one out of two Hades spawns is living rent free in my brain.

[mclalan]

What art program do you use? sorry if you already answered something like this but im so mesmerized by the techniques you use in your art.

Thank you. No need to apologise; I don't mind answering this question because it's an excuse to walk through my latest image!

The concept for this piece is based on being perceived online through interpretations of posts and artwork, yet how artificial this can be. The relationship the viewer forms is more with the narrative of the work, and any insight into the artist through this feels highly awkward to me, which is precisely what I want to explore with this piece.

In this example, I wanted an attractive sitter to look like someone out of a new romantics music video or like an Enya video, because this genre and era of media is very aesthetically pleasing and nostalgic for me. I hold it as an unobtainable ideal— a hauntology. So, as wonderful as it is, it equally feels shameful and perverse because it's an aesthetic object of desire that I am contriving.

The sitter is holding one of my cartoon characters, Lauren Ipson, the protagonist of my Ersatz world project. A trope in writing is when a character acts as a self-insert of the author, and I'm conscious to try and avoid that with Lauren. I try to write Lauren as dry and sardonic yet also fun, dramatic, and friendly. I don't think of these as personal qualities of my own, but I imagine personal qualities bleeding into fictional characters is inevitable.

Yet Lauren Ipson feels much more alive a character to me compared to any attempt at self-portraiture or self-expression that I've done, which is very little because I'm not interested in constructing a perceivable identity. (I'm aware this text itself can be interpreted as self-expression; however, to me this is just another construct.)

So Is the sitter meant to be me, controlling Lauren? I'm definitely baiting the viewer to think this, and you can interpret it that way if you want, but really I don't think of the sitter as me at all. My intention is to show how it's all a facarde. The sitter is basically just as much a doll, a puppet, a mannequin as Lauren Ipson is, if anything more so.

There's a deliberate irony between Lauren's cartoon rendering and the sitter, who I wanted to render with more detail and evoke a modernist style. I'm inspired by Hans Bellmer and Dorothea Tanning with their work with dolls. However, despite that implied visual hierarchy, the more detailed sitter shares a similar, stilted vector construct to Lauren. They're both born from vector drawing after all. And it's further undermined with the way Lauren the doll looks directly at the viewer, as if she's alive, while the sitter looks to the side with a blank, almost dead-in-the-eyes expression.

Anyway, with that in mind, almost all of my work starts as a thumbnail sketch. Although I often draft digitally and am fine with doing that, I feel more confident doing it freehand on paper. Digital rendering feels more like a refinement process to me. Funnily enough, although I often prefer to sketch with physical materials, I'm anxious of refining or rendering with them.

I like my designs to be very direct and conceivable, so a solid silhouette, pose, negative space etc. I often create a quick digital sketch with this in mind, either by tracing or referencing the thumbnail, although sometimes I skip this step and go straight to the rendered drawing. The aim is to establish a visual guide, dividing the drawing into various shapes for digital airbrush rendering later on.

With this composition, I made a second draft with more attention to details such as the face, hands and feet. Sometimes I'll use photo references if I'm struggling with posing or anatomy. These drafts are often blue because it's easier to render the black linework over a transparent blue sketch.

The chair took some time but was relatively simple to render. It uses the line tool set to magnetic anchor point, following two-point perspective vanishing points. I like two-point perspective because it feels sort of digitally native to me to have these impossibly perfect vertical lines. I also know the horizon line should be at eye level or something, but I just like the idea of the top of the chair to be perfectly horizontal.

Here I'm drawing the final rendered form. I use the stroke tool with it set as smooth as possible. Often I'll redraw lines over and over if it means getting certain curves to look right. Once the lines are drawn, I'll fill them in and remove the stroke, leaving just the solid vector shape. The shade of grey I use is done to simply denote the shape. It does not represent any kind of shading or anything; in fact, when I bring it into Photoshop, all these shapes are set to the same shade, but if I had that here in Animate as I'm drawing, it would be impossible to see what I'm doing. The red background is just for clarity.

Once it's all drawn, I'll make sure every shape is clean, overlapping nicely, and divided into its own layer. A composition can often be comprised of hundreds of separate shapes.

Each shape will be its own layer in Photoshop, which will operate as a clipping mask. The clipping masks act like masking tape or shielded off areas for soft brush opacity rendering, similar to the soft atomised rendering from an airbrush, just done digitally.

I follow very rudimentary painting techniques of simple shading, lighting, and bounce-back highlights. I follow a simplified Grisaille technique, focusing on strong values in greyscale before adding a wash of colour with a color gradient map set to layer style color. Sometimes my values can be a little off, but as long as the values are all consistently acting together, I can correct them with transparent washes or color curves. If the greyscale looks harmonious with all the forms clear, colour will likely work.

Proper digital painters will say this is an amateur process, with results that look mechanical and stiff, as colours in the real world all bounce together off different surfaces, resulting in colour harmonies. However, I don't mind the inharmonious nature of the colours, as I find the values give the composition enough harmony. I'm working digitally, so why go to all the effort to make it not look digital? It's interesting to me to have the red chair look blindingly red, the green skirt look blindingly green.

Colours can look boring without some form of harmony though, so I will add in blue-greens with the darker areas, more turquoise greens towards the highlights.

Skin tones are far more complex, however, as it's something that's more informed by realism. This is why kigurumi dolls with their plastic flesh look so artificial to the eye, because we're familiar with how light passes through flesh and skin and all the subtleties of colour that it picks up. This piece is the first time I've explored flesh tones, as typically I avoid all this by rendering skin as grey porcelain.

I needed to really up the contrast, with shaded areas becoming purples and highlights verging on washed out. Areas with more blood, like feet and cheeks, appear more orange and red. Areas closer to bone and cartilage, like the bridge of the nose, can look almost blue and green. Exploring these colour values and tints in the aim of natural tones was fun to do, and ironic given how blank the face is.

Although in the moment I feel very much like I'm rendering a realistic reality, when I step back, I'm reminded how stylised and unrealistic the painting actually is. It looks kind of insane, like everything is so uniform and overtly saturated. It doesn't feel present in a real space, despite the shadow and form implies one. But I'm not consciously thinking of these things, of style, as I'm working. To me, it's a process of world-building and problem-solving.

