#and don't get me started on my inability to make a decision without all the information and at least two prior identical experiences.

[neverendingford]

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[socialobligation]

tell my mom we're in love | h. sero

fake dating wasn't on your holiday to-do list—until sero invited you home for tamales and chaos (3525 words)

you regretted this the moment you stepped out of the dormitory and into the sharp chill of mid-december air, a duffel bag hanging off one shoulder and your dignity already teetering on the edge. trailing beside you was hanta sero, practically vibrating with the smug energy of a man who had just talked his best friend into making the worst decision of her academic career.

and technically, he had.

somewhere between his mother's increasingly invasive matchmaking attempts and his inability to say the word "no" like a normal person, he'd decided the solution was to invent a girlfriend. and of course, of course, he'd chosen you.

"come on," he said now, as a cab idled at the curb, white exhaust curling into the crisp air like smoke from a slow-burning disaster. "tell me this won't be fun. just a little bit."

"i think i'm too emotionally aware to find this fun," you muttered, hoisting your bag into the trunk as he leaned beside you with his usual careless grace.

sero grinned—that unbothered, insufferably pretty grin that always made it harder to stay annoyed with him for long. "emotionally aware, huh? sounds like you're already getting into character."

you leveled him with a look. "if i'm your girlfriend, you're going to need to stop flirting like a golden retriever with a god complex."

"babe," he said, slipping into the backseat beside you with the kind of unearned confidence that should have come with a warning label, "flirting is literally how i survive in social settings. don't take this from me."

you stared out the window, hoping the freezing glass would cool the creeping warmth crawling up your neck. "we're not actually dating, hanta."

"right," he said, and he sounded amused, not wounded. "but we could be really good at it."

you didn't answer. he didn't press.

the cab pulled away from the dorms, and for a moment the silence between you was companionable, like it always had been. you'd known sero for years now—long enough to understand that his laid-back demeanor was as real as it was performative. he was the kind of person who made a room feel lighter just by being in it, but who also knew the weight of silence better than most people ever would.

he didn't make you feel like you had to be anyone but yourself. and that, unfortunately, was the root of the problem.

somewhere along the road from "we're just friends" to "please pretend to be my girlfriend so my mom stops trying to marry me off," things had started to shift.

not all at once. not obviously.

but they shifted.

now he was dozing beside you, his head tilted toward your shoulder, and every bump in the road made him inch closer. you should have nudged him off. you should have drawn the line.

but you didn't.

instead, you studied the soft lines of his face—the relaxed set of his mouth, the faint crease between his brows like his dreams were just a little too fast for his thoughts to catch—and you wondered what the hell you'd gotten yourself into.

by the time the cab slowed, the sun had dipped low, casting golden light over a neighborhood that looked far too idyllic to be real. sero's house was two stories of warmth and welcome: string lights curled along the porch railing, a wreath hung slightly crooked on the front door, and smoke drifted lazily from a chimney that promised something warm inside.

standing at the threshold was a woman with sharp eyes, a kind smile, and the unmistakable aura of someone who could both bake you cookies and emotionally destroy you in the same breath.

sero's mother.

you froze.

he didn't.

without hesitation, sero leaned in, brushing your hair behind your ear like it was the most natural thing in the world. his voice dipped just low enough for only you to hear. "smile like you love me."

then he reached for your hand.

his fingers, long and warm, laced effortlessly through yours.

you didn't pull away.

and that was the moment—standing at the edge of his childhood, your fingers locked in his, heart skipping in the kind of rhythm you weren't prepared for—that you realized you were in far more danger than you thought.

because part of you didn't want to let go.

the cab hadn't even rolled to a full stop before sero's mom was standing in front of it, arms crossed, eyes already locked onto her target like a seasoned general. you had seen pictures, sure—sero had shown you a few over lunch one day, swiping through images of his mom with an almost reverent fondness—but none of them did her justice.

she was radiant. that was the first word that came to mind. not in some soft, dreamy way, but in the sharp, unmistakable warmth of someone who had mastered the art of existing unapologetically. she had a scarf looped carelessly around her neck, dark hair pinned up with wisps escaping, and that immediate, unnerving energy unique to mothers who know everything before you say a word.

"hanta," she said brightly as you approached. "you took forever, mijo. i was about to call."

and then her eyes slid to you.

her whole face changed.

"qué linda," she said, stepping down toward you without hesitation. "you're even prettier than the pictures."

you opened your mouth to answer—say something polite, maybe even charming—but instead you were pulled into a hug so warm and familiar you forgot how to speak altogether.

she smelled like cinnamon and butter, like café and home. her arms wrapped around you without hesitation, solid and reassuring, and you blinked twice before realizing she wasn't letting go just yet.

she pulled back, hands on your shoulders, eyes scanning your face with curiosity. "how old are you, mija?"

"seventeen," you managed. "ua student. same class as hanta."

"top twenty," sero chimed from behind you, proud and useless.

his mom smiled wider. "good. you'll need that to keep up with him. he talks too much."

"i'm right here," sero said, offended.

"and what's your quirk, sweetheart?" she asked, guiding you inside like she owned every molecule of the house—which she probably did.

"just a luck quirk," you replied. "it's not anything big or flashy."

"flashy's overrated," she said. "flashy gets you on magazine covers, but smart keeps you alive. hanta could use some of that balance."

sero made a wounded noise. "i'm right here."

you stepped into the house and tried not to gape. it was warm and lived-in, with mismatched furniture and soft lights, and framed photos in every direction. you passed at least three different versions of baby sero—one with cake on his face, one dressed as a shark, and one in a tiny suit looking like he'd lost a bet.

you were immediately ushered to the couch, where sero flopped down beside you like he'd done this a thousand times. his arm stretched along the back of the cushions behind you, easy and casual, but you felt the heat of it like a brand against your neck.

his mom sat in the armchair across from you, one leg crossed, hands folded, expression deceptively pleasant.

"so," she said. "how long have you two been together?"

"six months," you and sero answered in unison.

your eyes met. you both smiled.

it was practiced, but god—it didn't feel like a lie.

"how'd you meet?" she asked next.

sero leaned forward like he was telling a secret. "training. she beat up kaminari. i've never recovered."

you tried not to laugh. "he followed me around for a week."

"i was courting you."

"you were loitering near vending machines."

"i was being persistent," he corrected. "it worked, didn't it?"

his mom watched you both, eyes narrowed just enough to make you sweat.

"and what do you like about my son?" she asked you, suddenly.

your mouth went dry.

sero glanced sideways, surprised.

but the answer came easy.

"he's reliable. and funny. and he listens—really listens. like you're the only person in the room."

you could feel sero's eyes on you, and the room felt warmer than it had a second ago.

"he's easy to be around," you said, a little softer now. "i feel like i can breathe near him."

a long silence stretched across the room.

then sero bumped your shoulder with his own, voice low. "you're not supposed to make me blush in front of my mom."

his mom smiled, pleased. "i like you."

you smiled back, because how could you not. "thank you."

"i made tamales," she said, rising to her feet. "sit tight. i'll get you a plate."

"do you need help—?" you started, half-standing.

"no, no. you're a guest. you sit and let yourself be adored."

she vanished into the kitchen with surprising speed.

the moment she was out of earshot, you collapsed sideways onto the couch.

"i blacked out," you whispered. "what did i even say?"

"that i'm amazing and you love being around me," sero said smugly.

you shot him a look.

he leaned a little closer, voice dropping. "also, you were adorable. you didn't have to go that hard. i almost forgot it was fake."

you didn't answer.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

dinner came after a comfortable lull in the afternoon—just enough time for you to grow used to the house's warmth, the quiet hum of kitchen sounds, and the sound of sero humming to himself as he helped his mom plate tamales. there was something undeniably domestic about it—watching him lean over the counter, sleeves pushed up, swiping a bit of masa from the corner of a dish with a grin when he thought no one was watching.

you caught yourself watching.

a little too long.

and when he turned around and caught your eye, offering you a wink that made your stomach stutter—you looked away, pretending to study the wall like it had secrets.

the house filled slowly with more noise, more feet, more voices. by the time dinner was ready, the table was surrounded by people—his siblings, all younger, all chaos incarnate. there were five in total, ranging from what looked like barely ten to maybe sixteen. all of them clearly adored sero, and all of them clearly had a thousand questions about you.

"are you really his girlfriend?" one of the younger girls asked, blinking up at you from her seat at the far end of the table.

sero, already sitting beside you, reached for your hand under the table without hesitation. "of course she is," he said easily. "she puts up with me. that's gotta mean something."

you glanced sideways, surprised by the way his thumb started tracing circles into your palm. his fingers were warm, his grip relaxed, like this was a habit and not a performance. your first instinct was to pull away—but you didn't. you let him hold on.

"do you like him?" one of the boys asked bluntly, somewhere between a dare and a test.

you looked over at sero, who was already looking at you.

and the smile that spread across his face wasn't teasing. it wasn't even smug.

it was soft.

"i do," you said honestly. "he's easy to like."

one of his sisters actually swooned.

their mother returned from the kitchen, a stack of warm plates balanced in her arms. "aye, look at you two," she said fondly, setting down the food. "you look like you've been married five years already."

sero snorted. "that's because she already tells me what to do."

"someone has to," you said, nudging his leg under the table.

his knee pressed into yours and didn't move.

the meal began in full, voices rising over each other, stories flying back and forth like birds across the table. tamales were unwrapped, passed down, devoured. rice and beans steamed in bowls at the center. someone spilled horchata and got teased for it for fifteen minutes straight.

sero kept his hand under the table the entire time.

sometimes on your knee. sometimes brushing your fingers. once, briefly, resting on your thigh with a touch so casual and confident you forgot how to breathe for a second.

"so how did you know?" his mom asked halfway through the meal, raising an eyebrow. "that you liked each other, i mean."

you blinked. "um."

sero didn't miss a beat.

"she made this face at me once," he said, totally serious. "during training. right after i got my ass handed to me. and i thought—yeah. i'd let her ruin my life."

you choked on a sip of water. "that's not what happened."

"you raised your eyebrow," he insisted, "like i was both impressive and pathetic. it was very motivating."

"you were bleeding."

"romance is about timing."

the table erupted in laughter.

"you're ridiculous," you muttered, but there was no bite to it. you felt lightheaded from smiling too much.

his younger sister leaned over the table toward you. "you make him less annoying," she said seriously. "he's, like, way less weird with you here."

"he's still weird," someone else muttered.

"hey," sero said, deeply offended. "i'm the glue of this household."

"you're the glitter glue," one of the boys shot back. "unnecessary and all over everything."

the conversation swirled, but it was warm. easy. you felt like you'd slipped into a rhythm you hadn't known you were missing. sero's family didn't make you feel like an outsider. if anything, they treated you like a permanent fixture—like they already liked you, just because he did.

and sero—he kept looking at you.

in the quiet moments between bites. when you laughed at something his brother said. when you wiped your fingers on your napkin and he passed you your drink like he'd already anticipated you'd reach for it.

"you're really good at this," you whispered during a lull, leaning in.

"at what?" he asked, voice low, chin tilted toward you.

"this," you said. "pretending."

his eyes flicked down to your mouth, just for a second.

"what can i say," he said quietly. "i'm something of an actor."

you snickered.

and then his mom called your name from across the table.

"you like dessert, mija?" she asked, already bringing out the plates.

you blinked twice before answering, forcing a smile. "of course. thank you."

sero didn't look away from you for a long time.

dinner had long ended. the noise had faded. sero's house, once pulsing with overlapping voices and clattering plates, now thrummed with a different kind of energy—low, contented, quiet.

his siblings had scattered, full-bellied and sugar-sticky, off to bedrooms and couches and wherever else they disappeared to in the evening. someone had turned on a dusty old playlist in the den, and the soft hum of vintage boleros curled through the walls like warmth that refused to die.

you stood in the hallway between the dining room and the back door, hovering in the in-between of things: of conversations and thoughts, of what was real and what had only started out that way.

you weren't sure what to do with your hands.

or your heart.

sero appeared beside you like he always did—quiet-footed and comfortably close, smelling faintly of soap and masa and something sweet from dessert you hadn't caught the name of. his sleeves were still pushed up, revealing his forearms, and you hated that you were looking at them. not because they weren't worth looking at—they were—but because it meant your guard was down. again.

"come on," he said softly. "balcony?"

you didn't answer. you just nodded and followed.

the air outside was sharp and clean. the kind of cold that wakes you up without being cruel. you wrapped your arms around yourself more out of instinct than discomfort. the balcony was small, with a windchime shaped like a lizard hanging from the overhang, and a view of soft suburban rooftops and yellow windows scattered like lanterns across the horizon.

you leaned against the wooden railing. he did the same.

neither of you spoke.

you were too full of the evening. of tamales and laughter. of too much touch under the table. of words you'd said with a smile that weren't lies—but weren't supposed to be true either.

the problem wasn't pretending.

the problem was that pretending didn't feel like pretending anymore.

you didn't know when it had changed. maybe it was gradual—each time he laced his fingers through yours without asking, or rested his hand on your thigh mid-story, or offered you a grin across the table that was so familiar, so soft, you forgot why you were here in the first place.

but it hit you now, standing beside him in the chill—this unshakable, irreversible knowledge:

you were in love with him.

god, you were in love with hanta sero.

not just in a surface-level, crush-colored way. not just in the i-like-how-he-makes-me-laugh way. it was deeper than that. older. something that had snuck in when you weren't looking and taken root so quietly you hadn't noticed until it was everywhere.

you were in love with the way he held space. with the way he listened without trying to fix you. with the way he let the world land on him lightly, and still carried it in both hands when it mattered.

you were in love with someone who didn't even know you weren't faking anymore.

you exhaled.

