#That part of me feels so much more accessible on a day to day basis than the “after”

[ayinglair]

Why do I default to the "before"

[reiderwriter]

do you think you could write where reader is a part of the BAU and gets kidnapped/ hurt by an unsub and spencer saves her? much love and i love your fics!

Hi! Thanks so much for your request. I'll admit this took a bit more brain power than usual 💀 may have gotten slightly carried away creating an unsub lmao

Summary: You go undercover for a case and Reid keeps you company through online messages, only to feel absolutely worthless when you go missing.

Warnings: Typical case descriptions, kidnapping and abuse of Y/N, Reid self-deprecating again but it has a happy fluffy ending so a win.

My Requests are Open! Send me an ask if you want me to write something~ 💕 And check out My Masterlist!

“Y/N, what do you think? I’m not going to send you in if you’re not confident you can complete the mission.'' Your Unit Chief, Aaron Hotchner, was briefing you on the plan. Luckily for the team, or rather, unluckily for you, you fit the victim profile of your latest case, and with an absence of leads, your last chance to get him before he took another victim was an undercover mission. 

“I can do it, but can we establish a background in enough time? He’s devolving and he’s going to need to pick up another victim pretty soon.” 

You’d been called in to consult on the case two weeks prior. Local women who lived alone in the metropolitan area had been going missing on a weekly basis for the last three months, and the BAU team had been called in when they’d finally found the dump site of the first three victims. 

You’d so far managed to figure out how he was finding his victims from their home computers - a site for young women to look for sugar daddies. You’d previously profiled him as a man in his mid-40s who was going through a personal loss and was lashing out at women who represented someone specific to him, and after searching through the dating profiles, you were pretty sure his stressor was a recent or impending divorce. 

But try as Garcia might, these dating websites had a whole lot more encoded data than was expected, and after the Ashley Madison scandal of the previous decade, they’d taken to deleting the majority of their user data regularly so that certain accounts couldn’t be found. Which meant that you were left with a geographical profile you couldn’t pin down, a profile that could match half the men in the city, and a killer that was almost ready to strike again. 

“Garcia can get something ready for you in the next 8 hours, and we have some access to some FBI safehouses in the area that we can ready in at the same time. Go get yourself prepared for cover.”

And that’s how you found yourself living in a dingy studio apartment on the south side of the city for two days, waiting to report back about whatever men approached you. There wasn’t much for you to complain about, but you were getting pretty lonely. 

You’d greeted your new neighbors and made a show of attending some ‘new to the neighborhood’ events, making sure to get out and about to let the team assess if the unsub was stalking you. Other than that you’d spent the rest of your time in your apartment a constant tab open at the sugar baby website. A few men had been interested, and your computer was cloned and running simultaneously on Garcia’s system so the team could do their best to track suspicious accounts. 

The rest of your spare time was, surprisingly enough, spent messaging Spencer Reid. You’d been on the team now for three months, joining the team as a transfer from the blue collar division you’d worked in straight out of the academy. You had spent the same amount of time doing your best to gain confidence to work in the field. Sure, you’d trained for this, but theory and practice were so different and you really didn’t want to fuck up so early into your job.  

Which is why, you supposed, that Doctor Spencer Reid was so intimidating to you. Though he admittedly wasn’t the best at field work, noting the amount of exceptions the FBI had to make to allow him outside of the office at all on your first meeting, he was just so damned competent. With three PhD’s, three BA’s and a pending fourth on the way, he was the golden child of the BAU, and you found yourself desperate for his approval. It surely didn’t help that he was also your exact type to boot, and sometimes you found yourself conflicted if you wanted his approval because he was so good at his job or because he was go goddamn good-looking. 

With no way to know how the unsub was tracking his victims before he kidnapped them, your team theorized it was unsafe to have physical check-ins, opting instead to set up another account on the sugar baby website, that would be manned around the clock. And tech-averse Reid had volunteered to do the bulk of the manning, leaving you with all the time in the world to talk to him in your private chat room. 

sug4rbbY/N: Good evening, Doctor, got any interesting facts for me today? ;)

D0ct0rD0ct0r: Did you know that it is illegal to flirt in Haddon Township, New Jersey? Under the section “Peace and Good Order,” a person may be punished for approaching “any person of the opposite sex unknown to such person and by word, sign or gesture attempts to speak to or to become acquainted with such person against his will.”

sug4rbbY/N: Well, aren’t I glad that we do not live in New Jersey then. 

D0ct0rD0ct0r: There’s more where that came from if you’re ever interested. 

sug4rbbY/N: I’ll certainly keep that in mind. 

sug4rbbY/N: Any plans for the evening, doc? 

D0ct0rD0ct0r: Just sitting here talking to you :) 

sug4rbbY/N: All by yourself? ;)

D0ct0rD0ct0r: Never feel like I’m alone when you’re online. 

sug4rbbY/N: Haha that’s sweet.

sug4rbbY/N: BRB, Doc, my doorbell’s ringing.  

You stood up from your desk, a glance at the mirror betraying your feelings, as your flush was prominent. You weren’t sure if it was the intimate nature of the messaging system, or just for the sake of your cover, but the flirty tone of your messages had certainly been leaving you wondering if there could be more to your relationship with your coworker in the future. 

You quickly walked over to the door, opening it wide and came face to face with a bouquet of flowers. 

“Miss Y/N Harper?” the man behind the bouquet used your cover name to address you, and you hesitated a little before nodding in the affirmative. “Can you sign here please? It’s standard procedure for deliveries like this.” 

“But I didn’t order any flowers…” you took the bouquet from the man and grabbed the pen in his hand ready to sign. 

“Oh yeah, our shop specialises in anonymous flowergrams. That bunch you’ve got in your hand has some aconite, some white lilies and jasmine flowers.” The delivery man explained, and something in your gut twisted as you listened to his words. 

“But aren’t lilies usually meant for funera-” you didn’t get to finish because he had pushed a wet rag to your face, and you had just enough time to shake some small petals off and push them far enough underneath a nearby shoe storage unit before you faded into unconsciousness, your last thought a prayer that your team would uncover your clue. 

–x– 

Needless to say, when you didn’t check back in a few minutes later, Spencer had alerted every cop in the vicinity of your new apartment that you were gone, and they discovered your apartment empty within ten minutes. 

“She was right there,” Spencer ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “She was talking to me and then she just got up and he took her.” 