[toskarin]

one thing that gets lost extremely often when talking about stg (which is to say japanese shmups specifically) in western fandom is that there are several distinct lineages of them that are entirely distinct

below the break, an off-the-cuff (in other words I may be misremembering finer details so don't quote me as an educational source) ramble on STG/shmup design

or, more vaguely, a ramble on taking things for granted

I've gone ahead and included section headers because this is such a long rant, but this isn't an essay or anything. this is me transcribing a stream of consciousness. it's like I'm rambling at you in a pub

you've been warned

-

[1] The Easy Stuff or: quickly defining some things so that I don't go insane trying to describe the Y2K stg revival

the two that immediately come to mind are the "mechanics-side complexity" and the "stage-side complexity" schools of thought. these aren't official terms, but every time I read interviews from stg developers, they gesture towards these competing concepts in their own words. so I'll use be going off of that.

also it's going to get REALLY clunky if I keep using those terms, so I'll use mech+ and stage+ to refer to mechanics-side and stage-side complexity going forward

the mech+ way of going about things is arguably the original school of thought. this is extremely arguable because it was an innovation that started happening in the late 90s and early 2000s (most seem to point to Treasure games as the inciting force here, especially the leap from Radiant Silvergun to Ikaruga) and was, itself, a reaction to a perceived stalling in the development of stg as a genre

(as an aside, this isn't the only time that stg was seen as stalling out and experienced a very notable revival, but we'll circle back to that in a bit)

the argument I've seen come up in response to this is that stage+ design was, itself, a reaction to this and can't really be considered the same as developers making games like that as the norm, because it's not necessarily an attempt to make "traditional" stg.

I'm of two minds on this, but I do think it's at least useful to look at it in terms of...

[difficulty from stage design with a simple craft is the assumed default] -> [mechanical difficulty is consciously leaned into, creating the mech+ school of thought] -> [in reaction to the increasing mechanical complexity of post-Radiant Silvergun games, the stage+ school of thought emerges in earnest]

either way, the fact of the matter is, somewhere around Y2K, developers started making games where the challenge was consciously moved into the space of mechanical demands. people had opinions on this

some developers say that this was in response to older games feeling more like dodging games than shooting games, but that's ALSO a highly contested point (saying this will start fights) and gives away that someone is firmly in the mech+ camp

the experiences of playing a mech+ game and playing a stage+ game are so wildly different that you can usually tell which you're playing just by looking at the controls of the game

when making a stg (and by proxy, when making a shmup) it's actually pretty important to figure out where you stand on this, just so that you don't waste your time reinventing the wheel

not to say that it's bad to make a simple game, but there's definitely a difference between making a deliberate retro homage and unknowingly making a game that feels extremely dated by the standards of its own genre

before we go any further, here's a warning: my information (and memory) of what's coming up is very spotty, so if you already know about what led to DoDonPachi releasing, you won't get much out of this bit

this is mostly aimed at people whose knowledge of the 80s-90s video games begins and ends with assuming the USA video game crash was universal, so feel free to skip to like... the last three sentences if the name "Toaplan" rings any bells

[2] Circling Back or: the messiest part of the ramble where I quickly try to give some context on the early-mid-90s stg revival

speaking of retro homage, let's circle back for a second to that other stalling I mentioned a bit earlier

in the early 90s, there was a bit of a collapse in stg. not quite a full stop, but as a genre that had been around basically as long as video games had, it was quickly turning into something companies saw as a dated format, so they started getting a bit antsy about dedicating their A-teams to making new ones

the problem with doing this is that a lot of these A-teams got their starts pioneering this genre and still felt passionate about it, in spite of how the state of stg had started to (by some accounts) become a game-mill for filling out arcade cabinets

intensifying things a bit further, this period coincides almost exactly with Toaplan (one of the biggest players in the development of the stg genre) dropping stg development, exploding, and scattering its employees all over the place

so, as one might imagine, those A-teams started making highly reinventive pitches for stg, which they still wanted to make, to convince their management to let them do it. alongside this, the employees of Toaplan who still believed in the genre founded their own companies (Cave being a VERY notable mention) to continue their work

(Takumi Corporation also gets a mention here so that people don't kill me with hammers for forgetting it)

I'm a bit spottier on what exactly happened in this window, but the important takeaway is that this was something a lot of developers saw happening, and it effectively rewound the genre's development, nudging it away from the (at the time) popular idea that sidescrollers were going to be the future of Everything, and that top down perspective looked extremely dated

a lot of very innovative games released here, a lot of genre shifts happened here.

if you're going to draw a line anywhere and mark it as the beginning of the modern genre, I think this is realistically where you should do it

this is the point where people really chose to die on the hill that stg wasn't a genre that emerged solely from technological limitations or a need for cheap fodder, but a distinctive tradition of games that should be continued in meaningful ways

[3] Okay Here's Touhou or: I almost get to the point

in the midst of the latter revival, fomented by the former revival, programmers at larger companies were also working on smaller hobby projects that they would release in a doujin capacity, independent of their employers

ZUN is the name I've been dancing around here, because he was very much doing this will working at Taito (and also shortly before it)

I'm not going to get into his full backstory, because now we're in the fast part of this ramble

the most important thing to mention about ZUN's work is that the PC-98 Touhou games aren't representative of the design behind the Windows ones. he was never coming at it from a position of insincerity, but he was much less serious about Touhou early on

I'm not just saying this in a "ZUN developed his vision over the years" sense. Highly Responsive to Prayers was literally a programming experiment he made two years prior to Story of Eastern Wonderland, and likely because of this, he only released the former when the latter was also ready to be released

one thing that gets lost in retelling with the PC-98 games is that they aren't actually all that unique in the genre. even to the extent that they're music-forward games that serve as vessels for their soundtracks, that still wasn't especially unique at the time

so, if Touhou hadn't undergone design philosophy changes between its eras, it likely wouldn't have its current presence. the PC-98 era is absolutely more fondly remembered because it exists in the context of being followed by a series so influential that it's the de facto face of the genre in several countries

in 1998 came the last game in the PC-98 series, Mystic Square. during the four years between this and 2002, the latter revival of the modern stg was in full swing, and this really shows in the direction that the series (which would be easy to classify as stage+ in the PC-98 era) would go on to take

[4] Okay Here's Windows Touhou or: I actually get to the point

Windows Touhou is enormously influential. it is INESCAPABLE.

it's also incredibly good! I'm notably a fan. I dedicated a pretty reasonable amount of flesh real estate to a respectably sized Touhou tattoo

that being said, this does mean that, on average, someone outside of japan with a passing (but active) interest in the stg genre is very likely going to land on Touhou as their series of choice and stick with it. it's one of those cases where a very popular entry into a genre ends up being popular for a reason

but (importantly for someone trying to figure out genre norms by reverse-engineeering them) Touhou isn't a generic stg

Touhou is actually such a specific offshoot that it warrants a separate mention in conversations about how these games are made

Touhou games are so distinctive within the genre that they arguably dip into both schools of design and come out as a weird third one that subdivides off of stage+ -- although, to be fair, it's been increasingly leaning into the mech+ corner of things as the series goes on, which makes sense because Embodiment of Scarlet Devil released after the initial split and the reaction to it

the entire reason Touhou goes so far to contrive a reason behind everyone using spellcards is because they're actually an abnormal mechanic. spellcards are one of Touhou's hooks!