"you're quiet," he said, not looking at you. "regretting it already?"

you shook your head. "no. it's just... weird how easy it was. with your family."

he hummed. "they like you."

"they liked that i made you less annoying."

"that is the highest compliment in my house."

you smiled, faint. "they're sweet. loud, but sweet."

"you kept up fine."

"i think i blacked out for half of it."

"you were golden," he said, softer now. "you always are."

you turned toward him slowly.

the lights from the kitchen spilled faintly through the curtains behind you, catching just enough of his face for you to see how relaxed he looked. how present. how close.

you swallowed.

"hanta?"

he looked over at you, brows raised. "yeah?"

there was a beat of silence.

"i don't know how to lie to you," you said.

he blinked once.

then again, slower.

"what?"

"i mean," you continued, hands curling around the edge of the railing. "i've been trying. all day. and i thought i could. i thought i could pull it off—play the part, pretend—but then we got here, and your mom hugged me, and you touched my hand under the table, and i just... i don't know when it stopped being a bit."

his eyes searched your face like he was looking for something he'd already lost.

"hanta," you said again. "i'm in love with you."

his face froze.

the air between you seemed to still. the windchime didn't move. the whole world narrowed into this one pinpoint moment, bright and fragile and terrifying.

he stepped back—just barely.

"you don't have to keep pretending," he said. carefully. cautiously. "no one's watching anymore. you can drop it."

you stared at him.

"i'm not pretending," you said.

another beat. a sharp exhale.

his lips parted slightly. his brows furrowed, not in confusion, but in disbelief. in the kind of fear that came from wanting something too much and being afraid to reach for it.

"you're serious."

"i've never been more serious about anything in my life."

sero let out a long, shaky laugh. it cracked halfway through.

"say it again," he whispered.

"i'm in love with you."

and this time, you reached for him.

your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, and you felt the moment he melted—slow and overwhelmed, the way something melts that's been cold for too long.

"you've got to be kidding me," he muttered, leaning into your touch. "i thought—god, i thought i was the only one losing my mind over this."

you smiled, eyes stinging.

"you weren't."

"i've been in love with you since second year," he admitted, voice breaking a little. "you kissed my cheek that one time after i carried your books back from the nurse's office, and i nearly died. like, actual cardiac arrest."

"that was a year ago."

"welcome to my long, slow descent into insanity."

you laughed, quiet and ridiculous.

and then he kissed you.

it wasn't rushed. wasn't showy. it wasn't a fireworks-and-credits-roll kiss.

it was the kind that happened in doorways, in hallways, in quiet rooms where hearts beat too loud. the kind that changed nothing and everything all at once.

he kissed you like he meant it.

you kissed him like you'd been waiting your whole life to.

when you finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against yours.

"you're real?" you whispered, breath catching.

"i better be," he said. "otherwise you've just confessed to a figment of your imagination."

you swallowed a grin.

his thumb traced your cheek.

"i thought this would end in disaster," he said quietly. "that pretending would ruin everything."

"and?"

"and now i don't want it to end at all."

you leaned in, bumping your nose against his.

"then it doesn't have to."

he smiled, and kissed you again.

not like he was pretending.

like he was home.

[monzabee]

run for the hills – lh44 (+18)

masterlist ||

Summary: The one where fate decides to bring you back into Lewis’ life, making him question his belief in fate.  

Pairing: lewis hamilton x rosberg!reader

Word Count: 9.3k 

Warnings: cursing, crying, drinking and mentions of alcohol, mentions of brocedes (rip), kissing, unprotected sex (you shouldn’t be surprised at this point), oral (m receiving), hand kink, praise kink, minors dni!!

Request: “hey, Merry Christmas 🫶🏽 I was hoping I could request a Lewis smut fic where the reader is Nico Rosberg's sister (with a age gap of around 6-8 years with him and Lewis) and before 2016 they were just really close friends who just kissed once but chose to pretend it didn't happen. after years, they run into each other at a club or a party and they're pretty snappy at each other but there's a lot of tension too and they end up having sex where Lewis is really cocky and also the reader has a hand kink and praise kink? I'm so sorry if I made it too long, i love your writing <33” + “oooo please could i request something w lewis?! something gut wrenchingly angsty? sorry i don’t really have a plot in mind hhhh thank you heheh”

Author’s Note: hi, hey, hello!! HAPPY NEW YEAR, i started this fic last week and i honestly didn't think I'd finish it this quickly but here we are. don't let my words fool you, i got the request last christmas but if you know me then you know that i am not quick when it comes to working on requests (i'm working on this i promise), not that this fic is even remotely christmassy, but let’s just appreciate that it is supposed to be set during the holiday period lol. this was supposed to be a shorter one but here we are, lol, i'm not even surprised at my inability to keep things short at this point. i posted this fic and realised i forgot to copy and paste a big chunk of it so oh well. as always, feedback is appreciated, and i hope you guys enjoy! good morning, noon or night wherever you are, xoxobee 

Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms. 

Lewis decided he doesn’t like cold a long time ago. That’s why, being the ever-decisive person he is, he chooses to spend his winter vacationing in places like the Maldives or Bali. His decisiveness is an important part of him, given what he does for a living. When he is on the track, in his car, there is no room for hesitation – he needs to be able to make split-second decisions under intense pressure, what’s not to love about that? So, once he decided he’d rather spend his time off basking in the sun rather than freezing to death somewhere else, he never looked back. He enjoys spending his time off in someplace tropical with his family, or without his family; most of the times away from the prying eyes and camera lenses of the media. 

But this time, it’s different – he's alone. 

Or rather, he thought he would be alone. The villa he rented out for the duration of the month is isolated, just how he likes it. He wakes up to the sound of waves crashing against the shore right outside his windows, and the distant chirping of tropical birds to accompany him as he lounges on the large deck, overlooking the infinite expanse of blue. There are no spectators around to gauge his reaction, try to get him to speak out about his plans for the next year when he moves to Ferrari, or what he’s going to do when he eventually retires one day. He hasn’t seen anyone from the racing world for weeks, and it’s been a much-needed break. He’d usually love to spend Christmas with his family, the only time he would ever tolerate the cold being when he is with his family, but this year he just wanted to get away on his own. 

There is no one around that expect anything from him. Just peace. 

He’s not a hermit, of course, but he enjoys spending his time by himself mostly isolated from all the other guests of the touristic area he’s staying in. The chef that works at the villa is on call for when Lewis decides that he wants to stay in for the night, the housekeeping staff come every morning to clean up around the house, then promptly leave, providing Lewis with the privacy he so desperately needs. But other than that, and a few nights spent outside in a restaurant or a club? He is all alone, and he is not complaining about it. Another thing about Lewis Hamilton is that he doesn’t believe in fate. He believes in setting and achieving goals; after all, that’s what he’s done all his life. His success isn’t some cosmic coincidence. It’s years of sacrifice by his parents, relentless effort, and unwavering determination. So, when things happen that feel serendipitous, like running into someone from his past, he doesn’t chalk it up to destiny. He chalks it up to the sheer unpredictability of life. 

And yet, as he steps out of the villa to head to a nearby beach club after dinner, he doesn’t expect to run into you, especially not after how the things ended last time, but there you are. His eyes find you at the bar with some guy next to you – he has to do a double take. Just to make sure, he tells himself. But no matter how many times his attention reverts to you, he knows it’s you. Of course, it’s you. Though he’s not a believer in fate or destiny, or whatever you might want to call it, there you are – dressed in a flowy linen dress. His first instinct is to ask the server to seat him somewhere else so that he wouldn’t have stare at you and your ‘date’ for the night. His grip on the glass in his hand tightens momentarily, and he exhales slowly, forcing himself to look away. This is not the moment, he tells himself. It’s not his business, not anymore. But still, his gaze drifts back to you. You’re laughing at something the guy says, your head tilted slightly as you sip from your drink. He can’t hear your laughter, no – but what a sound that would be to hear, he thinks for a moment. 

He knows he shouldn’t care who you’re with or what you’re doing; it’s been years since the two of you shared anything beyond... well anything, really. But something about seeing you here, in this place he thought was his private retreat from the world, feels like a twist of fate – or the kind of cosmic joke he claims not to believe in. But his eyes watch you as you throw you head back in a laugh and he can practically hear the sound in his head, his mind taking him to years ago when he used to be one of the people who got to hear it first hand; when he joined your family on karting days, or when you celebrated with him when he won a race, or even back to that one time when him and Nico were trying to drive those unicycles and you kept doubling over in laughter when they fell down – something your brother did not appreciate, but Lewis couldn’t help the smile that crept on his face as he watched you from the ground.  

Somethings never change, he thinks, as he notices the smallest of smiles that has crept its way onto his face, quickly disappearing the moment he catches himself. He knows it shouldn’t matter to him – let alone bother him. But old habits die hard, and the sight of your smile, that easy laugh, stirs something in him that feels like both longing and a pang of annoyance. You’ve always had a way of getting under his skin. Back then, it was teasing remarks that somehow felt more genuine than any praise he received elsewhere. He catches himself glancing your way again, his jaw tightening when the guy beside you leans in a little too close. It’s irrational, this surge of jealousy that claws at his chest. He knows he has no right to feel this way, but that doesn’t stop it from burning through him. He looks down at his drink, willing himself to focus on anything but you. But memories have a way of sneaking up on him, unbidden. The days spent at karting tracks, the shared dinners with your family, the quiet moments when it was just the two of you, talking about everything and nothing at all. Back then, it was easy. Natural. Like you were two pieces of a puzzle that fit together perfectly, until you didn’t. 

Just then, you glance over, your eyes scanning the room before they land on him. For a moment, everything stills. The laughter fades from your face, replaced by something unreadable. Surprise, maybe. Or recognition. His breath catches in his throat, and he curses himself for the way his chest tightens under your gaze. He watches as you excuse yourself, heading towards the restrooms, and he swears he has never gotten up so fast and walked so fast in his life. He doesn’t think, he just moves until he spots you in the hallway, queued behind some people waiting for the bathroom line. What kind of a club only has one bathroom? He thinks, but that’s not the point. 

He clears his throat. 

You turn, eyes widening in that familiar, guarded way. “Lewis.” Your lips open in shock as you glance behind him and then focus on him again, “Did- did you follow me here?”  

“Were you on a date with that guy?” The words come out of his mouth before he can stop himself, his voice colder than he expects. 

You blink, taken aback by the question. “Excuse me?” 

He stands there, regretting the words as soon as they leave his mouth, but that doesn’t stop the irritation from creeping up his spine. His gaze flickers to the bar behind him, where the guy you were with is still talking to the bartender, oblivious to what’s going on. “I asked if you were on a date,” he repeats, a little sharper this time as he emphasises the last word. 

You raise an eyebrow, the surprise on your face melting into something more guarded, a mix of disbelief and annoyance. “What if I was?” You cross your arms, your eyes narrowing. “Maybe I’m just out enjoying my night. Ever think of that?” 

He feels a rush of heat in his chest. “It’s not like I care,” he mutters, though it’s clear from the edge in his voice that he does. “Just curious.” 

You scoff, your lips curling into a sarcastic smile. “Sure, Lewis.” 

“So?” He inquires, “Are you? On a date with that guy, I mean.” 

You raise an eyebrow, clearly not amused. “Are you serious right now?” you snap, your arms tightening across your chest. “You’re standing here, in the middle of a hallway, asking me about my love life? What is this, high school?” 

Lewis feels the heat rise in his neck, irritation mixing with a sense of frustration he doesn’t quite understand. “I’m not asking for your life story, just... just an answer. Is it that hard?” His voice is tight, but he doesn’t back down. 

You scoff again, your lips curling into something between a smirk and a sneer. “You really think you can just waltz back in and start demanding answers like we’re still... You know what? Yes, Lewis, I’m on a date.” You throw a glance over your shoulder at the guy still sitting at the bar. “We met on the beach at the hotel I’m staying at, and I thought I’d let him treat me to a dinner and a couple of drinks before I’d let him fuck me six ways to Sunday.” You roll your eyes at someone on the queue gasping at your choice of words. “Not that it’s any of your business. Are you happy now?” 

Lewis’s hand grips your wrist, a little too tight, and without warning, he’s tugging you away from the bar, his jaw clenched. “Come on,” he mutters, his tone low and urgent, as he steers you towards the back exit. You’re caught off guard, stumbling to keep up with his forceful pace, your heart hammering in your chest. 

“What the hell, Lewis? Let go of me!” you snap, yanking your arm free once you're outside in the chill night air. The chill hits you like a slap, the heat of the club’s atmosphere fading behind you as the door slams shut. 

“Seriously?” he spits, his eyes flashing with a mix of anger and frustration. “You’re gonna play it like that?” 