“Reid, calm down, she can’t have been gone long, and we have security cameras all over the building. We’ll find her.” Morgan reassured the younger male while searching the entrance of your cover apartment for clues. 

“That’s easy for you to say, it isn’t your fault that she’d gone.”

“And it isn’t yours either, Reid. You did your job, but he wasn’t going to stop until he had her.” 

“I should’ve notified the standby officers as soon as she sent through that last message and what was I doing instead? Trying to figure out if she was flirting with me for real or not. I’m pathetic.”

“Reid, get your head back in the game. She’s gone and theres nothing you can do to change that now, but we need your head here or we’re not going to find her. Y/N’s an agent too, remember, she can hold her own. Now look and think.” 

“SSA Morgan, Doctor Reid, we may have something over here,” one of the local detectives called the two men over. They’d found the remnants of the petals you’d done your best to scatter, and even though the unsub had taken the bouquet with him, he hadn’t been as thorough as he should have been. 

“We didn’t set her up with any flowers when she started her cover, so these must have been bought in by the unsub. I’ll call Garcia, tell her to look for any flower shops within his comfort zone.” Morgan hit the number on his speedial, but before he could start, Reid cut him off.

“Wait, I think we can narrow the search a bit further. Those are Aconite petals, they’re not often stocked by local florists because they have a pretty sinister meaning. They’re usually used to express hatred for the receiver, and because of their poisonous properties most florists don't stock them for fear of doing harm and causing lawsuits. He must be specifically ordering them in to give to his victims. Garcia, can you crossreference the list of florists in the area and check to see how many of them have purchased this plant recently?” 

“Just the one. Sending you the address now. Go find our girl Doc.” 

–X– 

When you came to, in what you assumed to be a backroom of some kind of flower shop, you were bound at the ankles and wrists and there was a gag in your mouth. You struggled a bit against your bindings but it was no good, and you had to reassure yourself that you were going to be okay, doing your best to push down the tears and clear your head. 

You decided your best bet was to get to know your surroundings, check to see what was around you and what you could use to your advantage. There was a clock on the wall, and you realised that you’d only been gone half an hour. Reminding yourself that the unsub kept his victims for a minimum of two days did a lot to get your heartbeat back to a normal pace, but it spiked again as soon as you heard the door slam open and your captor walk in. 

“Stupid little bitch,” he slurred his words slightly and you could smell the alcohol on his breath as he moved closer to your space in the corner. You tried your best to scamper as far away from him as possible, but he grabbed you by the hair and pulled you up to his face. 

You winced at the pain and tried to squirm out of his hold. “Look at you all pathetic now, begging me to let you out. It’s not going to fucking happen, y'know. I’m going to be the last person you see, last person you hear,” he throws you against the wall, pinning you up with his hand on your arms as he sends a leering glance down your shirt and then gives you a disgusting grin. “Last person you touch.” 

Your bindings mean your movement is limited, but you still manage to bring both your legs up to knee him in the groin, effectively pushing him off you but landing hard on the ground yourself after you manage to do so. 

“Fucking whore,” he shouts at you standing up and dealing a sharp kick to your head that has your vision going white for a minute. “I’ll teach you to fucking mess with me again, you little bitch.” He makes to grab you again, but before he can you hear the blissful sounds of a door being kicked down and the shouts of the FBI to stand down. 

Two agents are on him in minutes and you finally allow yourself to let out a deep sob in relief, as a third, very recognisable agent, makes his way to your side. 

“Y/N, shhh baby, it’s okay. You’re okay now, I’ve got you,” Reid whispers in your ear as he unties you as gently and carefully as he can. The moment your arms are free you leap into him, wrapping your arms around his neck and pushing your face deeply against his chest. He pulls away just enough to untie your legs, and then lets you burrow into him again. 

“I knew you’d find me. Knew you’d understand something from those fucking flowers.” You sob into his chest now, as he strokes your hair, just holding you like that on the floor until you’re ready to move. 

“I’m so sorry, Y/N. I should’ve sent someone to check sooner, and I should’ve never let you accept that stupid cover mission,this is my fault and I'm going to make it up to you. I'm never going to let anyone hurt you ever ag-” he begins rambling but you shut him up again, this time by firmly pressing your lips into his. 

“Before you say anything else, this is not transference and I’m not doing this because you saved me, we both know I would’ve done that eventually anyway,” you rest your forehead against his, and after he has time to process what has just happened, he’s wiping the tears away from your face, and gently holding it with both of his hands, leaning in to do it again, gently pressing his mouth against yours as if he’s afraid you might bolt at any second. 

“Thank you, again. For finding me,” you whisper to him, the space between you so miniscule now that you barely had to move your lips to know that he understood you. 

“Thank you, for letting me find you.” He grinned at you and held you again, determined to never let you out of his arms ever again. 

[beegalactica]

HOT GIRLS ARE CONSCIOUS.

I haven't been on Tumblr in about 3 months (life has been busy), and when I finally decided to check back in today, I kept seeing the same thing over and over again, so I am here to dispel some myths.

If you have seen any of my posts, you will know the issues I have with traditional TikTok-y trendy 'glow-up' advice, but today I realised how much of it is just a ploy to get us to spend tons of money on things we CAN live without. I think we all need to be more CONSCIOUS: conscious of what we can realistically afford and implement into our daily lives.

For example, in a typical 'glow-up' advice post, tiktok or youtube video, they recommend these super unrealistic routines that include a full skincare routine of every type of cream you could ever imagine, and an incredibly detailed list that lays out how you need to spend every 10 minutes of your day in order to achieve this perfect form.

It's all hear-say.

Don't get roped into thinking that you need those brand new clothes, or you need those skincare items to be your best self. The idea of turning your 'glow-up' into a sustainable part of your life is to do things you can manage to do over and over again. The secret to glowing up permanently is having a routine that keeps you happy and healthy. Instead of buying a full shelf of skincare all in one go, get 1 or 2 items with positive reviews to start. You don't need to throw out your whole wardrobe and sell your soul to TEMU just to look aesthetic; use what you have. Rather than making short term impulsive purchases, treat every part of your life as an investment.