most stg do have similar stuff in terms of attack patterns (especially post-DoDonPachi games, with how those codified the concept of danmaku) but Touhou's big innovation was placing so much emphasis on their presentation, giving the individual patterns names, and establishing them as setting flavour

so this often cuts in the obvious way, with people who have only played Touhou including the spell card system wholesale without realising they're doing a direct homage to just one game series but it also cuts in the opposite direction, with people getting confused about the absence of Touhou-standard features in stg that aren't being designed as Touhou homage

everything I'm about to say is about non-beginner projects. we're talking about things that see release here. there isn't really a clean way for me to draw a conclusion, but it's something that rattles around my brain a lot

on one side of the modern western shmup scene, you have games that are based primarily on ancient stg that have long since been lapped several times over in mechanical innovation. on the other side of the western shmup scene, you have lovingly made games that are almost all entirely based on what can be gleaned from Touhou

in the former case, you get very stiff gameplay that tends to feel satisfied with very slight gestures at innovation, but only ends up retreading a very thoroughly tread path

in the latter case, you either get very loose gameplay that lacks in one of the elements that makes Touhou work or you get a very competent game that nevertheless still does just kind of feel like a Touhou fangame

there's a good bit of middle ground where people are actually working in the genre as it exists, but it reminds me a lot of the state of western-made jrpgs, where Final Fantasy was so popular that a solid chunk of the better modern releases are still basing their genre twists on things that have already been twisted into gordian knots

do I have a solution? is there a problem? who even knows. it'd be nice if people were more willing to look at stuff in the process of making stuff, at least

also if you've read this far, I can at least make a safe bet that you won't get mad when I say the ghost of Morrowind, by way of Oblivion comparably poisoned the western sandbox rpg genre in its own right

[throneofsapphics]

track 32

Fenrys x Reader x Lorcan

Summary: Cursed to fall in love, only to have everything ripped away from you, moving on to your next life already feels like a drag, only things don't quite follow their usual patterns.

Warnings: discussions of death, Maeve, brief description of torture, happy ending

Word Count: 8077

A/N: the HAPPIEST of birthdays to @whisperingmidnights <3 I hope you have an amazing day (& thank you to @rowaelinsdaughter for your help)

You tumbled into your new body. Again. At least this time the Gods let you skip through the childhood years, instead flooding your mind with memories of your new past. You could only be a toddler so many times before truly losing the last grip on your sanity. 

You’d think so much pain and suffering would flood together, the lives all melting into one giant messed up pot but instead each experience remained distinctly painful to you. Distinctly full of suffering and sour memories. You, obviously, hadn’t survived a single one and your trek across the multiverse was written in blood. 

It took you up until life 15 to really stop holding onto so many grudges, especially considering you seemed to be destined to fall for the same people each time. Not the same types of people, but the actual same person. 

Whoever put a curse on you had been clever. If you were cursed, perhaps you were just really damn unlucky. But right now you needed a bath, a hot meal, and a good night’s rest. Of course you were drunk. Fresh in from a night out on the town with one of your friends, but you had good some good fortune in this life - your own apartment. 

Tossing clothes off as you walked, you beelined towards where you knew the bathing room was. You were pretty certain you’d stayed in this exact apartment building before, and if you remembered correctly each apartment had near identical layouts, the entire building cheap and designed for efficiency. In this life, you’d made it your own more than in the previous ones. 

You stepped into the tub, let the cold water hit your toes, partially sobering you, rivulets of now psycho-somatic grime and blood streaming from your body to pool in clear water at your feet. 

A mind healer would have a field day with you and you knew it all too well. 

Plugging the drain, you adjusted it to reach the perfect temperature. Yes, an efficiency building but still had hot running water. It was odd, but you didn’t question it - you were a creature of comfort after all. 

You wondered when you’d see them again. You wished you could say that tall of your interactions started off on a fresh beat, that you had it together enough not to judge them based on versions of them in a different universe, but you weren’t. 

Having it together? Maybe, certainly not on that level though. Having it together enough to appreciate their presence at this moment? Hell no. 

After last time. 

“We’re done,” he mumbled, not willing to make eye contact with you. 

“Then say it to my face,” you glanced between both of them. 

Heads down. Eyes downcast - first time you’d seen them like that. 

“Then I really meant that little, didn’t I?”

“No,” one said - you could barely distinguish who through the raging steam in your ears and tears down your cheeks. 

“Yes,” the other said. You didn’t know or care who said what. It didn’t matter. Later, just before the death took you you’d find out who made them do it and realize it still didn’t matter. She may have forced them to lie, but they didn’t have to be quite so convincing. 31 lives had taught you logic had no place in heartbreak. 

The memory hit you like a physical blow to the chest, a stinging and pressure left in its wake. That heartbreak had killed you the quickest of them all. 

Three days. 

It was part of your curse, you’d figured out. To always know. What life you were on, the details of your past lives, how long it took you to do, what the death felt like, every little detail was committed to memory all because you’d dared to love someone a little too much, and ended up stealing them away from a wicked witch. 

Well, the story didn’t go quite like that but you thought it sounded better in your head that way. In reality, you’d fallen in love and done something stupid, as all people in love do from time to time. 

You and Lorcan had agreed you should try to get Fenrys out, that although it would be more difficult to get him released, Fenrys needed it more. You didn’t have the guts to tell him you needed both of them like you needed air, but there hadn’t been time for that. All of your moments were stolen and borrowed time. 

“Will you please release him from your service?” You were on your knees, begging. “Please, Majesty.” 

The harsh flooring dug into your knees but you kept the same subservient pose. For someone with so much pride, this was humiliating and your Queen knew it. 

“No.” 

One flat and toneless word. 

“No?” You repeated. 

Wicked red lips curved into a smile. “That is what I said.” 

You had several choice words for her after, and she’d responded with a fucking curse. Cursed to always love, but to never have it stick, cursed to die from heartbreak. 

Even after all of these lives the word ‘curse’ was still ugly in your mouth, still made your stomach heave and back seize at the memories. The times you’ve run into the Queen she hadn’t recognized you, but you knew she was still untouchable. Frequently made that way by the ones you loved. 

The breeze sneaking through the poorly insulated window highlighted how water already chilled around you. You didn’t miss that part of this building, the tub held next to no heat and your bathwater always ended up cold in less than fifteen minutes. 

You were tempted to stay still and prune, but there was no use in it. A new life, new things to do. 

Dragging yourself out of the tub, you dried off as efficiently as you could make yourself, scrounged up some comfortable clothes and headed to your desk. Grabbing a notepad and pen, you began writing. 

number thirty-one. 