You take a step back, crossing your arms over your chest. “I don’t know what game you're playing at, but I’m not interested. What the hell was that back there? Dragging me out like I’m some kind of... of property?” 

He glares at you, his fists clenched at his sides. “You’re unbelievable.” His voice rises, sharp and cutting. “I ask you a simple question, and you throw that crap at me? What the hell did you think I was supposed to do? Just stand there and pretend like I didn’t care?” 

You laugh bitterly, shaking your head. “Pretend like you don’t care? That’s rich coming from you. You don’t get to just waltz in, after all this time, and act like you can demand answers, Lewis. Like you have any right to know what’s going on in my life.” 

“Your brother would be so disappointed in you right now.” His words hit you like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, the air between you two freezes. The breeze picks up, but the sudden silence makes the world feel too loud.  

“You don’t get to talk about my brother,” you seethe, as Lewis's face hardens, his jaw tensing, but it’s the look in his eyes that hits hardest — it’s a mixture of hurt and fury, both so raw, you almost feel sorry for what you’ve just unleashed. 

“What did you just say?” His voice is low, almost dangerously so, the words slipping through clenched teeth. 

You swallow, but it doesn’t help the sharp edge in your voice. “You heard me. You don’t get to talk about him, you don’t get to fuck up my life and you don’t get to come back here acting like you still have any claim on me or my life.” You’re breathing heavily now, the anger and hurt mixing into a bitter cocktail that you can’t quite swallow – funnily enough, Lewis can smell the cocktail you had earlier. “You left. You made your choice, Lewis. And now you don’t get to barge back in and pretend like I owe you anything.” 

Lewis stands in front of you, his chest rising and falling with each breath. His eyes are dark, his jaw tight as he processes your words. He doesn’t know when the two of you got closer together, he can practically feel the anger radiating off you, “You think I don’t know that?” he spits, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “You think I don’t know what I did?” His voice cracks slightly, the vulnerability slipping out before he can stop it. “I fucked up, alright? I fucked up more than you’ll ever understand. We all did – me, Nico, you.” 

“You don’t get to make me feel guilty about this, Lewis. You don’t get to act like I’m the one who fucked everything up.” Your voice shakes, but you keep going, the words coming faster, more bitter. “You kissed me and called it an ‘accident’, a fluke. You fought with Nico every chance you got. I had to pick up the pieces on my own.” 

Lewis flinches at your words, but his anger doesn’t dissipate—if anything, it only sharpens. His hands remain balled into fists at his sides, but there’s something else behind his eyes now, something raw, something almost desperate. “We wouldn’t have worked out,” he mutters, it’s something that he said to himself time and time again to convince himself of it, “I am– was your brother’s friend, you–” 

“You were my friend, too!” You exclaim, your hands swatting at his arms, chest – anywhere you can reach. “You left me, as if I meant nothing to you! You stole my first kiss and shattered my life to pieces on the same day!” You manage to get in some good hits despite Lewis’ attempts to calm you down, and the lump in your throat makes it harder for you to continue talking, “Do you know how many times I wondered if you kissed me just to piss Nico off? Do you know how that feels?” 

“What?” He asks, his voice low. Each hit, each accusation, it stings. But nothing hits harder than the raw emotion in your eyes – hurt, betrayal, and the weight of everything he left behind. He opens his mouth to speak, but the words catch in his throat. “You think I kissed you to get at Nico?” he says finally, his voice quieter now but no less intense. There’s an edge of disbelief, of hurt, as if the idea itself cuts deeper than your accusations. “Do you really think so little of me?” 

You cross your arms tightly over your chest, holding yourself together in the face of his raw honesty. “I don’t know what to think, Lewis. What was I supposed to think back then? You shut me out. You made me feel like it never happened – like I never happened.” 

“You were twenty-three years old,” he points out, “our age difference–” 

“Oh please,” you scoff, pushing at his chest one last time, “you’ve fucked girls younger than that.” 

Lewis flinches at your words, as if they’ve struck a nerve he didn’t even know was exposed. His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he doesn’t say anything. “You don’t get to throw that in my face,” he finally says, his voice low and clipped, tinged with a kind of frustration that feels different from before. 

“Why?” You ask, head cocked to the side. “I can’t comment on you fucking other people, but you can question my actions because I want to fuck–” 

“Say ‘fuck’ one more time and I swear I’ll–” 

“—what, Lewis?” you snap, cutting him off before he can finish his threat. “You’ll what? Walk away again? Pretend this conversation never happened, just like you did last time?” 

His jaw clenches, the muscles in his face tightening as he tries to rein in his emotions. “Don’t push me,” he warns, his voice low and taut, but there’s no real menace in it—only desperation. 

“Oh, I’m pushing?” You laugh bitterly, throwing your hands up. “I’m the one pushing? You’re the one who showed up here, dredging up every memory I’ve spent years trying to bury. Don’t you dare put this on me, Lewis.” 

“You think this is easy for me?” he shoots back, his voice rising. “You think I don’t hate myself for what I did? For what I didn’t do? I’ve lived with this every single day, and you—” 

“Fuck you!” you shout, stepping closer, your finger jabbing into his chest. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck–” 

His hands shoot up, grabbing your wrists – not harshly, but firmly enough to stop your movements. You don’t even fully register how quickly he pushes you against the wall, “You think I ran off and lived some perfect life?” he hisses, his face inches from yours as he inhales deeply. “You think I didn’t miss you every goddamn day? You think I didn’t lie awake at night, wishing I’d had the guts to ask you to stay?” 

His words hit you like a tidal wave, the rawness in his voice leaving you momentarily speechless. For a moment, the anger in his eyes softens, replaced by something else – something that feels far too close to the hope you’ve been trying to suppress. “Well... yeah.” You inwardly cringe how your voice sounds so weak, but Lewis tilts your chin back to make you look at him.  

“Is that so?” He mumbles, thumb caressing your chin as his eyes hungrily take in how your chest moves with each deep breath your inhale and exhale.  

Your breath hitches as his thumb lingers, his gaze dropping to your lips like he’s fighting every instinct to close the distance between you. “Lewis...” you start, but his name comes out softer than you intend, more of a plea than the warning you meant it to be. 

“What?” he murmurs, his voice low and dangerous, but there’s a softness to it, an undercurrent of vulnerability that sends your heart racing. “What do you want me to do, huh? Walk away again? Because I can’t. Not this time.” 

You shake your head slightly, but his grip on your chin keeps you from fully looking away. “I don’t know what I want,” you admit, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “I don’t even know how to feel about you anymore.” 

His eyes darken, and his jaw tightens, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he leans in, his forehead almost brushing yours. “Then let me remind you,” he says, his voice a low rasp. 

Your pulse quickens, every nerve in your body screaming at you to push him away – or pull him closer and he tension between you is suffocating. “Don’t,” you whisper, but your voice wavers, betraying the battle waging inside you. 

“Don’t what?” he asks, his lips hovering dangerously close to yours. “Don’t do this?” You don’t answer, your throat too tight, your mind too clouded with memories, anger, and something else you’re not ready to name. He waits, his breath mingling with yours, his patience stretching thin. “Say the word,” he whispers, his voice rough with restraint. “Tell me to stop, and I will. I will let you go back and take him back to your room and do whatever you want.” 

But you don’t say it. You can’t. Because as much as you hate him, as much as you want to scream at him, cry, and push him away... you also want this. Want him. 

And Lewis knows it. 

His hand releases your wrist, sliding down to your waist as his other hand stays on your chin, tilting your face toward him. The kiss that follows isn’t soft, isn’t sweet – it’s desperate, raw, and filled with years of unspoken words. It’s anger and longing, heartbreak, and desire, all crashing together in a way that steals your breath and sends your heart into overdrive. A softer kiss might have been what you wanted, but Lewis knows this is what you need. His body presses against yours, and your hands instinctively find his shoulders, clinging to him as if letting go would leave you falling apart. His lips are warm and insistent, the taste of him intoxicating. Every move, every touch, feels like he’s trying to make up for everything he never said, everything he left behind. 

The kiss deepens, each second unravelling more of the carefully constructed armour you’ve built around your heart. His fingers grip your waist tighter, grounding you even as everything else feels like it’s spinning. You can feel the heat radiating off him with every press of his body against yours. Your mind screams at you to stop, to think, to pull away before you lose yourself completely – but your body betrays you. The years of hurt, anger, and confusion dissolve into the fire burning between you, ignited by a kiss that’s as much a battle as it is a surrender. 

Lewis pulls back just enough to let you breathe, his lips still hovering close, his forehead resting against yours. His breath is hot against your skin, his voice low and rough when he finally speaks. “You still want to go back and fuck your little lover boy?”  

“Who?” You mumble, breathless as a result of the kiss as your eyes become heavy with something you can’t quite describe. 

Lewis smirks, a glint of triumph flashing in his dark eyes. "Exactly," he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your waist in slow, deliberate circles. His confidence is maddening, but the heat between you makes it impossible to summon the indignation you’d usually feel. 

You try to muster a response, something sharp and cutting to put him back in his place, but the way his gaze drops to your lips again makes the words dissolve before they even form. “Don’t do that,” you manage, though your voice lacks the conviction you intended. 

“Do what?” he asks innocently, though the rasp in his tone betrays his intent. 

“Act like this changes everything.” 

His smirk falters, replaced by a seriousness that roots you in place. “It doesn’t change everything,” he admits, his voice quieter now, almost tender. “But it changes something. Doesn’t it?” 

Your heart pounds against your ribs as his words sink in. You hate how easily he disarms you, how effortlessly he pulls you back into his orbit no matter how much you’ve tried to escape it. But deep down, you know he’s right. “I hate you,” you whisper, though even you can hear the weakness in your words. 

“I know,” he replies, his hand moving to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing your skin like he’s memorizing every inch of you. “And I hate myself for making you feel that way.” 

The sincerity in his voice cuts through the haze, making your chest tighten. But before you can think about it, you find yourself tugging on the collar of his unbuttoned shirt, pulling him closer to yourself as you mumble, “Kiss me again.” 

Your hands, which moments ago were pushing him away, now find their way into his hair, pulling him closer, as if to anchor yourself in the storm he’s unleashed within you. Lewis doesn’t hold back. His grip tightens on your waist, pulling you flush against him, the wall at your back the only thing keeping you steady. The kiss deepens, his lips moving against yours with an intensity that borders on desperation, as though he’s afraid this moment might slip through his fingers if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. When the need for air becomes undeniable, he pulls back just enough to look at you, his forehead resting against yours. Both of you are breathing heavily, the space between you charged with everything unsaid. “Tell me you didn’t feel that,” he says, his voice hoarse, his thumb brushing against your cheek. 

You can’t answer right away, your heart hammering so loudly in your chest it drowns out any coherent thought. But eventually, you manage to find your voice. “I hate you,” you whisper, but there’s no conviction behind the words. They sound hollow, even to your own ears. 

He lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “No, you don’t.” 

“Don’t tell me how I feel,” you snap, but the edge in your voice falters. 

“I’m not,” he murmurs, his gaze unwavering. “I’m telling you what I see. And I see you... still here. Still looking at me like that.” His hand trails down to your hip, his touch light but grounding. “If you hated me, you would’ve walked away by now.” 

You close your eyes, willing yourself to regain some semblance of control, but it’s impossible with him standing this close, his presence overwhelming. “This doesn’t change anything,” you say, though it feels more like you’re trying to convince yourself than him. 

“Maybe not,” he concedes, his voice softer now. “But it’s a start.” You don’t say anything to agree or refute his statement, and after a brief pause, he straightens, fixies your dress and tries to fix your hair as well. “Come on,” he says, “I’ll take you back.” 

“But, my bag,” you mutter, pushing out your lower lip in a pout when you realise your bag is on the floor. Lewis has to restrain himself when he sees your lips all puffed up because of him. Your voice is whiny, and he realises you’re slurring your words a little bit when you tug on his shirt, “I don’t wanna leave my bag here.” 

Lewis looks at you for a moment, his expression softening as he reaches up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing against your skin with the same tenderness he’s shown all night despite all your fighting. With a soft exhale, Lewis bends down to pick up your bag, holding it out to you with the same quiet care. “Don’t make that face,” he murmurs, his voice teasing but laced with something tender. “You really wanna go back to that room, after everything that just happened?” 

You look at him, a mix of confusion and desire swirling inside you. “I don’t know what I want,” you admit, the honesty slipping out before you can stop it. The words feel raw, vulnerable, but there’s something about his presence, the way he’s here, still so close, that makes you feel safe enough to say it. 

Lewis doesn’t say anything right away. Instead, his eyes soften, his thumb grazing the strap of your bag as he watches you closely, as though he’s searching for something in your expression. Finally, he steps closer again, the space between you narrowing once more. “I get it,” he says quietly. “But I’m not letting you go home alone tonight.” 

The words send a shiver down your spine. You want to protest, to push him away, but there’s something in his gaze, the way he’s looking at you now, that makes you second-guess everything you thought you wanted. You hesitate for a moment longer, the weight of your thoughts heavy in the air, but the pull between you is undeniable. It’s the kind of pull that’s magnetic, that doesn’t let you escape even when you try to resist. 