Especially when it comes to clothing, being someone who has lost weight and no longer fits into all their old clothes, instead of throwing everything out and starting from scratch, I bought a little amazon sewing kit with a couple of needles and different types of thread and started cutting and sewing my way to a better wardrobe. (Even TODAY, I turned an old pair of jeans that I never wear into a cute miniskirt all from a 5 minute YouTube tutorial.) If sewing isn't your thing, you can try using some hemming tape and an iron, fabric glue, or whatever you can. Be conscious of the things you buy and how often you buy them.

I know lots of people like thrifting, and you can thrift online with apps like Vinted, which I personally use and love, if you don't have access to massive thrift stores like they do in America (I'm totally not jealous at all 🙄🙄; I live in the UK and the closest things I have near me are charity shops but there's a sort of stigma around shopping in them but honestly who cares what others think).

When you shop for clothes, look for timeless and versatile pieces you can mix and match, layer and style with lots of different things, allowing you to wear them well. Try to find good staple pieces, that will make the basis of your wardrobe. Be an outfit repeater. Do not blindly follow trends; take the time to curate and explore to find your style. Make a massive Pinterest board of everything you think looks good, and start to make a list of common items of clothing and accessories you save the most; these will be your staples. Don't feel like you have to stick strictly to one aesthetic; my wardrobe ranges from 'fairycore' maxi skirts to y2k denim skirts, but what matters is that I am mindful of whether I will use the things I want to buy.

Of course, feel free to treat yourself, you 100% deserve it, but don't get sucked into the idea that your self worth is determined but WHAT you have; instead it should be how you FEEL in what you have.

I like to see my blog as a little notebook of things I wish I could have told my younger self, and things I want to remind my future self, and I feel like it would be a disservice to not talk about the oversaturation of our feeds with infinite products, to the point where everything feels like an AD.

Moral of the story: don't just take everything you see online at face value. Don't get trapped in extensive consumerism; it's bad for your bank account, it's bad for the environment and it's bad for your mental health.

Also here's my Pinterest if you want to have a peek around <3 Pinterest

[senselessviolets]

"So come on, mess me up."

Cassian Andor x Fem!Original Character

Rated M (Smut/Angst)

Word Count: 4.1k

AO3 Link

WARNINGS:

Unprotected sex, age gap/difference, power imbalance, rough sex, oral (f recieving), taunting, lots of arguing.

Author's Notes:

Song title (and fic very loosely inspired by) "Come On Mess Me Up" by Cub Sport. I'd let this man snap me in half like a toothpick, what more can I say?

Nyla Haccard is the 23-year-old daughter of a high-profile senator from Ralltiir and has secretly joined the Rebel Alliance fight against the Empire. She figures her overly-protective mother would annihilate her for joining the band of rebels, but Nyla knows she'd absolutely implode if she knew the kind of man her daughter had been working closely with for months now.

There was something delectably frustrating about him. It was innate as if his sole purpose in life was to throw me off balance. Our relationship hadn’t begun to take shape until we started being assigned to the same missions. We were efficient and always managed to get the job done relatively unscathed. Our case officer, General Draven, saw value in Cassian taking someone like me under his wing. I’d shown enough promise or they wouldn’t have recruited me in the first place. My family ties to the Senate gave me access that they couldn’t afford to lose. 

We represented Ralltiir, hailing from a long line of masons who became wealthy mining the endless deposits of marble embedded in the planet’s core. Regardless of what riches we’d come into; a long successful lineage was the truest indicator of wealth in the Inner Core. It’s why my parents shelled out every last cent they had to send me and my five other siblings to the finest educational institutes across the galaxy. My brothers and sisters all attended university on Coruscant. They dreamed of securing cushy jobs in the Senate all the while playing dress-up as politicians. I made a point of getting as far away from that way of life as I could, begging my mother and father to let me attend Theed University on Naboo. I’d said I wanted to pursue the arts and embrace my creativity. Of course, this was all a lie and a cover to join the Rebel Alliance in the fight to overthrow the Empire.

It was a relatively simple facade to maintain. Due to me being the ‘middle child’ and the most average of the family, I was able to fly under the radar rather easily. The vast amount of space in between us didn’t hurt either. I would have to take the occasional holotransmission and pray they couldn’t hear the loud metal clanking sounds of X-Wings being repaired in the background. Every family gathering—a bornday, Life Day, or some Imperial soiree—was an opportunity. At least that’s what General Draven told me back when I initially joined. Did part of me feel some intense pang of guilt in my stomach every time my mother would wrap me in a big embrace, knowing I was secretly siphoning intel off of her personal datapad? 

Of course. But that was a small price to pay for the cause. 

Gods know people had given up far more to get to where we are now. Cassian never let me forget that. Any hint of ungratefulness from me and he’d chew me out like there was no tomorrow. This latest briefing was no different. Me, him, and several other rebels were summoned at mealtime. We were meant to be discreet and to keep things strictly on a need-to-know basis which Cassian also hounded me for on the way to the briefing.

“...Draven means it, Ny. He does not want any chatter about this. It stays on the ground floor so no gossiping to your friends about it. Do you got it?” he chastises. 

“Oh, I’ve got it,” I say, my eyes finding their way to the ceiling, “Thanks for the much-needed reminder though.”

I pivot through the doorway of the mostly vacant strategy room. Draven, Vesti, Amon, and Zu-Lee stand waiting quietly around the holotable. A figure adorned in white walks into view, right out of the corner of my eye.

“Senator Mothma, I-I wasn’t expecting to see you,” I say, caught off guard by her appearance. 

Her presence was rare due to her being an incredibly busy woman but when she was here, you could feel it everywhere else. The energy becomes different. Things felt more certain and objectives became clearer. Mothma was more than pivotal; she was practically the lifeline of the cause.

“...how is your mother?” she asks, giving me a modest smile. 

“She is well,” I nod, “Thank you.”

Draven stands up straight, casting the blueprint of an unknown building onto the holotable. 

“Well, now that we’re all accounted for…let’s begin.”

///

“This is not gonna work,” Cassian mutters to himself, moments after exiting the strategy room.

I don’t think he had intended for me to hear him because when I intercept him in the hallway, Cassian feigns ignorance. 

“What did you just say?” I frown. 

“I didn’t say anything,” he says, even quieter.

“Don’t do that. Don’t be like that,”

“Don’t be like what?”