It was a ritual of sorts, perhaps your imaginary mind healer would be proud of you for it, for getting all of your pain out on paper as soon as possible. 

Right before you burned it. 

Tossing the five sheets of paper on the flames felt good.

Running into them happened far too quickly for your liking. It always did. Life always started and finished too damn fast. 

You glanced in the mirror, at what you’d chosen to wear for the night out with your not-really-new friends. The dress fit you perfectly, and showed just enough to leave you feeling bold without being uncomfortable. The gold wrapped around your wrists helped too. Not too much to look rob worthy, but enough to make you feel like some extra type of sheen was thrown over you. Maybe, just maybe this life would bring you a little luck. Was gold supposed to be good luck? You didn’t know, but maybe you’d figure out how to look it up later. If you remembered to. 

You felt something warm in your chest, not unlike the flush from the first sip of whiskey. Closing your eyes you could’ve sworn it tugged, dragged you towards another. 

No, not in this or any life. It wasn’t possible. 

No matter how many times you fell in love and in how many ways, you’d never found a mate and were convinced you were destined not to. 31 lives was enough time to find a mate, a life partner. You should’ve had that done in by life 10. 

It was funny, how you’d started measuring your existence in lives rather than years. After all, it fit your circumstances. Permanently destined to be a temporary existence in others lives, and for their existence and influence to end yours. If there was a way out of this, a stopping or breaking of the curse you figured you would’ve found it by now. 

A loud pounding on the door and you hissed as the brush slipped, you barely moving your wrist away in time to save your face from a large black streak. 

“Gods,” you yelled, “hold on a damn moment.” 

“We’re going to miss the bard,” someone - Ella? Yes, Ella, shouted back. 

“Alright,” you groused loud enough for her to hear, “one moment.” 

One more swipe of kohl and you looked ready. A few deep breaths and you felt ready. 

Shoving the cosmetics to the back of the counter, you swung yourself around the doorway, grabbing your coat off the hook and flinging open the front door, finding your friend posed with their fist menacingly mid-air, probably about to break your door down. Memory clicked in, reminding you they can be a tad aggressive on a mission. 

Their mouth curved into a too-satisfied smirk, probably that their threats had work. Rolling your eyes, you shoved past them into the hall, quickly locking your door. 

“Anyone else for tonight?” 

“Just us,” they looped their arm through yours and started for the stairs. 

Ugh. Last time in this building you’d been on the ground floor, and you’d definitely miss the convenience of that, but at least you had a pretty balcony view here. It’s all give and take, you supposed. 

“Copper for your thoughts?” Ella’s voice interrupted you. 

How long had you zoned out? Was that a habit in this lifetime? You couldn’t remember. 

“Do I really look that broke?” You deflected. 

It worked, she laughed. Maybe it would’ve been nice if she pushed a little. 

-

Fenrys breathed in the fresh air. Maeve had sent him on a mission. Alone. Staking out Varese for several months, observing, but she didn’t exactly tell him what to look for. It was perhaps the most exciting and infuriating mission he’d been assigned. Infuriating, because he truly had no idea what in Hellas’s name he was supposed to do, exciting because he had months to spend doing whatever he thought ‘observing’ looked like. 

Yes, he knew it was a mockery of freedom but right now he’d take the gods-damned mockery over what he’s stuck in every day. 

Walking through the street, although he stuck to the shadows, unnoticed to the masses, it still felt like each face was sent there to tease him, remind him of the invisible leash tying him to that bitch for the rest of his life. He didn’t know how Lorcan, the bastard, did it with such glee and joy. At least Whitethorn had shown a measure of discontent at some point, he’d even seen a hint of it on perfectly loyal Gavriel’s face. 

Something caught his attention. Someone. 

Arm in arm with your friend, strolling down the street, exuding pure confidence. Someone aware of their place in this world and what they meant to it. The light in your eyes matched his own. Dimmed, flaring when necessary and just enough to keep up appearances. 

Only a fellow fraud would recognize it. 

He had to follow. It was insanity, but he needed to see more of you. 

That’s how he ended up nursing a drink in the corner of the bar, shadows wreathed around him, cloak pulled up to cover his face. He matched some of the many body guards of nobles around, and through some blessing not a soul had recognized him or even shot him a second glance. Perhaps Friday’s were quite a popular night for the elite to pretend, that or he’d gotten better at blending in. He didn’t know which to put his money on. 

Someone, however, caught all of the attention - including his, even when he tried to ignore the magnetic attraction tugging him towards you. Throwing your head back in a laugh, you danced along with your friend, clothing absolutely sinful and fitting right in. He loved it. Every part of your energy felt like it was tugging at him, urging him closer, closer, closer, and he realized just how dangerous that made you. 

Dangerous to him, and to yourself through him. 

No matter what, she hung over him like a storm cloud. 

Anything he might try to pursue with you would end before it could truly began, love or relationship cut off at its knees without a chance to truly blossom. Did he actually want it to? Could Fenrys actually be that selfish? 

Yes, if it came to you. He glanced down at his pint. Still half full, and rather weak shit. He wasn’t drunk but still managed to think complete nonsense. Nothing could happen, but for now he supposed it couldn’t hurt to imagine a fantasy life with a stranger he’d never see again live in the corner of his mind, so long as it it stayed there. He was so, so wrong. 

-

Lorcan Salvaterre knew about sacrifice. In fact, he was an expert at it, at this point. But, every bit was worth it for her. His Queen. The only female he’d truly loved to the point where he’d do anything and everything. 

Perhaps other love could have come his way, but it had never been the right time. Timing, in his opinion, shouldn’t matter. He’d always make the time for Maeve, and everything he’d done since meeting her had been for her. When she ordered him away, he left. When she kept him by her side - but never her bed - he stayed. Maeve said jump, he asked how high. 

That's why Lorcan was trying to figure out when in Hellas he’d become so disillusioned, starting thinking things so unlike him. He couldn’t tell her, couldn’t tell anyone. Lorcan didn’t have any friends or confidants, that wasn’t something he dealt in. To him, there was no purpose in friends when his entire life’s purpose was bound by blood to servitude. 

The closest thing he had to friends was his blood brothers, and like hell he’d ever tell them of this ... treachery waging war inside of his mind. 

Lunch swirled unpleasantly in his stomach as he thought of the word. Treason. 

When Maeve called him to the throne room, when he knelt before her, he mentally prepared himself for his immortal life to end rather early. She must know. She always knows. 

Instead, he needed to figure out how he’d pissed her off because she’d sent him off for some kind of torturous punishment. Keeping an eye on Fenrys, currently loose in Varese. 

“Anything I should watch out for in particular, majesty?” He was quite proud of how he kept the bitterness from his tone. Or thought he did. 