Finally, you nod, the decision feeling both like a surrender and a choice you can’t take back. “Okay,” you murmur, your voice barely audible. “Take me back, then.” 

You don’t even remember getting into his car, but you do remember the smug look he shot at your date – Carl, you think – when he helped you through the club with a firm hand on your back. The villa Lewis rented for his little getaway is entirely what you expect it to be – modern, grand, and secluded enough so no one uninvited would know he is there and bother him. The couch in the living room looks way too inviting and you make a mental note to avoid it for now. Sitting on it might make this whole situation feel too real, too comfortable, and you’re not ready for that. You glance around the space instead, taking in the clean lines of the modern furniture, the polished wood floors, and the sprawling windows that offer an unobstructed view of the moonlit ocean. You walk towards the windows, eyes taking in the view from inside the villa. The ocean stretches out endlessly before you, its surface shimmering under the moonlight. The soft sound of the waves crashing against the shore is faintly audible even through the glass, a gentle hum that seems to echo the turmoil in your chest. 

You wrap your arms around yourself, partly to steady your nerves and partly to shield yourself from the vulnerability creeping up on you. The view is breathtaking, but it does little to quiet the storm of emotions swirling inside you. You faintly hear Lewis calling out your name, but as if you are in a trance, you can’t take your eyes off the view in front of you. His voice calls out to you again, softer this time, closer. “Hey,” he says, and you feel the warmth of his presence before you even see him. Lewis’s reflection appears in the glass, his dark eyes fixed on you as he stands just behind you. 

You finally tear your gaze away from the ocean and turn to face him, your arms still wrapped protectively around yourself. “It’s beautiful,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking louder might shatter the fragile moment. 

Lewis nods, his expression unreadable as he follows your gaze back to the window. “It is,” he agrees, but there’s a weight to his tone, as if he’s not just talking about the view. His eyes flicker back to you, searching your face. “But it doesn’t seem like it’s helping much.” 

You let out a shaky laugh, more to fill the silence than anything else. “It’s not that simple, Lewis.” 

“Nothing ever is,” he replies, stepping closer until there’s only a breath of space between you. “But I’m here. You don’t have to deal with whatever this is alone.” 

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest tighten, and for a moment, you let yourself lean into it. “I don’t know what to do with you,” you admit, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “With... us.” 

He exhales deeply, his hand lifting as though he wants to touch you but hesitates. “You don’t have to figure that out right now,” he says, his voice steady. “I just want to make sure you’re okay tonight. That’s all that matters to me.” 

Something about his words, his presence, eases the knot in your chest, if only slightly. “I don’t even know where to start,” you murmur, more to yourself than him. 

“Then don’t,” he says simply, his voice carrying a quiet reassurance. “Just be here. With me.” 

You look up at him, your eyes searching his face for any sign of pretense or ulterior motives, but all you see is the same man who’s managed to undo you with a single glance. “Show me your room.”  

“We don’t have to do that.” His eyebrows furrow as he reaches for your cheek, “That not why I brought you here.” 

“Isn’t it?” You try to joke, but his deep sigh is a sign of his disapproval. “I know that’s not why you brought me here, but it can be one of the reasons you brought me here.” 

“Can it?” He drawls, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.  

“For God’s sake, Lewis.” You sigh, turning your body towards the man standing next to you. “Do I need to beg you for you to fuck me?”  

Lewis’s smirk falters, his expression shifting into something deeper, darker, but undeniably tender. “Don’t,” he murmurs, his voice low and edged with restraint as he steps closer. His hand comes up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “You don’t need to beg me for anything. Not now, not ever.” 

The intensity in his gaze makes your breath catch, and for a moment, the air between you feels electric. “Then fuck me,” you whisper, your voice trembling with equal parts frustration and desire. “If you want me, show me.” 

He closes his eyes briefly, like he’s steadying himself, and when he opens them again, the resolve in his expression takes your breath away. “You think I don’t want you?” he asks, his tone low but firm. “You don’t know how hard it is to hold back, to stop myself from–” He cuts himself off, his jaw tightening as if even admitting it is too much. He reaches for one of your hands, freeing from your hold and places it on his crotch. “See what you do to me?” 

The crude act manages to steal a gasp from you, your eyes widening at how hard he already is. “Lewis,” you mutter, he responds with an affirmative hum, “show me your bedroom.” 

He takes your hand, his grip firm but careful, and leads you down a sleek hallway. The sound of your heels clicking against the polished wood floor echoes softly, a counterpoint to the pounding of your heart. When he pushes open the door to his bedroom, you’re momentarily distracted by how much the space reflects him. The massive bed dominates the room, its crisp white sheets and plush pillows inviting. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in the silver glow of the moon, casting the room in a soft, ethereal light. The massive bed dominates the room, its crisp white sheets and plush pillows inviting. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in the silver glow of the moon, casting the room in a soft light.  

You walk towards the centre of the room, the corner of your lip trapped between your teeth as you glance at Lewis over your shoulder before you run towards the bed and throw yourself onto the soft bedding. Lewis watches you with an amused smirk as you sprawl across the bed, your carefree motion starkly contrasting the simmering tension in the air. “Comfortable, baby?” he asks, his tone teasing, but the heat in his eyes betrays his calm façade. 

You prop yourself up on your elbows, giving him a challenging look. “Very.” Then you narrow your eyes at him, “But don’t call me baby, I am not your baby.” 

He chuckles, low and throaty, as he steps closer, loosening the top button of his shirt with a deliberate slowness that sends a shiver down your spine. “No?” he muses, stopping at the edge of the bed. His eyes roam over you, drinking in every detail as if committing you to memory. 

Your breath hitches when he leans over, placing a hand on either side of your body, effectively caging you in. His face is so close to yours now that you can feel the warmth of his breath. “I like seeing you like this,” he admits, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Relaxed, it suits you.” 

A flush creeps up your neck at his words, but you refuse to let him have the upper hand completely. Your fingers trail up his chest, over the defined planes of his torso, and then slide beneath the open collar of his shirt. “I could say the same about you,” you reply, your voice soft but loaded with meaning. 

His response is immediate. His lips crash against yours with a fervour that steals your breath, his hands gripping your waist as he pulls you flush against him. The kiss is raw and consuming, years of tension and unspoken words pouring into the connection. When he pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing ragged, he looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. 

You smile, your hands slipping down to the waistband of his pants. “Why don’t you show me?” 

He doesn’t need to be told twice. In one smooth motion, he lifts you, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he carries you to the centre of the bed. He chuckles at the sound of your giggling, as he carefully lays you back down on the soft bed. His fingers work diligently to get you out of your dress, pulling the linen garment over your head as Lewis lets his eyes hungrily take you in. When your dress finally falls away, leaving you in nothing but lace and skin, Lewis takes a slow breath, his eyes scanning over your body with a mixture of awe and hunger. “You’re incredible,” he murmurs, his voice thick with admiration. His fingers trace the curve of your waist, his touch sending shivers of desire through your body. 

You arch slightly into his touch, your breath coming faster, and you meet his gaze with a challenge in your eyes. “Are you going to just gawk at me, or are you going to actually do something?” 

He smirks, a flash of cockiness in his eyes. “Patience,” he teases, but there’s no mistaking the hunger in his voice as he lowers himself over you. With one hand bracing himself above you, his other hand slides down between your bodies, his fingers brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. His touch is slow, almost teasing, and you can’t help the soft moan that escapes your lips as his fingers inch closer to where you need him most. “You like this?” he asks, his voice low and gravelly, his lips just inches from yours. His fingers find the lace of your underwear, his touch deliberate as he pulls it aside and slips a finger inside you, making you gasp. “You’re fucking perfect,” he groans, his lips crashing against yours as he deepens the kiss, his finger working inside you with a slow, steady rhythm. You can feel the heat building between you, the tension in the room thickening with every passing second. 

“Don- don’t say ‘fuck’, Lewis,” you tease him with a small smirk as your breathing becomes deeper, “it’s unbecoming.” 

“You’ll see who will be coming in a few minutes, baby.” He chuckles at the way your expression changes at the mention of the word, his fingers moving in deeper as your let out a disapproving moan, “What? You don’t like it when I call you that?” 

With another dissenting hum and a raise of your hips to meet his hand, you let out a long exhale. “I’m not your baby Lewis, stop calling me that.” With the patience that only he can tolerate, he continues the leisurely movements of his fingers. “I want more, please.” 

Lewis tuts at your words softly, chuckling as he takes in your reactions. “I think you have a very important decision to make here,” he murmurs, his eyes suddenly painted with something more serious, “because once I fuck you, I’m not letting you go.”  

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” The words come out choppy as your breathing gets more erratic, his fingers stubbornly keeping to the slow rhythm he’s set.  

Lewis's gaze sharpens, the challenge in your tone sparking a flame in his dark eyes. “Oh, you’ll see it, alright,” he murmurs, his voice a velvety promise as his hand withdraws briefly, leaving you breathless and aching. Before you can protest, he moves with deliberate precision, tugging his shirt over his head and revealing the expanse of his chest – sculpted, strong, and utterly captivating. “Get on your hands and knees.” 

The command leaves no room for debate, his voice firm but laden with heat. Your heart skips a beat as you meet his gaze, a mixture of defiance and curiosity flickering in your expression. “Bold of you to assume I'll listen,” you quip, though the slight tremor in your voice betrays your anticipation. 

Lewis smirks, leaning down until his lips brush the shell of your ear. “Oh, you'll listen,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin. “Because you know exactly how patient I can be, but the same can’t be said for you.” 

A shiver runs through you at his words, and before you realize it, you’ve complied, shifting onto your hands and knees in the centre of the bed. You can practically feel his gaze on you, then all of a sudden, you can actually feel him behind you, the bed dipping slightly under his weight as he moves closer. “Good girl,” he says softly, his voice rich with approval, and the way your body reacts to the praise is almost embarrassing. “Oh, my beautiful darling.” His hands skim over your back, tracing the curve of your spine before settling on your hips. The grip is firm, possessive, sending a thrill through you.  

The sounds of him taking himself out of his trousers and pumping cock in his hand is pure debauchery, yet you find yourself pushing your hips back against his thighs. Lewis's low chuckle reverberates through you, a sound full of confidence and desire. His hand tightens on your hips, steadying you as he leans in, his chest brushing against your back. The heat of his skin against yours makes you arch into him instinctively, earning another throaty laugh from him. “You're eager,” he teases, his voice dark and dripping with amusement. “I like you like this.” 

You bite your lip to suppress the needy sound threatening to escape, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “Maybe you're just slow,” you retort breathlessly, glancing back at him over your shoulder, a challenging look in your eyes. 

Lewis growls low in his throat, his hands sliding across your back. “Careful,” he warns, though there's a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. “Push me too far, and I won't be nice.” Your breath catches at his words, but before you can form a response, you feel him guiding himself to your entrance, teasingly dragging against you. The deliberate slowness makes your frustration peak, and you push your hips back, a wordless plea for him to stop teasing. 

“Patience, darling,” he murmurs, his voice a husky promise. But even as he says it, he shifts forward, entering you with a deliberate motion that steals the breath from your lungs. 

The sensation is overwhelming, every nerve in your body alight as he holds still for a moment, letting you adjust. “Lewis,” you breathe, your voice shaky with need.  

His hands gently caress over the skin of your back and hips, soothing over the sharp feeling of Lewis easing himself into you in small movements of his hips. “You’re doing so well,” he shushes your whiny moans, his hands tracing your sides, grounding you. “You feel perfect, we’re almost there, darling.”  

“A-almost?” Your voice cuts his words off, voice shaky with need, “It’s not going to fit, Lewis, I can’t-” 

He leans over you, his lips pressing tender kisses along your spine, each one sending a ripple of warmth through you. His voice is a soothing murmur in your ear. “Relax for me, darling. Let me take care of you.” Your breathing steadies under his touch, the initial sting giving way to a fullness that leaves you breathless as he pushes himself fully into you. You arch your back slightly, pressing into him as his hands continue their gentle exploration of your body. The tenderness in his actions contrasts with the raw desire in his voice, creating a heady mix that leaves you yearning for more. “That's it,” he praises, his tone soft but laced with heat. “You’re incredible. See? We made it fit.” 

“I feel so full.” You manage to let out, voice whiny as the moan is ripped from the back of your throat. “It feels so good, Lewis.” 

He begins to move, a slow, steady rhythm that builds gradually, allowing you to feel every inch of him. The friction ignites a fire within you, and you can’t help the soft moans that escape your lips, each sound spurring him on. His grip on your hips tightens, his pace increasing as he finds the perfect rhythm, each thrust sending waves of pleasure coursing through you. “You feel so good,” he groans, his voice low and thick with desire. His hand slides up your spine, tangling in your hair as he pulls you back slightly, his lips brushing against your ear. “You’re mine, you know that? Only mine.”  

The moan that comes from you is dissenting, causing Lewis to slide his hand down your throat to use the leverage to pull you up on your knees, pressed against his chest. “No,” you say, hands extending backwards to keep holding onto him in an attempt to keep up with the rhythm in which he is fucking you now. 