“Like a damn child! If you’ve got a problem with something, how about you speak up and come at it like an adult? Instead of this grumbly mumbly shit you love to pull whenever something doesn’t go your way,”

I can see something snap behind his eyes. I’m sure being deemed a child by someone so much younger than him had to be a major blow to his ego. He takes me by both shoulders and pulls me out of the flow of foot traffic and over to the side. We’re better secluded in the nook we find ourselves in. He briefly looks over his shoulder, ensuring we haven’t caused any disturbance. 

“I’ll have you know I didn’t have any expectations for this mission! Any! I didn’t know what base we were meant to infiltrate or which Imperial Officer we were supposed to track down!” Cassian says through gritted teeth, “How could I have any idea what this would entail?”

“Gods, you know what I mean. Just say you don’t think I can handle it. Just say you don’t think I’m good enough for the job—”

“You know that’s not how I feel!” “Then stop acting like that’s how you feel, asshole!” 

I storm away from Cassian, not giving so much as a glance back at him. But suddenly my movements are halted and I find a firm hand around my wrist. It’s tight, not enough to hurt or bruise but hard and swift enough to send a shockwave throughout the rest of my body. 

“Let go of me,” I say, lowly.

I hardly struggle. His jaw is clenched and brown eyes attempt to pry open my soul. We’re so close, that our breaths repel off of each other. A loose lock of umber-colored hair falls in front of his face—just above his eyelashes—and I try to suppress any sort of expression that follows. I’d be panting from the sheer tensity of the argument but pride tells me to keep it together. I can’t afford to unravel in front of him. Then I’d only be confirming his seemingly preconceived notions of me; that I’m not good enough. 

That I’m not cut out for the job. 

“Let go of me, you bastard!” I yell, far too loudly.

Silence overtakes the hallway and several passerbys stop in their tracks. I recognize one of them being a sentry from the recon-tower above base. He must be off for the night. I bet this altercation he’s just witnessed will worm its way into his and his pals’s topics of discussion in the Mess Hall later on. My mind is going a mile a minute. I can feel the blood thumping in my ears and the warm red hue that floods my cheeks. Embarrassment was an understatement. 

“I said, let go…” I say, sighing as he releases me. 

I speed off in the other direction, heading straight for my quarters. I don’t look back until I’m safe and secure behind the sliding door of my barracks. My heart still beats with vigor. A puff of air escapes my lips as I take a few steps forward and let myself fall face-first into my sleeper, groaning into my pillow. Cassian must really be that exhausting because, after a moment, I find myself drifting off. 

And away I go.

///

“Ny…Nyla? I-It’s me. Are you in there?” a haggard voice asks behind the door of my quarters, “Nyla?”

My eyes snap and I lift my head begrudgingly. 

“No, I’m not. Come back later perhaps?” 

“We need to talk. Sooner would be preferred,”

“Maybe I don’t care about what you prefer. Or what you want. So piss off.” I spit. 

The doors slide open before I even have time to react. I scramble to my feet as a silhouette–a mere blur in my peripheral—strides towards me. I pivot so I’m facing him. In my sleep, I must have shed a few layers. I’m only left with my bare essentials; attire he’d seen me in plenty of times before aboard his ship during particularly long journeys. I’m not entirely sure how much time has passed since we last saw each other but Cassian’s still wearing the same clothes. His jaw is clenched. There’s a fervor behind his eyes. 

Clearly, he came with an agenda.

“Oh, did you not hear me correctly? I believe I said…‘scram’,” I mock, making dramatic gestures in front of his face. 

“Enough of that,” he grunts, “You did a real good job making a fool of yourself back there. But then again, you’ve never been the most subtle, have you?”

“Subtle? You wanna talk about subtlety? How many bodies have I had to drag out of sight because you couldn’t show some damn trigger discipline, hm? And you want to paint me as the brash, impulsive one. That’s cute,”  

He paces across the room, letting his emotions drive his movement. 

“I should never have taken Draven’s offer. Evidently, it was a mistake. Us being assigned together. You’re impossible. You’re immature, spoiled, selfish, and have no grasp of what we’re up against,”

“Don’t you say that! Don’t you ever say that! I know what’s at stake. I know the risks. I’m not in it for the same personal glory you are. Who are you trying to impress seriously? No, seriously. Who? The other girls on base?” I scoff, “Please. If only you knew what they had to say about you,”

“I don’t care about that,” Cassian tries to convince himself.

I saunter closer to his position. His feet stay firmly planted. He doesn’t turn away. Our eyes are locked on one another. I don’t think I’ve ever held someone’s gaze for this long, much less a man’s.

“Sure you don’t,” I say in a drawl, “...y’know, it’s a big galaxy, Cass, but word travels fast. I know your type. I know how the second you see a married woman…you do cartwheels. You’re a complete and total skeeze. Through and through,”

Something shifts within him.

“...what else…what else have you heard about me, hm? Do you think a man like me…the type of man you think I am…would be able to stand this close to a beautiful woman and not be able to resist her?”

“W-Well, I’m not married so…I wouldn’t do it for you, I don’t think,” I say, lowly. 

I notice a stray piece of lint on the shoulder of his jacket. Nonchalantly, I go to brush it off of him but Cassian’s reflexes beat me to it. In a split second, his hand has encased itself around my wrist. His reaction startles me so much, that I laugh from the brief terror.

“Gods, would you relax! There was something on your jacket, I was just–”

“Don’t laugh at me like that.”

“...why not? I thought you didn’t care about what women thought of you. Mm, but maybe…maybe I’m the exception…am I just that irresistible, huh?”

I notice his eyes dart slightly down several times. It wouldn’t be until later that I’d realize he was fixated on my lips. His grip on my wrist doesn’t loosen but I’m not exactly itching to get him off of me. 

“Well…,” he begins.

“Well, what, Cass?”

“...aren’t you going to yell for me to let go?”

Ignoring the heat from somewhere deep within me, I decidedly pursed my lips, simultaneously sealing my fate. Leading the way, I pull us in the direction of my sleeper. He follows along as if my wrist were his guide. I sit on the edge of my bed, scooting back until we’re both completely on it. He props himself up with his free hand, pinning my hand to the mattress. A slight roll of my hips brings my thigh right into the front of his pants. This simple manuever has rendered him breathless it seems. Those frantic eyes don’t know whether to land on my own or my lips. I choose for him, leaning upwards into a firm but passionate kiss. His eyes flutter shut and I feel his lashes brush against my own. I swear I hear the slightest rasp of a whine in the back of his throat but before I know it—his two hands have found purchase on both sides of my face. He takes charge, his tongue ghosting across mine. I swear I feel lightheaded, even though I’ve done nothing strenuous enough to warrant such a symptom. 