“You’ll know if you see something off,” she dismissed him with a wave. “Consider it a vacation, of sorts.” 

Blood sworn didn’t get vacations, he wanted to protest. He didn’t want - or need one. Had he really been slacking that much? The journey would provide adequate time for reflection, for him to dissect and figure out exactly where he’d gone wrong so he could prevent those mistakes in the future. That was essential. This trip however, like most things with Fenrys, would probably turn out to be a complete waste of his time. Time that could be spent doing much better things. But ... he supposed if this is what his Queen wanted him to do, it was exactly what he’d be doing, regardless of his feelings on the subject. His feeling always had been, and always would be inconsequential.

He was here. Already. Fuck. 

It was day 2, and you couldn’t catch a break. Is there such thing as a resting life? One where you could go through without any relationships, just peace and enjoying your moments of solitude? No, not for someone like you. 

Running away from them never worked, they would haunt your every movement until they consumed every last bit of you and scattered crumbs on the wind, only for the crumbs to reform and drag you back towards them. 

Do you embrace fate or run away from it? It was inevitable, what was the point in fighting anymore? You were so tired of it. Exhaustion rippled from you in waves, you were surprised everyone around you hadn’t noticed as soon as you walked in. 

Even if you wanted to, Fate, in the form of the most gorgeous man to exist, all bronze skin, onyx eyes, and golden hair, didn’t give you a choice. He slid into the bar stool next to you. 

You didn’t smile, at first, but your traitorous heart warmed in his presence. 

“Have we met before?” He said, jokingly. 

If only he knew. 

“Maybe in your dreams,” you slid your hand across the bar and grabbed your glass, drinking deeply. He winced. 

“Am I that bad of company?” 

“You’ve been here for,” you glanced at the clock pointedly, “a minute. It has nothing to do with you.” You’d tried every approach in the past to get them to see if it would deter them enough for them to circumvent fate, but nothing worked. Each version of you was destined for tragedy with each version of them. 

“That’s fair enough,” Fenrys replied. You reminded yourself you didn’t know his name. 

“What do they call you?” The words came out, regardless of your internal wince, knowing you were setting him up for a ridiculous line. 

“In b-”

You held a hand up and his mouth clamped shut. “No, no, none of that.” 

He laughed, deep and rich, a sound you ... had you heard that laugh from him before? Perhaps not, at least not in a few lives. Recently things had been so depressing. 

“I like you,” he nudged you gently with his elbow, your heart ached. 

not again not again not again. 

‘Yes,’ a cruel voice from red lips whispered in your mind, ‘again, again, again. Forever. This is what you deserve.’

Someone cleared their throat. Fenrys. 

“Sorry,” you murmured, glancing at the bottom of your nearly empty glass. Empty. Fuck. You couldn’t handle this sober. Were you sober? Your friends were long gone, all found partners for the night while you nursed your worries at the bar. “What’s your name?” You took the last sip of your drink as the last syllable left your lips, ideally it could hide any signs of a lie from him. 

“Fenrys,” he leaned back enough in his stool to extend his arm to you, rather formally. When you placed your hand in his, intending to squeeze it to death, he deftly rearranged your hands and raised your knuckles to his lips, pressing a soft kiss there. “At your service.” 

“Charmer,” you rolled your eyes but softly pulled your hand away and replied with your name. 

He said your name quietly, extending the vowels, as if testing how it sounded on his tongue, how it might sound in other - 

You chided yourself, pulling your mind out of the gutter. With the situation you knew he was always in, that was the last thing you needed to be thinking about. Or that he needed to be. You might not escape him, but you certainly wouldn’t do anything to make this harder on yourself. At least thats what you’re saying now. 

“Last call,” the gruff barman said, scowling at Fenrys before shooting you a smile. Your mind rattled through details. Right, you regularly shut this tavern down and always left a good tip. 

You leaned over to Fenrys and whispered low so the other male couldn’t hear, “he’s easy to win over. A good tip, manners, and easy orders.” 

Fenrys hid his snort in his drink, draining the last droplets. “Thank you for the advice, love,” he whispered conspiratorially. Asshole. 

“Whatever,” you mumbled and left your usual amount, sliding off the stool. Just because you were fated to make each other’s lives hell didn’t mean you had to deal with him being rude. Maybe you were just sensitive. 

A ‘wait’ followed you but you ignored it. Inevitable.

He caught up to you on the street, calling your name again. 

Something else struck you. He was alone in Varese. When did this happen? This was odd. Out of all of your lifetimes nothing had followed this pattern, never meeting so quickly and certainly not with Fenrys on his own with his leash rather loose for what the bitch prefers. You needed to figure out more. 

“Want to come back to my place for a drink?” You said, slowly turning to look at him. 

If he was surprised by your quick change of tune, he didn’t say a thing, only nodding and linking your arms together. Like he’d been waiting for a friend. The pain in your chest was physical as much as it was emotional. 

-

Lorcan was here to keep an eye on Fenrys, and if that meant sitting in the shadows on a rooftop, peering through a beautiful female’s stupidly open window then so be it. You walked around and even acted like you didn’t give a damn whether you lived or died, but he could tell you were smart, based on how you’d handled Fenrys. 

He’d ended enough lives to have an appreciation for it, and the way you were so gods-damned careless with yours pissed him off. 

Lorcan should be questioning why his feelings towards you are so strong, but instead he’s observing every little detail of the interactions between you and Fenrys. For his report, of course. He always paid attention to detail, there was no other reason than being thorough. At least he kept telling himself that. 

It wasn’t because he liked the way your hair moved, or how you rolled your eyes frequently at his blood-sworn brother, followed by a barely there smile that he only noticed because the shadows danced around it, as if you repelled the darkness. 

Maybe you could repel the darkness in him. 

What. The. Fuck. 

Lorcan hadn’t drank, and even if he had he never entertained thoughts like this. 

Refocusing, he committed to memory every detail of what Fenrys was doing, how he reacted to you, how attached he might be and how you might already be used against him by his Queen. 

An unfamiliar feeling settled in his stomach, tainting him. 

Guilt. 

He didn’t want to use you. 

But if it came to it, he wouldn't have a choice. He never really did. 

-

Fenrys whistled lowly on his way home, through the empty streets. Still aware of his surroundings, also aware that none would dare approach him - not with the steel and the stature he carried himself with, proof he knew how to use it. 

All he’d done is sit and talk with you for hours, in fact the dawn was currently beginning to crest over the city. Hours of sitting and talking felt like mere minutes with you, and he found he had more fun in that time than he had in years, perhaps decades, perhaps since entering Maeve’s service. 

It was sad, really, that you could only be a temporary fixture, for your own safety. 