His words send a shiver down your spine, the possessiveness in his tone igniting something primal within you. “Say it,” he commands, his voice rough as his movements grow more urgent. “Say you're mine.” 

Your breaths are shallow, punctuated by soft whimpers as you cling to him, trying to keep pace with his movements. The way he pulls you against him, his hand firm on your throat, sends a jolt of heat through your core. His hand is firm around your throat, but not uncomfortable to the point that you can’t breathe. 

“I’m not yours,” you gasp defiantly, your voice trembling with every move he makes.  

Lewis growls low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your back as his hand tightens slightly around your neck—not enough to hurt, but enough to keep you in place. “We’ll see about that,” he says darkly. 

His hips snap against you harder now, his rhythm relentless as if determined to prove you wrong. The overwhelming sensation leaves you gasping, your fingers clutching at his forearm for balance. His free hand slides down your body, gripping your waist to hold you steady as he drives deeper, each thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure through you. 

“Still not mine?” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. His tone is equal parts teasing and commanding, daring you to resist him. “Still think someone else can fuck you better than I can?” You bite your lip, trying to stifle the moans spilling from you, but the way he moves, the way he claims you, has you crumbling. “Say it,” he repeats, his voice a low growl that echoes through your very core. 

Torn between defiance and surrender, you meet his challenge with a shaky breath. “I’m-” you begin, but he cuts you off with a particularly deep thrust that has you crying out his name instead. 

“Hmm?” Lewis chuckles darkly, clearly enjoying your struggle. His grip on your neck softens slightly as his fingers trace the column of your throat in a soothing gesture. “Come on, baby, just say it.” 

“I’m-” The word catches in your throat as he shifts slightly, the angle of his hips hitting a spot that sends a jolt of pleasure through you. A broken moan escapes your lips instead, and Lewis smirks against your ear, clearly revelling in your unravelling. 

“Say it,” he demands again, his voice low and demanding. His hand slides from your throat to your jaw, turning your face just enough that his lips can brush against the corner of your mouth. The gentleness of the gesture is at odds with the raw intensity of his movements, leaving you breathless. 

“I’m yours,” you finally gasp, the words tumbling out in a mix of desperation and surrender. 

Lewis freezes for a heartbeat, his chest heaving against your back as the admission settles between you. Then, with a triumphant growl, he resumes his pace, his grip on you tightening as if he intends to imprint himself into every fibber of your being. 

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction. His lips trail along your shoulder, leaving a path of heat in their wake. “Say it again.” 

“Yours,” you whisper, the word coming easier this time, though the weight of it still sends a shiver through you. 

His rhythm grows more urgent, his body moving with a single-minded purpose as he pushes you both toward the edge. “Never forget it,” he groans, his voice rough and ragged, “now come for me.” You blame the singular cocktail you had three or so hours ago for your compliance to his words, as you feel the wave of pleasure crash over you, obliterating any coherent thought. Your body trembles uncontrollably in his arms, your cries of release echoing in the room as he whispers sweet words of praise in your ear.  

There are a million other things Lewis expects you to say, but you surprise him with a, “I wanna taste you.”  

Lewis's movements still, his breath catching at your unexpected words. He pulls back slightly, his dark eyes locking with yours, filled with surprise and a flicker of intrigue. A slow, mischievous grin spreads across his face. “Oh, is that so?” he murmurs, his voice tinged with amusement and undeniable heat. 

You nod, your cheeks flushing under his intense gaze, but there’s a spark of confidence in your eyes. “I really do,” you say softly, the tremble in your voice betraying both your boldness and your eagerness. 

He studies you for a moment longer, his expression shifting to one of reverence laced with desire. "Well," he says, his voice low and gravelly, "who am I to deny you, darling?" With a gentleness that contrasts the fervour of moments ago, Lewis guides you to sit up, his hands warm and steady as they support you. He shifts to the edge of the bed, leaning back slightly, giving you room and letting you take control. His gaze never leaves you, his dark eyes glinting with anticipation. You settle between his thighs, your hands skimming over his skin, marvelling at the way his muscles tense under your touch. There's a sense of power in the way his body responds to you, in the way his breathing hitches when your lips brush against him. You look up at him, meeting his gaze with a small smile before leaning in. The moment your mouth closes around him, Lewis groans low in his throat, his head falling back as his control begins to slip. His hands find their way to your hair, his touch gentle but firm as he guides you, his breaths coming in shallow gasps. “Just like that,” he praises, his voice rough with pleasure. “You’re perfect, baby.” 

The sound of his voice, the way he says your name like it’s the only thing that matters, spurs you on, and you lose yourself in the moment, intent on unravelling him the way he did you. Your lips move with deliberate intent, your tongue tracing teasing paths that have him groaning your name like a prayer. His fingers tighten in your hair, a gentle tug that makes you glance up at him through your lashes. The sight of him – head tilted back, his lips parted as he struggles for breath, sends a thrill through you. 

“God, you’re incredible,” he murmurs, his voice ragged and filled with awe. His eyes find yours, and the intensity of his gaze makes your pulse quicken. “You have no idea what you do to me.” Encouraged by his reaction, you take him deeper, your hands gripping his thighs to steady yourself. The sound he makes is primal, his control slipping further as his hips jerk involuntarily. He tries to hold himself back, but you can tell he’s close to losing himself completely. “Baby,” Lewis rasps, his voice thick with need, “you keep that up, and I won’t last.” You hum around him in response, the vibration pulling another groan from his lips. His hand slips from your hair to cup your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek in a tender contrast to the raw passion between you. “Look at me,” he whispers, his tone almost pleading. 

You meet his gaze, and the connection between you feels electric. His chest heaves as his breaths come in quick, shallow bursts, his control hanging by a thread. “I’m so close,” he warns, his voice a low growl. “Do you want me to stop?” The shake of your head is all the answer he needs. With a curse under his breath, he lets go, his body shuddering as he gives himself over to the waves of pleasure crashing through him. He holds your gaze the entire time, his grip on you tightening as if anchoring himself to the moment. 

When he calms down, he collapses back against the bed, his chest rising and falling with deep, uneven breaths. You sit back after swallowing, a triumphant smile playing on your lips as you take in the sight of him, utterly undone. “That was fun,” you rasp as you take in the sight in front of you. 

Lewis chuckles softly, the sound low and breathless, as he drapes an arm over his face, trying to regain his composure. “Fun?” he repeats, his voice laced with amusement and lingering satisfaction. He peeks at you from under his arm, his dark eyes glinting with a mixture of adoration and disbelief. “You’ve got no idea what you just did to me.” 

You tilt your head, feigning innocence as you crawl up the bed to lie beside him. “I think I’ve got a pretty good idea,” you tease, your voice light but with a hint of pride. 

He turns toward you, propping himself up on one elbow, his free hand reaching out to trace lazy circles along your arm. “You’re dangerous,” he murmurs, his tone soft yet filled with a reverence that makes your cheeks flush. “And I’m completely at your mercy.” 

You laugh, the sound light and genuine, as you nuzzle into his touch. “I think you like it that way,” you reply, your fingers grazing over his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your touch. 

“More than you know,” he admits, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to your temple. The tender gesture contrasts with the raw intensity you’d just shared, and it sends a warm flutter through your chest. 

For a moment, silence falls between you, the only sound the soft rustling of the sheets and the slowing rhythm of his breathing. Then Lewis shifts, his arm slipping around your waist to pull you closer. “You know,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your hair, “I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you.” 

The weight of his words settles over you, and you glance up at him, your heart skipping a beat at the sincerity in his gaze. “Good,” you whisper, a small smile tugging at your lips.  

He smiles back, a look of pure contentment spreading across his face as he tightens his hold on you. “That’s all I get?” 

“We’ll see how you feel after we get home,” you mumble as you run a finger along the curve of his jaw, “you might be bored of me by then.” 

“Home,” Lewis muses quietly, breaking the silence and ignoring your words. His voice is softer now, contemplative. “I like the sound of that.” 

You glance up at him, his face so close that you can see the faintest hint of vulnerability in his expression. It stirs something deep within you – a mix of tenderness and longing that takes you by surprise. 

“Yeah,” you murmur, leaning in to brush your lips against his. “Me too.” 

[eightofpents]

alright i'm gonna talk about the letter apparently. i was just gonna write something petty to rot in my drafts but i've decided i actually wanna collect my thoughts here.

this got. too long. it's under the cut.

FIRST. The letter doesn't invalidate his choice in Re Creation. WHY would he give up the wish he is currently making with the expectation that Adrien Might make the wish he actually wants sometime in the future. He's not the brightest but he's not that dumb. It would be an absolutely nonsense decision to make.

For now I'm gonna assume Gabriel wrote the letter.

I think Intuition is probably when it would've happened. He's high key dying and Nathalie asks him to make arrangements for Adrien, and despite his general inability to envision his failure he Does ask Adrien about it. And in the letter he assumes Nathalie will still be there; as of Intuition they think she'll outlive him. So, arrangements: world's shittiest letter.

And he marks it as anachronistic and puts it in the box with Froggy. Which is in character. White!Gabriel constantly doles out affection to Adrien to manipulate him. Look at Froggy, remember we love each other, and then read this mind blowing letter. Then go beg Nathalie to help you stop being an orphan even though she'd given up on that.

The contents of the letter, for reference:

My son. If you're reading this letter, it means I'm with your mother. I sacrificed everything to save Emilie. Monarch was me. I did all I could to seize the miraculous of the ladybug and the black cat. With their powers, I could have brought your mother back. But I failed. It's your turn, now, to continue my mission. Don't worry. You'll have help. Nathalie will explain. You will seize the miraculous of that wretched Ladybug and her pathetic partner Cat Noir, and you will make the wish to bring your mother and me back. You will be perfect. I know these revelations will turn your life completely upside down. It was the case for your mother and me when we first found out about the miraculous. But we never regretted harnessing the peacock to-

The letter to me, largely sounds like Gabriel could've written it. He Would be petty about Chat Noir.

"My son." Gabriel calls Adrien that on relatively few occasions, but he considers it affectionate, and importantly, he does it in Both My-Son-Is-Chat timelines, and fairly frequently as white!Gabriel, specifically to manipulate him. We're off to a very Gabriel start.

I am curious about him calling her Emilie to Adrien. Not in a "That's not Gabriel*" way, just. It's weird to call your partner by their name to your kids right? Are they just reminding Us of her name?? (*not that he's ever done it before)

"But I failed." His inability to conceive of a world where he fails; you might consider this an issue of ego, stubbornness, whatever. I. Do not. When he says he can't live without Emilie in Re Creation, he fucking means it. He finally accepts her death and Immediately kills himself. He can't lose because the world can't go on without Emilie. So despite it being uncharacteristic to Make Arrangements (notably. he doesn't, like, find a caretaker for adrien. just this letter.), I'm not marking it against Gabriel writing the letter because the arrangements he's making are actually just to make sure Emilie comes back.

"It's your turn, now, to continue my mission. You'll have help. Nathalie will explain." It's not Nathalie will help. It's Nathalie will explain. You'll have help. From the cult. (Who notably refer to the diamond's "mission" at the end.) The point of this letter isn't to get Adrien to start hunting miraculous (on his own). It's to get Adrien into the cult. Which I'm sure Nathalie recognizes.

Perfect and revelation are both loaded words but I don't have any thoughts on em beyond that.

"But we never regretted harnessing the peacock" (A lie, but one I can appreciate.) This is what really gets me. He's going to tell Adrien he's a senti. Which doesn't make any sense for Gabriel to do. A deathbed confession about senti stuff? Yeah, Maybe. But if he plans on being back to deal with the consequences of Adrien knowing??? This isn't going to endear him to Adrien. I don't think it'll make him more likely to listen. All it'll do is fuck the boy up.

And as someone else (i do not recall who) pointed out, hiding the letter in the box when you're working with the very limited time frame of Nathalie's life from Gabriel's perspective as he's ostensibly writing this would be Exceptionally risky. Its been months, now that we're finding it. But if it was written after Gabriel's wish that's a moot point.

I legit went into this post without strong feelings on who wrote the letter but I've kinda fully convinced myself it wasn't Gabriel. (<says noted Gabriel Apologist. but I was managing that just fine when I thought he Did write it so.)

Anyway I'm officially putting my money on "written by the cult, for the cult."