“We…,” he moans in between kisses, “...we can’t be doing this,”

My lips find their way into the crook of his neck, grazing my teeth against the firm flesh. 

“Why?” I immediately challenge, “Because you’re older…because you’re my superior…because if they found out, they’d find the nearest moon and dump me there? No chance. They don’t give a shit. Are you even listening to yourself right now?”

“Less talking,” he says slowly, dragging his cold calloused hands up my stomach, “...fuck. You’re warm.” 

The fabric of my tank top catches on his fingertips and he pulls the shirt above my chest, exposing myself to him. Maybe a more decent man might take a delicate pace but Cassian wastes no time exploring my body. His hot wet mouth is everywhere. I don’t stifle my whimpers in the slightest. 

“It’s wrong….it’s wrong to want the things I want from you,” he growls, mouth full of flesh.

“What do you want from me then?”

In an instant, he’s off the bed and using my hips as handgrips to tug me to the very edge so my rear is hanging limp off of it, only held up by his shoulders. It’s a swift and seductive show of strength that I quickly try to take a mental snapshot of, knowing I’ll be thinking about it later. I wonder briefly if it's a technique he mastered over the years spent with many lovers. Beyond the obvious slick gathering between my thighs, my level of excitement only blooms at the thought of what else he might have in store.  He makes quick work of my bottoms, speckling my thighs with kisses all over as he traverses upwards to where I want him the most. Sometimes those kisses turn into gentle little bites. I practically squeal at the sensation, giggling as I feel him smile against my skin. I’m too shy in the moment to look down in his direction but I let my hand wander until I feel his umber locks, stroking softly when I find him. And then two chilled fingers run from the top of my mound downwards, pausing to circle my opening.

“This wet already, hm? What? Am I just that irresistible?” he playfully mocks me. 

I yank on his hair roughly in protest, to which I receive a light slap on my thigh.

“Hey. Behave,” Cassian says, dipping his tongue into me.

The whine that emits from my lips is so pathetic, that I expect him to give me a hard time about it—maybe do another hilarious impression of me. Instead, he has found far more productive uses for that mouth of his. That mouth I’ve wanted to slap him because of more times than I can count. The same one I’ve fantasized about absolutely devouring me ever since we first met. It was exactly as I’d imagined it.

The heat of his tongue, followed immediately by his cool breath as he inhales before diving in again. Before he inhales me. His head locked between my thighs, driving my lower half upwards as his strong shoulders rise. Clearly, his confidence is growing. I finally am feeling bold enough to look down. All I can see is a head of hair moving rapidly, desperate to keep up with the gyration of my hips. As if he can sense me looking down, he looks up, palming around for my other hand. I give it to him and our fingers interlock.

The intimacy brings me even closer to the edge. Before squeezing my palm tightly, Cassian then brings my hand to his scalp. For a moment I’m confused but then I realize that he wants me to use both of my hands to drive his head further into my cunt. So his hair momentarily becomes reins that I use at my discretion. I’m not gentle, but I’ve more than gotten the impression by now that he doesn’t want me to be. I’m erratic. I’m frenzied. I’m certainly not doing anything to dispel the “selfish” accusation he lobbed at me maybe ten minutes prior. 

That feels like a lifetime ago at this point though.

The pleasure growing from my depths is a warm and angry one. I didn’t know I could feel like this; I didn’t know I would like feeling like this. That same pleasure nearly spills over before Cassian positions me once again using my hips. This time he turns me over onto my stomach. The hand he has pressed into the small of my back keeps me in place. His other one is trying to free himself of his trousers desperately. Struggling to undo the buckle one-handed, I sit up, reaching back to offer him a hand of my own. My head bounces down onto the mattress as he swiftly pins both of my wrists to my back and with a grunt, manages to finally rip the belt and his pants off. 

“Not going to lie, I figure you’d make me finish,” I pant, “...but only so you could lord it over me ‘till the end of time,”

“Oh, baby. You think I’m done with you?” The combined use of baby and the intrusion of his cock entering me have me moaning wantonly. Cassian slowly bottoms out, jutting his hips so he’s as deep as physically possible. He’s almost flattened himself on top of me, the scruff of his beard prickling at my left ear. 

“Would the type of man you think I am go slow like this?” he coos, “Huh, baby? Or would he fuck you hard and rough like he paid for it?”

Cassian’s teeth nip the edge of my ear and I gasp. But the sudden punishing pace that he rails into me with practically has me winded. Every time he collides with my core, I’m left seeing stars. It’s indescribable. Like a flick of spark a flint and steel would give you. It’s hot and blinding and gone in an instant. Over and over again. 

“Touch yourself if you need,” Cass rasps, “but I’m not stopping.”

He gives me back one of my hands and I immediately go for my clit. My smaller more acute thrusts are a nice contrast to his more broad, all-encompassing ones. Meanwhile, he’s now moved on to grabbing my shoulders and using those to propel himself rapidly. It’s all so blissful and brutal. I don’t want it to end but I know if he continued like this for an eternity, I’d be broken down to a speck of nothing in no time.

It was almost a guarantee that I was going to be sore tomorrow. Future-Me was probably cursing the Present-Me for allowing him to go at it so hard but that was her problem to deal with. My only objective was to finish myself off before he could. I did not want to give that bastard the satisfaction. But the scent of myself in his facial hair made me realize what a lost cause that was. Before I know it, I’m spasming around him, cursing his name in a series of sobs. My mind goes blank and I’m pliant as he continues pushing into me. 

“Where d’you want me?” he says in a tone so husked I can barely understand him at first.

“Want you?”

“Want it. Where do you want it?” he reiterates.

“In me,” I murmur. 

“In you? Are you sure?”

“Did I stutter?” 

Cassian presses down on me hard as he cums and I groan. I can feel him throb inside of me. His hands now trace along my jaw, finally halting his movements whilst giving me a bit of reprieve. My quarters’ steady silence is soon deafening. We can hear everything; our rampant heartbeats, the wetness connecting us, the sound of skin simply brushing against skin. If he were a lover, it would be a beautiful moment. A moment of reflection, mutual understanding even. A reminder that what we were doing was okay and that we both cared for one another and we were safe.