Still, his mind rattled with ways to do the impossible, with how he could be with you forever without ... it was useless, really, to even ponder it. The false hope and ideas would only taint the present he had, for however long Maeve let him stay here in his ... his fantasy, he supposed. 

He could imagine many fantasies with you involved but the biggest was your friendship. The way you hadn’t hit on him, made any kind of sexual innuendos or advances, thats why he followed you out of the bar. Because you made him comfortable in a way nobody else had in so, so long. Like you’d been doing it for lifetimes. 

The scent hit him. The male wanted him to know he was there. His entire body stiffened, posture straightened slightly, pleasant after buzz from your intoxicating presence gone just like that. 

Lorcan Salvaterre. His commander. 

“Who was that?” Lorcan wasted no time and matched pace with him. 

“None of your business,” Fenrys snapped. Aware that he could be punished for it, but he didn’t care, he looked the male right in the eyes. 

Lorcan ... Lorcan didn’t push him. At all. Instead, something like understanding passed through his eyes. Had Lorcan needed to protect someone from Maeve before? 

Probably not. He was a cold hearted bastard through and through. 

“Keep her away,” the words were whispered on the wind - there and gone. Just like Lorcan, who melted into the shadows. 

Away from who? Lorcan didn’t say ‘keep away from her,’ and Fenrys knew everything the bastard did was intentional. 

Lorcan Salvaterre was here. You knew it, having caught the faintest hint of his unfortunately familiar scent, trailing after you like a hound. 

The fact that he was following you made you nervous. Yes, similar situations had occured before but everything about this time seemed so different that it filled you with mixed emotions. 

What are the odds there’s actually something good in store for you? Slim, you decided, based on history and reasoning, and you knew Lorcan Salvaterre stalking anyone was bad news, but especially for you when you had ... history with the Queen he so lovingly served.

Someone whose head deserved to be ripped right from her neck, you cast the thought into the universe and hoped it landed, hoped she felt a phantom prick in the side of her neck. 

Maybe she regretted cursing you to some kind of eternal half existence, always in and out of different worlds. Doubtful. More likely she tired of whatever game she decided to play for you and set the person who she knew would hurt the most to kill you. Even you could admit you were extrapolating. 

Maybe an attitude change could fix everything. A tad less drama. 

You glanced out the window, at the rain currently pouring down, at the moisture leaking into your apartment. The weather certainly didn’t match up for life changes, if anything it read of staying right where you were. 

Accepting it wouldn’t happen today, you saved the attitude change for the next sunny day. Those practically screamed change in fortune. Or you hoped they did. 

A week passed. You saw Fenrys each night at the Tavern, and scented a weirdly careless Lorcan on your trail each day. 

Your attitude may not have changed with the next bout of sunshine, but you had a plan. It was rather simple, to somehow draw Lorcan out. However, there was a difference between having a plan and knowing how to execute it. You supposed that made your plan an idea more than anything. 

Fenrys had mentioned business meetings he’d be attending one night, and you decided that was the perfect to do it. The perfect night to pretend to get sloshed, and you had the help of your favorite barkeep. 

Knowing Lorcan, he probably had questions for you, and wouldn’t miss the opportunity to get some answers while your inhibitions were ‘lowered.’ Arrogant males like him wouldn’t let opportunities slide by, but Lorcan Salvaterre stayed Maeve’s commander for a reason, and you knew your acting skills had to be top notch to keep him from becoming suspicious. 

-

“When will you stop pretending to drink those?” Lorcan asked gruffly as he slid into the stool next to you, his hulking frame towering over the bar and casting a shadow over you. You were a good actress, but he was better, and caught on after the first couple of drinks and exchanged looks between you and the barkeep, who you were on very friendly terms with. 

The obsession with you, the flares of irrational anger when another man trailed too close, Lorcan knew what this was, and knew he was screwing both of you over with it. Fated for misery and doom, no matter how the cards played out. He’d be stuck with her, Lorcan noted how she was demoted in his mind, and you’d be ... free. 

All those years he’d spent making fun of those males now served to make him feel like a lot of an asshole because he gotit. There was a crack in his armor, a weakness in his resolve, and nobody knew about it. He intended to keep it that way until you were far, far away from him and his ... his Queen, and then as long as possible after that. His stomach clenched at the thought of what she might do to you in order to help keep him in line. Nothing good, and everything bad. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you answered primly, turning away from him. Why had he come over here again? 

He laughed, low and harshly. “Sure you don’t, sweetheart,” he exaggerated the last word - turning it into an insult. It didn’t feel right. His entire being flared against any insult to you, even coming from him. 

But ... the little flash of anger in your eyes, the way your nostrils flared, that was amusing. He liked the fire in you. “What did you call me?” 

He shrugged. 

You scoffed, muttering an insult he chose to ignore under your breath. “Nothing to say to that one?” You pushed when he didn’t answer, letting your elbow brush against his, “I thought it was creative. If you need me to I can keep going, there’s plenty where it came from.” 

“It was well done,” perhaps he wasn’t particularly in the mood to be insulted all night, and he got the sense you were more than capable of doing just that. 

“Well done,” you echoed, and he nodded. Your mouth curled into the most beautiful smile he’d ever seen. 

-

In the future, you might just deny it ever happened, but Lorcan Salvaterre ended up in your apartment that night. You ignored the fact that he seemed to know the way there. There had always been plenty you were willing to ignore when it came to that male, and that hadn’t changed over the last however many lives. 

Once Lorcan - once he’d found his Queen, you’d been second. But before that, he’d made you his everything. You never could blame him for leading you to beg Maeve that first time, that cursed time. 

Still, on the nights when you were alone, when the rain or a pretty mountain outline reminded you of him, when everything felt too much, it was easier to pin it on him, even if it made you a horrible person. Horrible, even for an ex-lover, but then again you were always an expert at self-depreciation. 

Looking at the male now, like a statue of a God carved from granite, you knew he’d be the death of you. Again. But how could you fight him? You never had the strength to in the past. Maybe you weren’t trying to survive hard enough ... 

Things had never moved this quickly in the past, they’d always been at a pace just slow enough to be torturous with your knowledge of your impending doom. 

Maybe this time you needed to really try. 

For Lorcan. For Fenrys. But mostly, for yourself. 

The door closed behind you and you slipped back into reality, into the new situation you found yourself in. 

“Drink?” You asked over your shoulder, heading right for your kitchen. 

He caught your hand, spinning you back towards him. 

“I had something else in mind,” he said roughly, and dipped his head towards yours. 

You knew he could be patient, he could be gentle, he could be kind, but you got none of that now. 