[nitw]

i have to talk about the kellys from scarlet hollow. i HAVE to. or more specifically i have to talk about dr. joan kelly and her relationship with reese. SPOILERS FOR CHAPTER 4 OF THE GAME!! (also this is gonna get super long)

the "supernatural child held hostage by their caretaker/parental figure out of fear" trope is nothing new, and i've seen it done well. while it can serve as an allegory for lots of things, it hits VERY hard with me as someone who's been institutionalized for most of their childhood due to mental illness and disability. that kinda isolation can lead to severe self-doubt, trust issues and pent up anger.

scarlet hollow is my new favorite example of this trope, because it does something i don't often see: it humanizes the abuser and paints a realistic, tragic picture of it all from the perspectives of both parties, while giving the audience full control over their own perspective. and it becomes all the more scary and relatable to me for it.

let me start out by being very clear - dr. kelly is an abuser. i'm using that word in the most literal sense: abuse is about control. abuse is about consciously taking away someone's authority over their own life and denying them basic needs/rights. that DOESN'T mean it has to come from a place of malice or hatred!! joan explicitly states that she loves her son, and that she hates doing what she does, but she's also explicitly aware of what it means for them both. she knows what she's doing, she knows it'd be unacceptable if it wasn't necessary - and she's an abuser for it.

but the thing that really gets me about her? it's the fact that this is ALL ON HER. it's LITERALLY a self-fulfilling prophecy.

according to her, reese first showed symptoms of not being totally human as a preteen, which worried her but wasn't enough to warrant any action. it was only after a violent outburst that she started seeing him as a threat to be dealt with. what's interesting and REALLY IMPORTANT to note here is that despite this, despite genuinely fearing what was now a monster in her eyes... she still saw reese as her son. or more accurately; she also saw that monster as her son. her desire to keep him alive is almost entirely driven by not wanting to kill what used to be just her son. she mourned him too much. she still does.

what dr. kelly's internal conflict comes down to is less about ethics and more about responsibility. if you condemn her at any point for the torture she's inflicting on reese, she'll make it very clear that this is "the lesser evil" to her. it's not something she enjoys, but she does not want to feel guilty for it, because it's not guilt that's trapping her; it's fear. fear and stubbornness. an inability to see or work past the grave she dug for herself years ago out of fear. she was acting desperately when she decided to poison and isolate him to keep him docile, and reese was just a kid back then. but now he's an adult, and in all that time, joan has come to terms with her choice, and that desperation has turned into stoic complacency. she's fully internalized this as a permanent solution. and also, in all that time, she has NEVER once considered an alternative.

and that's the kicker. ask yourself; what would have happened if she tried anything else? what would have happened if these security measures were always meant to be temporary, so that she could buy time for both of them to calm down and talk about it together? what would have happened if she did nothing at all, and just put her trust in reese himself? would it have been more or less risky to take a different route while he was still a kid?

the answer is that we'll never know any of these things because joan never tried. as soon as she saw her child as A Problem, her first instinct was to subdue him and lock him away from the world, without directly harming him. and she spent the next several years never regretting that decision, even as she watched reese grow chronically ill and more depressed by the second, even as they stopped treating each other like family, even as she could feel herself becoming afraid of him again with how much more unpredictable he is as self-aware adult.

everything about this is just..... so so SO familiar to me that it makes me wanna scream. there's no recipe for hopelessness quite like a parent taking away your chance at a normal childhood for reasons you couldn't understand, and only really seeing it for what it was years later when you're old enough to make your own judgements, all because they were scared to admit that they might've been wrong.

if i had a maw like that i would've been on the news.

[medicallyfascinating]

"You can be real critical of yourself, and you admit it when you make a mistake" ( Caspar to Edelgard )

"( Smiling ) Heh, so you're saying that the kind of world I'm striving to create is wrong? [...] No matter what shape the world takes, I'm sure I'll always need people like you by my side. People with strong principles who will argue with me and force me to consider ideas that are contrary to my own" ( Edelgard to Ferdinand )

"Ah, I see I was wrong about something. I thought that being a devout believer implied a certain weakness of spirit. An inability to survive on your own. But you've proven me wrong, Professor Manuela" ( Edelgard to Manuela )

How does that match with your beliefs surrounding Edelgardand critism? Adding to that, how does Bernadetta and Linhardt A support fit into it?

Okay so, I think a lot of this is diving into politics within the regime she's created. A lot of my comments about her struggling to take criticism were feeding into when she takes criticism towards herself or her ideals (specifically the war and the change of regime and uniting the whole of Fódlan). I think she's much more willing to accept notes and ideas and criticisms surrounding political ideas within her regime because I think she's aware of the fact that she's not entirely sure what she's doing and she does need help to build the world she's looking for.

Also, most of these are A supports and all of them are post-ts. I think she most likely would have gotten to a point by then that she could take some more criticism and be able to have her views challenged without being sent spiralling. By this point, she has matured, and the war is coming to an end, and she can start properly envisioning the world she wants to create and it's mellowed her out.

I still think she finds it very hard to take criticism, and in Ferdinand and Edelgard's A support, Ferdinand is not as critical and argumentative as he often can be. In her B-support with Manuela, Manuela is very calm when explaining her thought process to Edelgard. I think Edelgard can want criticism and try very hard (as she gets older) to not internalise it and actually use it to improve her plans and their futures BUT find it hard to take at the same time.

And like in Edelgard and Caspar's A support- I think both things can be true at once. She admits to mistakes that she thinks she's made, and that's good, but there's also an aspect of what happens when she doesn't believe she's made a mistake but actually has. She also internalises those mistakes very deeply and I do think she still initially lashes out at people who point out those mistakes

Hubert and Monica's A-support in three hopes:

Here she does both. She internalises a piece of criticism (that admittedly was very harsh) and lashes out at Monica for it and then deeply regrets it. Hubert also has many interactions with her that end like this and I fully expect those ones have a lot more to do with Hubert questioning political decisions within both the war and their futures.

As for Linhardt and Bernie's A-support, I'm not entirely sure what you're asking but:

At the end of their support, Linhardt is praising Bernadetta rather than consoling her. Bernie responds very well to praise. Also, fundamentally, I don't think she's a character who massive tips one way or another when she's being consoled or criticised. She enjoys being consoled, but in the long run, she prefers to be criticised because she gets something out of it. As long as she's criticised gently and given time to not feel like a complete failure, she'll get a lot more out of it than if she's consoled and comforted for her mistakes.

I hope this makes sense. A lot of my initial analysis was based just within the classroom and the fundamentals of their personality and how they would react when they've failed to understand something. Whether they would feel like a piece of themselves had been attacked, and if so, whether they would be able to take it and break that feeling down into something useful or not.

Thank you for the ask though!!!! I love being asked questions :D

[damnhitsuzen]

I am jumping so hard between everything will be alright and Watanuki will not to anything crazy and guess he'll go back in time far enough to become Clow Reed. (also what are the chances it was Yuuko who either made the book or had it made for this purpose?) The inherent tragedy of two people who want the other to live so much but one hasn't technically existed for a long time and the other wouldn't exist without her dying and then her doing the most to help him become real. Truly the most characters of all time

ok, first of all - I have not read Clear Card arc yet and I have no idea what happens there. The thing is, I have a fic with some time travel started and I don't want to get it influenced by any new lore (I have a feeling that Clear Card might have retconned previous worldbuilding yet AGAIN). So I decided to not get too deep into Rei before I finish the fic and read CC (which is soon I hope)

BUT I might have had a bit of Clow Reed - Watanuki meta brewing in my head for some time, waiting to be dumped on unsuspecting passerby (sorry) I think the main reason why Watanuki would not become Clow at any point of his life is that Watanuki is an anti-Clow. A post-Clow, one might say.

When I was in school, we had this old-timey soviet relic of task that was called "A Work on Mistakes". A teacher would write over your homework with red ink, circling over mistakes without explaining them. Then, you had to write an explanation, to work on mistakes: to each circled zone, you had to give explanation why it was a mistake, find a relevant rule or exception, and write the correct answer. Tedious, humiliating experience that served me just about now as a metaphor. I believe that Watanuki cannot be a future Clow, because he is a universe's work on mistakes in Clow. Here are the most crucial of those mistakes, in three parts - death, women and agency, and magic.

PART 1. Death.

We do not know much about Clow's perception of death apart from a couple of facts: - his lifespan was very long due to ungodly amounts of magic - he was surrounded by ageless immortal magical beings he himself created as companions - a love of his life also should have had a long-ass lifespan but died suddenly, triggering a reaction so visceral, Clow straight up fumbled the universe - he got to plan his own death and decide when it happens in smallest details. Should I say that none of those tell us a story of healthy perception of death and its inevitability? They tell a story of isolated guy, who has vast amounts of magic that allow him to seem outside of death's reach - for both himself and those he loves. And even his own death is a choice - a decision of usefulness and efficiency, rather than a lesson from laws of universe. On the other hand, we have Watanuki - a boy, drenched in death and its ruthlessness from the moment he comes into existence. The beautiful and sad thing in Watanuki that he doesn't need to learn any lessons about death. He doesn't come to acceptance of inevitability because understanding death is his core, built-in characteristic. As if he was created in a way that makes Clow mistakes impossible. Watanuki holds a dead cat and laments not its death, but loneliness of the moment (and holds a FREAKING CORPSE OF A CAT tenderly, so it won't be lonely); he comforts a child murder victim sweetly so she could move on (this is a moment I fell in love with Watanuki as character btw); usually, he gets angry not about the fact of death, but at pain or loneliness or injustice that may come with it. Again and again, we see how Watanuki is forced to face death and accept it. But instead of hating the way it follows him, he goes out of his way to make the passing for others as gentle, warm, painless, and not lonely as possible. Then, death takes its two biggest swings at Watanuki: Yuuko's death and his own inability to die. With Yuuko. it's like universe takes its precautions: Watanuki is literally immobilised. This way, a man with Clow Reed's face an his blood has to do something that Clow was unable to do - to watch Yuuko die and do nothing. Something that Tsubasa is unable to do with his Sakura. It's like Watanuki has to take one for other Reed men - accept a death of beloved and closes the cycle of rewinds. Thus, I see no viable way to make him into Clow without completely destroying the conclusion of THREE stories - TRC, CCS, and xxxHolic itself. Also, while Clow has agency to plan his death, Watanuki loses the agency to die by paying his part of price. It's like he has to accept inevitability even in that. "Everybody dies", Watanuki repeats the tagline with not sadness, but hope that he will be able to as well. By the time Watanuki has finally paid his price, he probably sees death as his oldest companion - a gift he might be given, a last way to connect with people he loves. Once again, Watanuki has to be humbled where Clow was allowed to cheat.

I will continue a bit later, I wanted to write this a long time ago. If CLAMP make a fool of me in Rei, so be it. But I will stay on my point that Watanuki should never be Clow.

[ihopesocomic]

Hey amongst all of this I just wanna say I really like how this comic has handled Viscous and this kind of abuse.

We start off with her losing the other cubs in her litter, no one believing Hope would survive, and seeing her not having a fourth leg as proof of that. Viscous won't lose another cub and holds onto her but doesn't move past that grief.

In order to keep her cub alive, she carries her around. She doesn't let her do things for herself that could potentially harm another one of her legs and stop her from walking altogether. An ableist stance, yeah, but you can see where the concern is coming from.

Giving her no independence is obviously not great and it grows from there. We can see where the behaviour has stemmed from. It's a grief filled flavour of control, a distance in emotion, and an inability to see what Hope can do in favour of focusing on what she can't. She hasn't grown past the whole "this is my last cub I can't let her die too" situation enough to see Hope as a person, seemingly only really getting involved when either prompted, or when Hope is doing something she deems dangerous.

Then of course we have the Jasper situation. The forced compliance over a fear of a repeat of the cacklers situation. She's an example of a mother not leaving an abusive situation 'for the kids', due to that reliance. The fear of losing the last cub from that litter and the fear of what would happen to the pride without Jasper is keeping her in-line. She can't see past these things, she's stuck in the system with Jasper feeding into it all.

But none of this is used to justify her actions. Her single minded focus on keeping the last cub alive despite the odds have been twisted over time, growing into what it is now. She hasn't healed from anything and has no real space to do so. You've framed her decisions in such a way that we can fill in the gaps and see this progression, but without it in any way suggesting a loving and caring relationship with Hope. She's not sympathetic in a way that says she loves anf cared for her, she's sympathetic in that we can see where it started and what it's become and can be sympathetic for how it started.

The thing with Viscous is that she makes sense. She's not just Like That or cartoonishly cruel, she makes sense. She doesn't really see Hope as a person so she doesn't have a name until much later. She lashes out because her daughter disobeyed her and gave her the name Hopeless, and thinking about it, you can see where that name stems from as well. She assumed to be hopeless from the very beginning, and while Viscous focused on keeping her alive, there has always been that lack of hope. That lack of belief that Hope could be anything but a tripod dead weight that's gonna die like the other cubs the second Vicious loses control over her.

You haven't once suggested that Vicious has done the right thing or that she's justified. You've shown us how she got here in a way that makes sense, and in a way that we don't need any of the cast to outright tell us what's going on.

I may not be right about this since it's just my interpretation, but I wanted to chime in and share how well I think Vicious has been written. She's an antagonist who's motivations make a lot of sense, but who is still very much an antagonist and very much not justified in her actions and that's what makes her a great character. If she were written more sympathetically, she wouldn't be nearly as good for the story!

Sorry for the rambling, your comic and characterisation are just so good it brings the words outta me lmao

OH STOP IT YOU <33

Thank you so much for this sweet ask. It was truly a joy to read and we always appreciate people taking the time to "ramble" in our inbox, don't ever apologise for that.

But yeah, I always worry about Vicious's portrayal because we wanted to show just enough for people to fill in gaps themselves because sometimes I wonder if things can come across as heavy handed or obvious in our portrayal of abuse.

Hearing all of this is always such a comfort, so thanks so much yee <333 - RJ

[twilightmalachite]

Wish - Tangled Up 3

Characters: Tsumugi, Eichi

Translation: Mika Enstars

"You barely have much of a presence to begin with, you know. You’ll end up getting bumped into by someone who doesn’t notice."