With Cassian, these were partial truths. I have to suppress the part of me that wishes we were whole, that we had something beyond this shared neverending fight for survival. He gives me a feather-light kiss on the back of my neck. Something so tender that could only come from a partner. Maybe we could pretend. Maybe we would pretend. Show each other a brief devotion and chase off the doubts that swarmed us constantly. Outflank the regret and shame and make them both go darting off in the other direction.

Our greatest fears would fear us instead.

It was a nice escape from the happenstance. Is it strange that it wasn’t until this very moment that I fully processed Cassian being inside of me? Witnessing my most inner self. The man who I’ve wanted to punch more times than I can count. I burst out laughing at the thought. 

“What? What is it?” he smiles, lifting off of me.

“Nothing,” I giggle, “It’s nothing, it’s just…you.”

I turn over, sighing a sigh that could only be sighed from a girl who’d just gotten her brains fucked out. Cassian rolls out of my bed and I’m able to finally get a good look at his physique. He’s about as toned as I’d expect him to be and his chest hair is trimmed and neat. It’s a brief spell of sightseeing as Cassian is quick to redress. I hardly have the energy to make myself neat again, instead opting to use my bedding to obscure my lower half. Once I get the notion that he’s about to depart, I stop to query him. Not because I was hoping we would cuddle afterward (I never saw him as the type), but because I was curious what kind of shenanigans he was going to get up to before we’d have to leave in the morning. 

“...the U-wing. There’s some upkeep I have to do if we’re to make it off the surface successfully…for the mission,” he answers with a small smirk.

Color me surprised.

“W-Wait, so…you’re gonna let me go through with it? You’re not gonna blab to Draven like you said you would?”

“After having some time to reconsider…and to…cool off, I have had a change of mind,”

“Yeah, I wonder what spurred that,” I scoff, bringing the sheets up over my chest. 

“That’s not what I meant, Ny. I-I hold out on you sometimes…because I don’t want you getting hurt. Or killed. I have a lot I carry with me but…I’d rather not add you to that list if you know what I mean,”

I swallow thickly. Finally, some insight. Some clarity into this man’s thought process and psyche. But part of me questions if it’s unveiled itself too late. The damage was done. I lean forward and swing my legs off the side of the bed, looking up at him with doe eyes. He tenderly brushes a few stray locks of hair away from my face. 

“...t-that’s fine, Cass. But for this to work, I need you to believe that when the time comes and it's down to the wire and things are looking dark…that I’ll be able to handle it. Handle myself. Handle whatever gets thrown at us. I’d ask you to trust me but...we both know how little weight that word holds in this pursuit. So I’ll ask you instead…can you believe in me?”

A moment of stillness passes.

“Yes,” he says, firmly, “but that doesn’t mean I’m still not gonna do everything in my power to save your skin when the time comes. No matter how much you drive me crazy.”

End.

[satirates]

One thing I think we don't talk enough about Q!Forever is that he has a problem-solver personality.

I used to be like that and I struggled a lot when I was a teenager because of that, and I think it's give a pretty good explanation of where his character is going lore-wise and why he's doing it that way.

Firstly, we could see pretty easily that he's always trying to solve every problem he's facing on the server as fast as he could.

Bobby died and the eggs are in danger of the same? Ninho was ready in a few days

The code shows the players that the only way to access the Nether is to go by train? He built a gigantic contraption to bring everybody's there.

Foolish wanted an eternal banana? Say no more !

And there's a ton of more pertinent examples of that I'm sure

People has said in the past that q! Forever is impulsive, but for me, it's more that he can't just stand there when things are bad. He needs to find a solution, he NEEDS to act. This is part of who he is.

But the thing that can be annoying when you're constantly in problem-solving mode, it's that everybody around you aren't necessary like you. How many times has we seen q! Forever doing stuff hastily to makes things work when other players were in the backroom? A lot. And when you experience that on a daily basis, you may start to get frustrated.

(I just want to add that it isn't a way to bash other CC! Characters. Everybody has their own way to play and have fun on the server, and they are ALL VALID! I'm talking about the characters in role play only)

About Forever arc

I think a lot of is current arc has to do with that feeling. The feeling that he's doing too much and people are not appreciating it, not appreciating him, enough. But he can't stop. He can't just let things happen without trying to help. Because it's how he is. The problem solver. The helper. The good friend.

So, how do one manage in this kind of situation? By becoming even more controlling. People won't help him make a better Island? Then he will impose thing that help the resident. He will do everything he can to protect and help everybody, even against their will. Him getting the president job is actually an interesting thing for his character because it gave him the control he needed to feel like he's making positive changes. He can now try to solve every problem on the Island...

But, as someone that "been there, done that", I can tell you it willn't work. Tensions are going to continue to rise between him and other because being a problem-fixer usually made you forget something very important in life: Not everything need to be fixed.

It took me years to realize that. Something you just need to... let go. If you try to always carry everybody on your shoulder, you are just going to die of exhaustion. And fixing everything is impossible. So you are just becoming more and more exhausted. People around you are growing more distant because you are constantly trying to fix their life instead of just... being there for them.

I think this is where q!Forever is right now. His need to help his conflicting with other Islander needs to be imperfect and the constant conflict made him feel lonely and underappreciated.

This is so interesting in terms of role play because there are several routes he could take. Will he continue to hold, with his resentment growing deeper and deeper? Will he learn to let go and accept that thing sometimes suck, and it's okay to not take responsibility for it?

Will he succeed in making players enjoy the Island?

[beguilingcorpse]

PLEASE tell me some of your favorite sandwiches...i work at a diner and i get one free sandwich per day and i almost always get the exact same thing. gimme something that will deeply bamboozle the kitchen staff

thank you for this ask. i am so sorry for the sandwich tangent that it inspired. this post is in fact so long that i have to put it under a read more tag so it doesn't reach Do You Love The Color Of The Sky notoriety. also this has been written as, like, a general cooking guide instead of Things You Can Order At A Diner, but otherwise feel free to show this post to your kitchen staff and watch their minds crumble

to build a great sandwich - a truly Fucked Up Sandwich - you must first understand that a sandwich is, at its core, just some bread with stuff on it. as a disclaimer, i don't mean to diss the classics. they're around for a reason. i just know that PERSONALLY i am a little bit sick of the same second grade lunchbox sandwich, and PERSONALLY i prefer to push the boundaries of simple food preparation into the realm of the eldritch and unknown.