His hand gripped your jaw, tight enough to keep you still but not harsh enough to hurt, his mouth moved fervently against yours as you matched his pace. It was the collision of a thousand stars, a world breaking and re-forming into something new and beautiful and wonderful. It was everything and more. It was the multiverse coming together into a single moment and screaming yes! this is what you were waiting for. He slowed, softened, as if some kind of guilt caught up with him. You wouldn’t have that. Couldn’t. You gripped the back of his hair and pulled him back closer to you, pressing your body against his. 

He would be yours for the night, but little did he know you‘d already been his for eternity. 

-

You owe him nothing. You owe him nothing. You owe him nothing, Fenrys reminded himself as he walked out of the bar, spotting you teasing Lorcan. He’d finished his business meetings early and thought he might see if you were still haunting your favorite spot at the bar. 

Still, he wanted to rush up to you and ask you if you knew who the hell you were tangling with but ... he supposed he was like Lorcan in that way, one of Maeve’s Blood Sworn, and to have two of them shown publicly taking an interest in you was nothing short of deadly and he refused to subject you to that. So Fenrys left. 

And hated himself for it, but self hatred was nothing new to him. 

Fenrys wasn’t sure how he found Lorcan’s rooms, considering the male probably didn’t want to be found right now. Probably wanted to bask in you. Your beauty, the time he sp-

He stopped himself from thinking of it. Even thought of shifting now, to a body where emotions were simpler and didn’t drain quite so much. Fenrys rarely shifted voluntarily when away from her, not after she kept him in that form so frequently. ‘Where he was easier to deal with,’ she’d said once, and the words still stung as His Majesty, he thought the words mockingly, intended for them to. 

The door swung open. 

Lorcan didn’t speak, just stood there with his arms crossed and jaw clenched. 

Fenrys felt young, and not in a good way. What was he? A jealous lover? Concerned friend? Idiot? 

Then it hit him. 

The scent. 

Yours. 

His. 

Entwined. 

Without him. 

Rage, pure and strong filled him. The scent was particular, and he’d seen it just a few times before. Lorcan, intelligently, had a shield around himself before Fenrys he was on the verge of some kind of burst. 

“Not fucking possible,” Fenrys backed away, “we can’t have the same mate.” 

Lorcan’s eyes widened, but he was looking beyond him. Fenrys whirled around. 

You. 

“I can’t have a mate,” you said quietly, desperately. “I never have before,” then to yourself, “it’s never been like this,” you switched your gaze to the window, he watched you try to angle your face so they couldn’t see the tears in your eyes but they were evident. Everything was evident when it came to you. 

“Get inside,” Lorcan said roughly to both of you. 

He had a point, it wasn't exactly the space for this conversation. A hallway where anyone could be walking by and overhear. That’s the last thing he wanted, anything that might put you in further danger. 

When he didn’t instantly move, Lorcan grabbed his shirt, tugging him inside. There was a knife at Lorcan’s throat before the male could blink. 

“Don’t. Fucking. Touch. Me,” Fenrys hissed, slowly sliding the knife away and sheathing it at his side. 

He was surprised his commander hadn’t caught it, but then again he was staring at a pretty female in the hallway, your gaze still distant and fixed on the window. He called your name, just loud enough to carry across the distance. Your head snapped, you blinked a few times. He tilted his head towards the room. 

An over-exaggerated sigh, probably for their sake more than anything, and then you followed them inside. Each step seemed to make you shrink further into yourself, he noticed, that confidence and bravado fading and leaving someone vulnerable behind. 

It took a strong hand to tamp down on instincts rising, telling him to eliminate any immediate threats to you. The main one being Lorcan, but also any other males and possibly females in the vicinity. It was absolutely ridiculous, the way he was feeling even if he wasn’t acting on it. At least he hadn’t acted on it. Yet. If only because he was well aware it would piss you off. 

-

“What did you mean, ‘it’s never been like this?’” Lorcan asked and you read the skepticism in his eyes. Not quite distrust, but an interesting mix of confusion and concern. That had the potential to change quickly. Could you even speak about it or would you drop dead? You’d always assumed you couldn’t but ... 

“I’m cursed,” you started. They exchanged a brief glance, and for some reason that irritated you, but you kept going. “We’ve met before. Many times,” you knew that would grab and probably keep their attention, at least for a little while. You held a hand up when their brows furrowed in concern, “just hear me out before you write me off as crazy.” 

“I would never write you off,” Fenrys murmured, and you shot him a thankful look but he kept his mouth shut after that. Perhaps it had something to do with the glare on Lorcan’s face. 

The words were difficult. 

Each one felt stilted and awkward, but they watched and listened as if each word you said was pure gold and something about that made you feel powerful. They went through the emotions with you, although it was a tad more difficult to tell with Lorcan, but you struggled together in a way. For some reason, it started to feel like this might turn into a goodbye and you weren’t quite ready for that. After all, you didn’t know how anyone could stay with someone ... someone with the kind of tainted past you have. 

“Why would she do that?” You finished. It a was rare chance to ask two people who probably have more insight than any others into how the mind of the Queen works, not that you believe she’d let anyone truly understand her. 

“Cruelty,” Fenrys said. 

The same time as Lorcan said, “jealousy.” 

“Makes sense,” you huffed, eyes rolling towards the ceiling. It was stupid. 

“How do you end up reincarnated?” Lorcan asked. The question you were hoping to avoid. 

“I die.” 

“Of old age,” Fenrys said, but didn’t sound as if he believed it. 

“No,” you said sharply, exhaling. “You’ll laugh at me.” 

“Try me. Believe it or not, I don’t find your death very funny,” Fenrys said dryly. Lorcan was watching with apt attention, eyes watching you like a hawk. 

“Heartbreak,” you grunted, quickly whirling towards - fuck. You’d meant to look out the window, but saw the mirror instead and the twin faces of horror behind you struck something deep inside of your heart. 

“I -” your throat closed up, the words not quite getting out. 

“What is it?” Fenrys curled his fingers inward, and despite a slight internal cringe you let him beckon you, let him take your hands, let him give you this kind of comfort. 

“I wish you remembered,” you whispered, glancing at Lorcan too, who’s eyes and face told you, yes he knew you were changing the subject, and no the conversation was not over yet. 

-

“I don’t -,” Lorcan Salvaterre stumbled over his words, perhaps for the first time in his life, “I don’t mind making new memories, as long as they’re with you.” 

You beamed. Fenrys laughed. He debated how upset you would be if he killed the other male. 

Other male. 

He knew, already, that he’d have to share you. 

For you, Lorcan could and would make anything work. You were worth everything, absolutely everything. 

Maeve, a voice whispered in his mind. He pushed it down, ignored it for now. That was an ... his Queen would never be an issue, but a situation he could deal with at a later date. 

He swore to himself he’d never make fun of a mated male again. Technically he wasn’t mated yet, but he would be ... soon, he had to be. Being your mate felt like an irrevocably necessary part of his soul, like he might die without it, without having that bond with you to tether him to this world and give him meaning. Meaning he’d been lacking his entire life. 