[Read on my blog for the best viewing experience with Oi~ssu ♪]

Season: Summer

Location: ES Lobby

At the same time, in the ES Lobby…

Tsumugi: …

Eichi: Uh-oh. What are you doing, standing there like that, Tsumugi?

You’ll get in the way of other people by standing there and doing nothing, you know? You barely have much of a presence to begin with, you know. You’ll end up getting bumped into by someone who doesn’t notice.

Tsumugi: Ahh, Eichi-kun. I apologize, I was spacing out a bit…

Eichi: I see… Guess you’re busy as ever with work, huh?

I’d thought that even NewDi’s management had managed to stabilize itself, but there is still a labor shortage after all, huh.

If necessary, I can send over some office staff from my agency. How about it?

Tsumugi: While it’s true that we’re short staffed, we’re not to the point you need to go to such lengths, Eichi-kun.

Besides, what you really want out of that would be the ability to probe through our internal affairs through those workers, right?

Eichi: Fufu, I knew it wouldn’t work on you, Tsumugi. If you’re in charge of managing an agency, it’s to be expected you’d be at least that much cautious.

But by that definition, wouldn’t that be NewDi’s president and your boss—Mototsugi Arata-kun?

I have no choice but to label him as someone who lacks self-awareness as a manager.

Tsumugi: Umm, what is it you mean by that?

Eichi: You’ve been dismissed as vice president, haven’t you, Tsumugi?

Tsumugi: Wha, Eichi-kun, why do you know that I was…?

Eichi: Given how much of a commotion your agency is making about it, it’s only natural that information would leak out.

I’m so astonished that NewDi’s inability to manage their information worries me.

The dismissal of you, who's been at the core of operations up until now, will become a unquestionable weakness for the agency.

If courses of action aren't put in place to keep such information from leaking out to the outside world as quickly and covertly as possible, it could become a target for attack.

Tsumugi: …

Eichi: Goodness gracious. And I had given Mototsugi-kun advice about that as a business manager, back when he had established NewDi…

But, well, the ones at the forefront of ES politics has been you and Tsukasa-kun up until now. I guess Mototsugi-kun’s inexperience is inevitable.

Tsumugi: …Eichi-kun, could it be that you did something to President Arata?

Eichi: Hm? What do you mean, “something”?

Tsumugi: I may have only known the president for a short time, but I don't think he’s the type of person who would dismiss me without a reason.

And so, it makes me suspect that there might have been some sort of outside force behind his decision to dismiss me.

Eichi: Really? So you suspect the culprit behind it to be me, Tsumugi.

Tsumugi: The establishment of NewDi was backed by investments from both CosPro and by you, Eichi-kun.

With that in mind, it’s not out of consideration that you would apply pressure onto President Arata, is it?

Eichi: Hm. But even with that acknowledged, what reason would I have to apply pressure onto NewDi?

Tsumugi: With the admission of Esupuri, with NiceP as their producer, NewDi is now currently the agency with the closest relationship with Thunderbolt.

And, now starting with 4piece, Japanese idols are now currently gaining worldwide attention.

At a time like this, NewDi, which has built a strong relationship with Thunderbolt—a massive global corporation—is in a favorable position.

Because of that, it would be no surprise for the other agencies here to apply pressure onto NewDi.

Eichi: I see. Certainly, that is a plausible hypothesis, to a degree.

And it is true that Thunderbolt is a factor we all must remain cautious of.

Still, I never thought you would think that way of me. How sad.

I don’t mind being suspected; I am aware that I have done things that warrant such suspicion. But…

Does this mean that you trust Mototsugi-kun more than you do me? And here I thought this incident could easily be interpreted as him getting carried away.

Tsumugi: I trust you as much as I do President Arata, if not more.

I can say this to you because I trust you. Eichi-kun, you'll use any means necessary to achieve your goals, won't you?

You wouldn’t hesitate if it is necessary. Am I wrong?

Eichi: Fufu, that’s exactly right. I am willing to make any decision, any sacrifice if necessary.

That being said, I find the conclusion you reached to be a bit much of a reach, Tsumugi.

Tsumugi: …Is it really that reaching? I feel pretty confident about it, though…

Eichi: Even if NewDi has forged a strong relationship with Thunderbolt through Esupuri, there still are other agencies with applicants that qualified in 4piece, aren't there?

As Mao and Wataru have been selected for Nice Dream Units, this means that StarPro too has made a connection with Thunderbolt.

With all that considered, what reason would we have to trouble ourselves with the risk of meddling with NewDi?

Tsumugi: …In that case, wouldn’t you approaching me just now fall underneath meddling with NewDi?

Eichi: Huh?

Tsumugi: It’s possible you perhaps approached me to ensure I’ve successfully been relieved of my duties as vice president…

Because otherwise, you’d have no reason to go out of your way to speak with me, Eichi-kun.

Eichi: Goodness, you’re being far too paranoid, you know. You don’t seriously think that, do you?

Tsumugi: …

Eichi: Fufu, could it be you’re taking out your anger on me, Tsumugi?

Tsumugi: Oh no, I wouldn’t take my anger out on you. What makes you think that?

Eichi: You’ve been terribly aggressive in your suspicions towards me. Like you’re developing contrived reasons just so you can lay the blame on someone.

Tsumugi: It’s not my intention to do that…

But, if it feels that way to you, Eichi-kun, I apologize. I didn’t mean to.

Eichi: Alright. But let me be clear, I truly had no hand in any of this.

Tsumugi: But if that’s true, then why did President Arata dismiss me?

Not knowing the “why” feels somewhat like a weight upon my shoulders.

Eichi: …

…At times like this, I’m sure a “friend” would invite you out to karaoke.

Tsumugi: Where’d that come from, Eichi-kun? What’s this about karaoke?

I’m pretty sure you’ve brought up the subject of karaoke out of nowhere before…

Tsumugi: Ah, could it be that you want to go? If so, you should’ve just said so~! ♪

I’ve been free since just earlier, so even right now is fine!

Eichi: I never said anything like that. Besides, I will never go to karaoke with you, no matter the circumstance—

…Is what I would have said, but…

This is a special case. How about I join you in karaoke, to help take your mind off things?

To commemorate the day you took your anger out on me, Tsumugi. ♪

[ ☆ ]

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[ladymisteria]

AMAZON PRIME'S ZORRO PROS & CONS.

After days of watching and re-watching the episodes of the new Zorro adaptation, I decided to share what - obviously only in my opinion - are its main pros & cons.

(For fairness, since I will mention spoiler elements, I thought I'd insert my reflections below the cut).

PROS:

MORE POV. It is impossible to start mentioning the pros of this series without mentioning the very obvious - and extremely right - decision to "broaden" the points of view. Perhaps for the first time, in fact, the story is not narrated almost completely by Diego alone, but also by the various other characters who are part of it (be they the Chinese, the natives, etc.).

REALITY. As already said by @aragarna, this new Zorro gets rid of the "we are all friends/we sit at the same table" contours to show - finally! - the tense and highly classist climate of a sadly very particular historical period. We see the hatred and distrust towards the natives, with the enormous difference - compared to other products that focus on this particular "feud" between colonizers and colonized - of knowing "both bells" (I don't know if there is a similar expression, in English, I apologize) and therefore being able to realize how different things are, depending on who tells the stories. This makes the series refreshingly "real" (yes, even if it includes elements like the Spirits of Native American culture).

NOT CLEARLY GOOD/BAD CHARACTERS. Monasterio is no longer the Commander, absolutely "black", devoid of scruples and good sides. Indeed, as the season continues, he increasingly demonstrates that he is an individual who well understands the absolute injustice of what he does - while nevertheless not shying away from doing it because he is faithful to his position. He is in conflict between what his principles and his role impose on him, effectively making him a magnificent "grey" character. Diego and Nah-Lin themselves are wonderful examples of "well-rounded" characters, because even in their most wrong actions, they maintain a sincerely credible and even - at certain points - justifiable motivation.

TECHNICAL VISUAL ASPECT. The scenes are masterfully shot, the soundtrack is not intrusive but rather an excellent way to underline the various thoughts/feelings of the characters, etc..

ZORRO'S LEGACY. The idea of a "generational change" of Zorro, in a choice that potentially makes it possible to see more sides of the same character - trivially because more people interpret him. A fact demonstrated in this same first season, where we had three Zorros, all three with their "characteristic side".

THE DECISION OF DEPRIVE DIEGO OF HIS MOST RECOGNIZABLE TRAIT. Depriving him - and so soon! - of his father (and consequently of the only person who knows him perfectly), the series allows Diego to always act as himself (within the limits desired by the situation of the moment), without having to resort to that supposed inability to defend himself/laziness/cowardice which is renowned as one of the particular signs of his character.

DIEGO IS NOT INVINCIBLE. It might seem stupid, but in many adaptations, Diego is seen as practically infallible. His plans always come to fruition, he never gets hurt, he makes almost no mistakes... This "new" Diego doesn't; here Diego is young (according to my calculations he is just 21/22 years old), he becomes Zorro not because of his choice but because - literally! - the spirits give him (via Night Crow) the costume and send him home with a lapidary: "You are the new Zorro, whether you want it or not", he still acts like a daredevil boy (complete with Bernardo-Mother Hen)... And this translates into some - very justifiable - errors and just as many choices that are not exactly well thought out.

CONS:

TOO MANY IRONS IN THE FIRE. To be clear: the various plot threads are all (well, almost: Samael and Guadalupe and their "inheritance hunt" have not managed to involve me at all, for the moment) interesting and well structured; but they are objectively many, for a single season. We have the Bear Clan, the Russian-American Company that wishes to "take over Los Angeles", Guadalupe's aforementioned inheritance hunt, Nah Lin's desire for revenge, the search for the truth about his father's murder on Diego's part... And of these very few - if not almost none - had an effective conclusion. The feeling I got was that the producers wanted to "play their cards" all at once, in the hope that this would secure them a renewal for a second season. Something along the lines of: "Hey, we need the renewal! Look at all the unresolved things we left!".

LOLITA. I'm sorry to say this, but I just can't understand what the producers had in mind when they created her character. Or rather, to be more precise, when they created her relationship with Diego. She is initially shown to us as angry at Diego for going to Spain (I think?), in an attitude that could even be understood - if only that same attitude didn't remain as if petrified throughout the rest of the season. Why, exactly, does Lolita remain so resentful towards Diego all the time? Because, despite knowing that he loves her (he himself tells her this, when she helps him with his wound, and even in the very first episode), she constantly pretends not to know what feelings bind him to her, and indeed continually acts in such a way as to hurt him on purpose? Mha! It remains meaningless to me.

Here it is. I have indicated, I repeat, what for me are the main pros and cons of the season (you will probably have found others, or even none).

[paceypeternathanslawyer]

Big John is such a bad father!! Not the worst in Outer Banks. That award still goes to Ward Cameron but damn!!!! Every time I rewatch season 3 I get so livid at Big John. I want to like Big John because I care so much about John B and we spent three seasons seeing John B absolutely wrecked by the loss of his father. Also it seems like he was the closest thing to a father that JJ had but Big John does not make it easy. What's so sad to me is that John B is initially so happy to have his Dad back but because of Big John's decisions John B becomes sadder than he was when his Dad was gone. I can just feel his depression because of how much he anticipated the joy of seeing his Dad again but then Big John put John B through so much danger and trauma and stress. I don't even know where to start. I guess the first inkling of his inability to be a father is when he tells John B that he stayed away and allowed his 16 year old to think he was dead to "protect him from danger" like bitch?!?! Give me a roadmap cause I cannot follow that logic!! While Big John was gone John B was nearly killed dozens of times and he was nearly given the death sentence for a murder he was framed for. You left John B to fend for himself and pay for his own food/clothes and made him pay the bills alone at the age of 16. And then claimed because you "taught him how to shoplift" that it makes it all okay. Poor John B was devastated without his father and yet Big John didn't seem affected by being away from his son for like a year. And the reason I feel that is because when John B gets back all he can do, talk about, or think about is treasure hunting. You would think that he would want to spend real quality time with his son instead of trying to destroy John B's relationship with Sarah by pushing him to lie to her, traumatizing John B by killing two guys in front of him, coercing him to hold up a woman on the street in order to steal her wallet (which thankfully John B couldn't completely go forward with but Big John still put John B in a horrible traumatizing situation yet again. And also put some poor woman in a situation that was potentially very traumatizing. And it probably would have been if John B hadn't dealt with it the way he ultimately did). Big John has no inclination to fish with his son or do anything else that they used to do before he was missing. All he cares about is gold. He doesn't care about his son's safety or his daughter in law's safety. All that matters is fucking treasure hunting. Ward is an evil man and he was wrong to do what he did to Big John but I also think that Big John was no angel in that dispute. He could have split the money they got for the gold 50/50. That's still a lot of money. He was just being greedy and selfish. So was Ward TBH. Ward was already rich and 60/40 wasn't a horrible offer but I do view that dispute differently knowing how greedy Big John is.