the sandwiches i make are different every time. you may have heard the old adage "cooking is an art." that is partially true, sometimes, kind of. cooking, for me, is more like a four year old getting access to paint for the first time and losing their whole goddamn mind about it. i want you to let go of every rule you think there is. make things up. go crazy.

the bread of the sandwich matters only insofar as it can support its fillings. i tend to use plain ol whole wheat, but honestly, you can use whatever you'd like. my big piece of advice here is to think about the structural integrity of your design. much like a bread engineer, because that's what you are. if your fillings are wet or gelatinous (hold on, we're getting there) you NEED a crustier bread. sara lee won't cut it. some people like fancy bread with herbs and shit. i see the bread more as a canvas than as part of the painting, but like, there are no rules. go ham.

speaking of ham. this is the section where you expect me to disavow lunch meats. i shan't. pre-sliced meat is a brilliant (and cheap!) way to provide the basis of flavor for your sandwich AND to make sure you get enough protein. if you're vegan or vegetarian, you'll have to skip this step, but that's okay because it's not an integral part of the process. that being said, i think it lays a solid foundation for the whole sandwich's raison d'etre.

pairing with a good cheese is a classic for a reason. i stay away from american - it melts beautifully, which makes it great for grilled cheese, but it also has an artificial quality to it that i don't really vibe with. swiss, provolone, and cheddar are staples, but honest to god, any cheese can be made to work if you build around it. (side note: the best grilled cheese uses american, pepper jack, colby, and a tomato. season the OUTSIDE of the bread with butter, red pepper flakes, garlic, and a dash of oregano. fry up an egg and put it on top and oh baby. ham optional if you want some extra protein.)

ok. you have your basics. now i need you to take a look around your kitchen and GO WILD.

one of my Go To Combinations is turkey, swiss, and a fruit jam (i like apricot). it is EXTREMELY good and easy to make, and the jam gives it just the right touch of sweetness to complement to mellow flavor of the turkey. if you're like, "oh, wow, you put JAM? on a SANDWICH??? ARE YOU OK????" you need to stop reading right now. the shaggy-like combinations that i concoct may be too strong for you, traveler.

if you like sweet foods and want to lean into that, keep exploring Fruit Road. jams and preserves work wonders. fruit butters are also nice for a more savory touch, but can get expensive and/or seasonal. you can also go for Fruits themselves: thinly sliced apple + ham + brie (or swiss, if you can't swing a more expensive cheese) is a godsend. most fruits belong on a sandwich tbh. grapes, tangerines, bananas, pineapple: it's all about the right context.

if you want to go Even Further Beyond, Fruit Road takes you right down to Sweets Avenue. honey works on most sandwiches, and - hear me out - will cut the tangy, eggy flavor of mayonnaise. it's easy for honey to overpower, though, so i'd say to go for a little before tasting and reassessing. plain or vanilla yogurt also complements fruit really well without being overpowering. if you REALLY want to go sweet, i like marshmallow fluff + bananas + peanut butter for protein. i've yet to find good vegan alternates to these, unfortunately - agave nectar would work in place of honey, but play around and see what you can come up with.

if you want to go savory, then Aromatics Boulevard will make sure you get substance and flavor. basil is an underrated addition to sandwiches, as are green onions, garlic (jarlic works great for this, don't @ me), and cabinet spices. you might need to try a little to get the proportions right, but chicken + mozzarella + plain yogurt + curry powder is frankly a godsend. i also lovelovelove a good sauce; nando's perinaise is usually region-specific, but it's creamy and tangy and goes with everything and i'm obsessed with it. get creative with what you have!

ok. this is my secret ingredient. come here. lao gan ma is chili oil, but with chili crisps in it. it is the single best ingredient in my kitchen. it's not expensive, a jar of it lasts forever, and you can find it at almost every asian grocery store. it is the perfect kick of spice to add to a sandwich. plenty of heat but not overpowering, and with a mostly savory finish. god it's so good. i scoop it with a knife to avoid most of the oil and spread just the crisp over the sandwich. crunchy, spicy, savory. mamma mia.

those are the BASICS of what i can give you. if you've read this far and you actually make a Fucked Up Sandwich PLEASE tag me in it, because odds are i'll try it. be bold. make a potato salad + tangerine + tahini monstrosity. (i haven't tried that but maybe it's good???) anything is a sandwich if you're brave enough. if you're still looking for inspiration, i get a lot of ideas from traditional tea sandwiches, which are usually ~3 ingredients and can get absolutely hogwild.

if you want more specific recipes or combinations then reach out and i can send you a list, but i hope that this gave you the tools and confidence to go forth and wreak havoc. have fun stay safe eat sandwiches!

[soisaidfine]

Ethel Cain: if it makes noise, I can play it (2022) / i’ve been trying to make music without rules again so that’s been nice. i’ve also been experimenting with textures again (2024)

'And if it feels good, then it can't be bad' - Gibson Girl, Ethel Cain

Ethel Cain: Gibson Girl, Grant Park, Chicago, Lollapalooza Festival

August 14, 2024 what’s your fave part about making music for this era?

@mothercain on tumblr: i’ve been trying to make music without rules again so that’s been nice. i’ve also been experimenting with textures again which i haven’t done in a while. preachers daughter i got scared and made it sound as clean as i could to be palatable, so it’s been nice pushing that mindset out. . . .

Ethel Cain, 2022: “I had the realization that if it makes noise, I can play it. I just have to figure out how to make it make noise that I think sounds good. … When I first started producing, I was like, “I can do whatever I want.” Whenever you don’t know the rules, you’re not bound to them, so I was doing whatever came to mind. I had zero idea how to produce and I was getting all these weird sounds.”

. . .

PAPER: Do you know how to play all those instruments confidently? Or do you figure everything out based on what sounds good?

Ethel Cain: Everything for me has always been about what sounds good. I took piano for about four years as a kid, so that is my primary instrument. I can play organ, I can play synthesizers; anything with keys I can figure out well enough just from my piano background. I took guitar for like six months and I was so lazy that my teacher literally quit on me. She was like, “I’m not doing more,” and I picked up the guitar probably about five or six years later again. I knew how to play like six chords and I was like, “Okay, it is what it is.”