He didn’t know or care if Fenrys felt the same way but he supposed he should. He had an obligation to his mate’s mate, after all, outside of the fact that Fenrys is his bloodsworn brother. 

Bloodsworn.

His bones and blood chilled. He couldn’t be yours, not really. The realization threatened to bring tears to his eyes, but he couldn’t cry, not here - not in front of you. You needed him strong. 

He stood, abruptly, but didn’t care. He jerked his chin to Fenrys. “We need to talk,” he let his eyes say the rest. 

He found he didn’t like how some of the shine left Fenrys’s, how they dulled at the implication of their Queen’s existence. Too bad, for now. 

“Great. Secrets,” you muttered, and a slight smile threatened his lips, but you still waved them away. Perhaps you understood secrets better than anyone else. 

Lorcan led Fenrys to an adjacent room, and their shields went up at the same time. To keep any nosy females from overhearing. The more she knew, the more danger she was in. At least they were on the same page. 

“Where is safe for her?” Fenrys started. 

At least he had his priorities straight. 

“Antica,” Lorcan answered. Maeve didn’t dare touch the southern continent, yet. “For now,” he added for honesty’s sake. “The curse won’t break until Maeve is ...” He didn’t, couldn’t bring himself to, speak the words out loud, it felt too much like treason. 

“Dead,” Fenrys said for him. He had no problem with it, apparently. If Lorcan had been as insolent as the male in front of him, he would’ve been put to death long ago, and he knew that. Perhaps Fenrys didn’t, but it wasn’t the time for that conversation. “So we spirit her away, and then what? How do we keep her from dying?” 

“A blood promise.” 

“Like what?” Fenrys leaned back against the wall, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. 

“When the curse is broken, we will find her.” 

Antica. Hot, miserable, mate-less Antica. In truth, it wasn’t that miserable, but you'd be enjoying yourself a lot more if your mates hadn’t shipped you off here as quickly as they could. 

All in the name of keeping you ‘safe,’ you grimaced in the mirror, brushing down your hair, now frizzy slightly from the rare rain that breezed in the day before. They're and gone like a phantom, almost. Almost like their presences in your life. 

You could still remember their touches from that last night, firm but gentle, still tentative like new lovers can be. You thought you knew everything about their touch from the past, but even they kept some surprises across multi-verses, or maybe it had just been a while since it had been the three of you and your memory was getting poorer. 

Probably that. 

You pushed the door open, throwing yourself into the throng of people making their way to the one of the several monthly markets in the city. Throng of people, you thought. It was awfully busy. 

‘War,’

‘Sending us-’

‘Saved the princess,’

‘Foreign lord.’ 

The whispers hit your ears one by one like a drum. A war. Against who?

You stopped casually at the closest table, and sure enough the seller was chittering to the person who came before you about it. A war, and the khaganate would be marching for Aelin Galathynius. 

You rolled the name over on your tongue, it being vaguely familiar. Perhaps you should have kept up more with politics throughout the ages, you probably could’ve made a load of money betting, but that felt a tad too immoral, and you did fear the judgement of your own conscience. 

As soon as the intrigue was there, it was gone. You’d heard of several wars over the last two decades, the longest you'd lived so far, and none of them had brought your mates back to you. You seriously doubted this would be the one. 

You refused to acknowledge the ugly truth. They’d probably already forgotten about you. 

-

In the lonely and mindless hours stuck in his Wolf form, Fenrys thought of the beautiful female in Antica, and dreamed of a life without Maeve, however impossible it was he never stopped hoping.

The female screamed on the table in front of him, but he was frozen in time and space. All he could do right now was bear witness to the horrible crime in front of him. Aelin Galathynius deserved someone to bear witness to her pain and her strength. 

The female who should’ve been his Queen, and the female who was his mate had so much in common. Not necessarily appearance, but your attitude and the way you carried themselves. So much that being with her for those months had felt like an even larger blessing. It wasn’t infidelity, not by any means, but perhaps a bit wrong he was using Aelin as a proxy for you. 

The screams in front of him distracted him from his thoughts and dragged him back to the present. She’d passed out, he was waking her with some foul smelling cloth. Each day, he thought he’d reached the limits of what he could bear without closing his eyes, but somehow - because he knew you would do it - he managed to watch. Witness. Wait. It was all he could do now. 

- 

Lorcan Salvaterre knew he was a miserable male to be around, but traveling through Varese had turned him downright sour. At least internally. 

He knew he needed to get to Aelin, and he knew he needed to get to Fenrys. For the bond they shared with each other that they’d never told a soul about. If he didn’t get to him, you’d never ever forgive him. 

He might be too much off a coward to tell you, but he would know in his soul and that’s enough. He’d find Fenrys, get her away from him, do whatever it took. 

-

You woke up one morning with an unusual lightness, a ‘pep’ in your step, so to speak. You’d never understood that phrase until then, when you felt like all of your burdens and issues had been freed in a spare moment, like nothing could weigh you down right then. 

As usual, you got your gossip through the market, and it all made sense. 

Doranelle has a new Queen. 

Queen Maeve was killed in Terrasen. 

You were free. 

You tilted your head up towards the sky, and let the sun shine down on your face, not caring you were stopped in the middle of the park. From the corner of your eye you spotted an older woman copying your movements, not in a mocking way, but in a yes the sun is quite nice today way.

The flip side of your freedom meant your mates would be coming soon. They’d be coming soon. 

To Antica. 

To you. 

You scrambled back to your apartment to start packing. How long did it take to get from Terrasen here?

You paused halfway through throwing your closet onto your bed. 

A letter would’ve arrived by now, but you’d received no such thing. 

That night you fell asleep on top of your clothes. 

The next day you built the courage to put them away. 

You didn’t know where in the world they were now that Maeve is gone, and perhaps with the curse lifting they felt they no longer were obligated to be with you and love you, and maybe -

A familiar scent hit the same time as a knock on your door. 

You rushed to it, throwing it open finding ...

Both of them. Your mouth parted, words not quite leaving your lips. Finally, you managed a lame, “you came.” 

“We promised,” Lorcan said “Can we come in?” 

Yes, they obviously could, you swung the door wider and ushered them inside. 

“We came as soon as we could,” Fenrys promised. 

The silence was awkward for a few moments as the three of you tried to figure out how to navigate this. But, it was easy enough to break as you threw yourself at both of them, managing to catch each of them in a hug at the same time. 

“I forgot to tell you before I left,” you started, muffled in the shirts but knew they heard you. You’d memorized these words long ago. “I spent so long looking for all of the things that would kill me, I forgot the ones that made me feel alive. Both of you made me feel alive. Thank you.”