On a nicer note it really warms my heart to see how John B has broken this generational curse at every step. When Sarah gets shot and Sarah is concerned that Terence and Cleo will steal the gold while they go get help, John B says "Screw the gold!" John B puts his friends and family above gold/treasure. And then all of season 4 is John B trying to protect Sarah and telling her how he just wants a normal life with her and their unborn baby and wants to walk away from treasure hunting. You can also how different John B is because of how uncomfortable he is with his father's actions. Big John does a lot of morally questionable things or just plain stupid stuff and John B is the voice of sanity in those moments. And even if John B is unable to voice his feelings he still makes it clear that he uncomfortable with the whole situation. I also think the whole dispute between Big John and Ward illustrates what a better person John B is. John B never quibbled about who should get more share of the gold with his friends. It was never even a question. It was just a given that they were gonna split it evenly regardless of how much work each person put into it. I just know that John B and Sarah are gonna be amazing parents. They are gonna give this child a way better life than either of their sets of parents did!

[anotherdragonbird]

hi!!! i have no idea how to navigate twitter, is there a way you could link your thread about daigo and kiryu’s relationship? as a huge daigo fan, it’d be really interesting to see a pov on their relationship from someone who doesn’t really like daigo LMFAO. i mean this in the nicest way possible, thank you for being so unforgiving of my fave. it’s a great way to check my biases

Aloha! Of course, that's no problem! Thanks for asking. Here we go:

Random musings, but I think Kiryu's letter to Daigo in Y6 shouldn't be taken at face value. For me it's a very obvious expression of Kiryu's tendency to be self sacrificial and take responsibility for everything leading to his lone wolf "I have to repent for everything” behavior which is interwoven with his severe survivor's guilt. He and Daigo never had any sort of father/son relationship. If anything Kiryu was sort of a big brother. They are around 8 years apart and Daigo was literally Kiryu's young master as the son of Kiryu's patriarch. His superior. And he even acted that way. In no way is this similar to the relationship Kazama& Kiryu or Arakawa&Ichiban had. If anything you can compare it to Ichiban&Masato. When Dojima met his fate Daigo was already 20. If anything it's a really fcked up thing to call Daigo his son. Just because Kiryu writes that, doesn't mean it's true and should be taken at face value. Same with Kiryu taking responsibility for bringing Daigo into the life of crime. Both of his parents already have leadership roles in the clan. He's getting into juvie without Kiryu's influence. Yeah, the events that lead to Daigo joining the Clan are started by Kiryu taking the blame for Nishiki, but a) that doesn't make Kiryu responsible and b) Daigo is already an adult at this point. When Kiryu eventually confronts him, Daigo isn't like leading a civilian life (unlike Kiryu btw when he gets constantly dragged back into Tojo business), he's still a Yakuza and a fck up gangster drowning in his own self pity. When Daigo makes the decision to become chairman, he's in his 30s and he has Yayoi, Kashiwagi and Majima at his side, who are much better suited to support him than Kiryu who has no experience with leadership, who basically always was a grunt. Just because Kiryu thinks he's at fault, because that's literally one of his flaws, doesn't mean that he is. Daigo can be a fck up all by himself.

Original thread is here

One thing I want to add: I have no real issues with Daigo (and even less with people who really enjoy his character), I'm mostly really irritated by the tendency to make Kiryu responsible for the things Daigo fcks up and to put Daigo, Kashiwagi and Majima on some sort of pedestal. I've seen Kiryu compared to Shimano and Sagawa, completely ignoring that Kiryu has an actual child to care for. There's this popular meme/joke that Haruka and Daigo would bond so much about Kiryu being a bad dad and I actually think they wouldn't. Because a) I don't think Daigo actually sees Kiryu as a father figure (see stuff above) and b) Haruka has every reason to despise the Tojo for dragging Kiryu back in, for shaping Kiryu into the man that he is and actually especially she has no reason to like Daigo considering his inability to lead to Tojo is what drags Kiryu back to Tokyo, even after he found a happy life in Okinawa.

So that's my harsh take on this :D I don't mind discussing this, if people are civil. I like different views, especially if they are nuanced and don't boil down to "Kiryu's terrible and everyone else is his victim"

[moonshyness]

The Power of Intention over Purpose and Goals

Recently, I became frustrated again with my seeming inability to declutter my life from the usual distractions. Reaching for my phone to scroll endlessly, putting Youtube on as background noise, constantly listening to random playlists, the usual suspects. When I reached my peak in frustration a thought came to me: I want to live my life with intent. I want to make conscious decisions and act accordingly. I want to focus on one thing at a time, as often as possible. I know I'm not reinventing the wheel here. Mindfulness and conscious living isn't a foreign concept to me either. But for some reason when I started framing it with the question "What is my intention?" Meaning, what is my intention, in the first place, towards myself, I realized that it seemed easier to shift my behavior. So now when I instinctively pick up my phone out of boredom I ask myself: "What is my intention in doing this?" For some reason it helps me shift my attention towards better options, like reading or just drinking my coffee in silence while looking out of the window, without feeling like I'm forcing myself to. Of course I don't just only do that though. I'm not one of those people that believes all social media is inherently evil. But the way that I consume things on there changes when I ask myself what my intentions are. When I do go on Youtube for example, the end result is I spend less time on there, but consume more high quality content that I'm actually interested in, rather than senseless short-form content. Before, I used to always try to set myself concrete goals like "No scrolling in the morning" but often failed to actually reach those goals because my mind immediately registered it as another annoying task I have to do. The cool thing about finding out what your intentions are in doing certain things, is that it can be applied to a lot of different aspects in life, or even just life in general. Rather than asking myself what my overarching goal or purpose in life is, I just ask myself "How do I intend to live?" Goals and purpose are terms that can feel heavy and burdensome to us, as they are intricately tied to our usefulness to the system we live in. That isn't to say that we should only think about ourselves and never be useful to others, but the societal pressure that comes with "finding your purpose" or reaching certain goals that everyone deems to be standard things you have to achieve (getting a good job, buying a house, starting a family, etc.) often doesn't actually help us achieve those things in a truthful and intentional way, even if we really want to achieve them. And of course it doesn't help at all, when we have dreams that are completely different from the "standard" way of living. (Some people don't care about being successful in their job, some people don't want families, etc.). By focusing on our intentions, we ask ourselves what we want out of life, not what we think we should want. The more we become familiar with our intentions, the more easy it becomes to navigate life in a way that is suitable for our particular selves, and the easier it becomes to live in line with those intentions, because it becomes easier to reinforce positive behaviors that enhance our life experience.

[kitkatopinions]

hi!! same anon from the roosterteeth ask!! loved reading your response, 10/10 gourmet shit. reading thru it, i kinda wanna pitch in my own exhaustion as a poc whipping open rwby twitter and see fans villainizing + silencing other fans who take issues with the white fang and of course, adam. adam will forever be a decisive character and i fully acknowledge that people wont like him. my grievances are less about adam himself (wholly different topic lol) and more of the larger discussion of the inability to challenge adams portrayal and the how the writers fucked up badly. theres this notion in the fanbase that adam is unquestionably an 'evil irredeemable abuser that we should all despise', the same dismissiveness is felt alongside the white fang arc. how we should all 'accept our headcanons are wrong, and accept that adam was always made to be evil'. you cannot discuss the white fang without ever mentioning blakes involvement with it, same goes for adam. he is a direct result of the white fang being so mishandled by the writers who have as much melanin as a slab of wonderbread. you cannot seperate his arc from the writers mishandling and their own prejudice. if we all can agree the white fang was handled poorly, then why are so people hellbent on not reading deeper into aspects of the white fang like adam or blake? although i am not black, i am a queer poc. its so exhausting to see how rwby fans on twitter and tumblr alike would villainize the idea that people who are upset by adams portrayal are 'overreacting incels who didnt get their power fantasy wet dream' and that 'true fans ALWAYS knew adam was evil from the start'. as a queer poc, i feel like if i were to have a presence in this fanbase, these fans with #BLM in their handles and bios that champion queer rights, these same fans would deny me of my queerness and my status as a poc. someone who is 'corrupted' by the whims of negativity, someone who would turn on the (very white) queer peers of the fandom out of my own bigotry. these very same fans would make tweets upon threads praising the show and CRWBY for 'good representation'. im gonna be real, this representation does not include people with disabilities, it does not include trans folk. this representation sure as fuck does not include poc lmfao. it only includes the whitest cute uwu queer girls who handhold and flirt, after a decade of waiting for proper canonization, from a company whos bigotry is its brand and whos built the show off the backs of abused real life employers who are minorities. yet the community insists to be grateful for it. they insist to be happy for the oh so progressive CRWBY, to be grateful that we get to see two girls kiss and that cancels out the mountain of other representation that was chucked behind cus our oh so progressive crwby got too uncomfortable with it. so progressive, 11/10 show and company.

^^^

I don't even want to add to this, I just want to share this. You're absolutely right.

[the-world-annealing]

Hard-Headedness

The background Bicycle Helmet discourse that seems to have become a thing over the last week would be a lot less annoying if anyone would, at any point, involve a number in their argument.

Is riding bicycles dangerous? Sure, for a definition of 'dangerous'. The Netherlands, promised land of bicyclists, has a cyclist fatality rate of about 12 per billion miles traveled, and a serious injury rate of 450 per billion miles (link).

Helmets seem to knock down the risk of death or serious injury by about a third, which is a significant result! Like, obviously they work, I don't think anyone is disputing this, but it's still good to note.

And maybe that's enough. Wearing a helmet will reduce your expected fatality rate from 12 per billion miles to 8 per billion miles, and the expected rate of serious injury from 450 to 300 per billion miles. Not the biggest impact on net, but a very solid reason if you're making decisions based on pure safety.

But I think this is the point where we admit that pure safety isn't a part of those discussions normally, and for some reason this time it is. Nobody is saying pedestrians ought to be wearing helmets, even though pedestrians have about the same rate of traffic fatalities and could probably reduce that rate by a double-digit percentage if they habitually deck themselves out in protective gear. Motorcyclists are in even more danger, and their safety would skyrocket if they switched en masse to cars; few seem to think they should.

(and before you say the counterargument in the second case is that motorcycles pollute less than one-occupant cars: they expel less CO2 but much more of other pollutants, owing to the inability to fit bulky catalytic convertors or other filter equipment)

Look, if someone says "I ride a motorcycle or a moped instead of driving, because I think it is easier to park" that seems to get accepted without question. If someone says "I ride a bike but do not wear a helmet, because I cannot easily store it at the places I cycle to" or "Wearing a helmet makes me overheat", why is that, suddenly, fair game for criticism, when its impact on expected death/injury risk is far smaller than the other two examples?

(uncharitably: because now we are talking about the sort of tradeoff that americans specifically tend not to make, with the actual cost/benefit of those tradeoffs not factoring anywhere)

There is obviously some kind of boundary where your Personal Safety Decisions have such a blatantly skewed cost/benefit that enforcing them via basic social pressure becomes justified (seatbelts fall in this category imo, but even incredibly effective medications don't always seem to, suggesting the bar is quite high!).

But bicycle helmets are a less impactful choice than a ton of stuff that people on here don't seem to care about at all, which leaves the whole discourse little but an extended exercise in americans dunking on dutch people for differences in social norms (even when one of those norms is, objectively, safer!). Like, are we really going to pretend the initiating thread is motivated by love for truth and a genuine concern for the cranial health of the dutch?

For what it's worth, I myself was very firmly convinced helmets weren't really worth it when I started writing this post, and after running the numbers I do think I should wear one if storage facilities at my destination permit so. No thanks to the people supposedly arguing for that outcome, of course.

[blackbirdffxiv]

🐾

FFXIV Screenshot Meme.

While I don't show them often, a favorite minion of mine/Ellie's is the bullpup. As you can tell, it is modded with a different coloring, and it comes with a story that is actually very personal to me.

For the sake of not possibly triggering folks on the TL I'll put the story below a "read more", the story below does contain content regarding a pet's passing. Please read on with caution.

A little over year ago, I lost my pittie, Cadence, after his health rapidly began to decline due to his advanced age (he was almost 20 years old, which is extremely rare to see in pitbulls, let alone dogs his size).

His passing was very sudden, seeing as his deteriorating health originally simply started with mild difficulty getting up and down stairs, and then it just quickly turned into the inability to even hold himself up, let alone walk, without someone practically carrying him (which was difficult for everyone because he was 120 pounds). We took him in to the vets office multiple times, and every treatment idea they had failed, he only continued to get worse, and he was clearly not getting better.

After a tough decision, my family and I decided to end his suffering by having him put to sleep.

It happened so fast we didn't even really have time to mentally prepare for it all, so naturally, I was devastated. He was not just a family pet, he was family, he was there for me when I lost multiple people I loved and cared for; he was also a big part of my routine.

Every day started with him waking me up with his loud "awoos", and almost every night I'd feel his huge weight on my leg when he slept in my bed, and when those things stopped, naturally, it reminded me that he was gone. The vets office did all they could to make the process easier on all of us; we got his ashes, a patch of his fur, as well as his paw imprint cast, but all of these were things that I couldn't have for just me.

My (former) friends decided to surprise me by commissioning a modder for a recolor of a minion that matched Cadence's coat on the bullpup minion, so this way in-game, he'd always be with me in spirit.