I had the realization that if it makes noise, I can play it. I just have to figure out how to make it make noise that I think sounds good. So I don’t really have any proper theory; like with drums, you do the kick and then you do the snare. As long as your rhythms are not super off, you can play the drums. I might not be able to play some crazy big rock drums, but I can play a little beat. I’ve learned way more about playing guitar through making guitar music, than I have from taking lessons. I learn how to play instruments on a need to know basis, but it’s working for me. It could be going faster, but when you’re trying to learn how to produce music and play instruments and do photography and learn Photoshop, you have to take everything in super small increments, because I don’t really have a ton of time to devote to one thing, specifically, so it’s just slow and steady.

PAPER: Is being this hands-on important to you? Or is this just a product of living in a location where you’re by yourself and don’t have access to all the creative collaborators you might have in a major city?

Ethel Cain: It’s a little bit of both because the only reason I started teaching myself how to produce is because when I was living in Florida, I didn’t know a single producer. On top of not knowing anybody, I especially didn’t know anybody who made the music I wanted to make because, even to this day, I’ve worked with other producers and they just don’t make what I want to make.

I worked heavily with my friend, Matt Tomasi, on this entire record, and we worked very well together. But other than him, it’s been very hard to find collaborators that make music in my style. I’m very nitpicky, I’m very specific. Instead of pissing people off by being like, “Move over, I’ll do it myself,” I was like, “I’ll just go ahead and do it from the very start.” It definitely gets a little exhausting doing it, but I very much like to be in the driver’s seat at all times because my art is the only thing I’m really passionate about. I might as well do it myself because, even though I might not get to that high quality end goal as fast, I would much rather know that I did everything exactly how I wanted it.

PAPER: All the music you’ve released sounds very singular and I think it comes down to little nuances, like adding a harmonica, that makes it unlike anybody else’s.

Ethel Cain: When I first started producing, I was like, “I can do whatever I want.” Whenever you don’t know the rules, you’re not bound to them, so I was doing whatever came to mind. I had zero idea how to produce and I was getting all these weird sounds. I made a lot of terrible music that I painstakingly tried to scrub off the internet, but those songs, even though I hate them now, they all taught me something and they all still exist in my current music in a way. So I think it was all worth it. Now I possess the skill of producing and I’m glad that I took the time to get my hands dirty and learn. If I have an idea, I don’t have to call up somebody and be like, “Hey, I want to do this,” and hope they know what I’m talking about. I can just sit on my computer and do a couple clicks and then bam, I made it happen. It was worth the intense struggle.

PAPER: I love that you said, “Whenever you don’t know the rules, you’re not bound to them.” There is something magical about entering any industry with a bit of naivete, and then the more successful you get the more it fucks with what you originally had, which was innate: if it sounds good, it feels good.

Ethel Cain: When I listen to my old music that’s not anywhere but my hard drive, it’s so different but still so me. Now in this recording process, it’s been like: people are going to hear this, people are going to critique it, they’re going to consume it. But when I started out, my music was never about if other people liked it, it was about if I liked it. I miss that freedom and I’ve been actively trying to push myself back into it, to where if I like it that’s good enough.

That’s been another thing I’ve liked about living out in Alabama: there’s no outside influence. It’s me and the music and that’s it. No one whispering in my ear. There’s this really funny tweet that says, “Papa John’s is pretty good when there’s not somebody whispering in your ear telling you it tastes like shit,” and that’s how I feel about my music. I like my music better when there’s no label executives whispering in my ear telling me, “You need to shorten that, you need to make it more pop friendly. It’s probably not gonna chart and stream.” I’m like, “Fuck, who cares?” I’m making a body of work, I’m not making a collection of songs to stream.

read more: Ethel Cain on ‘Everytime’ and Britney Spears’ Cautionary Tale, by Justin Moran, Paper, 18 March 2022

Ethel Cain: "found this pic on my mom’s phone. this is the 100+ year old piano i learned how to play on and recorded all my old demos on. it sat at granny’s house for decades and then moved to my parents’ house and will go to me someday :)”

[ynmnrmt]

You & Me & Rhea Makes Three: Chapter 9 (Finale)

rhea ripley x m!reader x m!reader's girlfriend

word count: 3,949

warnings: 18+, explicit sexual content, themes of domination/submission, infidelity, rape fantasy, didacticism

a/n: Those who enjoyed the shameless metatextuality of the previous chapter will be happy to hear this chapter opens on an extended Socratic-style apology for RPF as a genre. Those who are just here for the sauce can safely skip to the first asterisk.

(The story so far: chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six, chapter seven, chapter eight)

“No. I won’t condemn them for that. I can’t.”

You look around that sea of horrified faces, you feel how thin the ice is under you. You clear your throat.

“Obviously I sympathise with the impulse, I understand where anyone who wants to prosecute them is coming from. But it’s a situation where any possible cure is markedly worse than the disease. Not too long ago the laws against obscenity led us into absurd situations where – well, take Lady Chatterley’s Lover, for years that was only available as a heavily censored version, except if you went over to Europe, where you could get hold of an unexpurgated version quite easily. And then you had the farcical situation where people were smuggling books back and forth, which is the kind of thing you associate with a much older history, the great religious schisms, dangerous new kinds of Bible, etcetera.”

You breathe more steadily, it seems like the crowd do too, you’ve manoeuvred yourself back onto more abstracted ground.

“Crucially, even those kinds of barriers, which people did defeat quite easily, mean less than nothing in this information age. The big stumbling block in the Lady Chatterley days was, what, buying a ticket for the boat? Now getting hold of censored books is within the grasp of anyone with wi-fi. This, interestingly, was part of the Lady Chatterley trial in England, the prosecutors took the patronising tone that they weren’t so much looking to ban the book for their own benefit as they were for fear their wives or servants might get hold of it – that was their actual argument, and-”

You’re sweating. It’s a fun fact, it’s fun, it’s a fact, but you’re getting away from the point.

“A lot of people know that Lady Chatterley trial, less know that Japan also had a landmark obscenity hearing over the book. It’s from that legal precedent that we have Japan’s modern censorship laws, where pornography has to blur out the genitals. It’s a compromise, fine, but one that’s absurd on the face of it. So as we see, this kind of censorship both can’t be enforced, and manifests itself in profoundly stupid ways.”

You feel a bit steadier. Let’s bite the big one.

“If the members of the pop group Girls Aloud did encounter the fictional story in which they are raped, butchered, and eaten alive, naturally they’d be worried and upset, I certainly would be. Come to that, I didn’t wake up this morning wanting to defend such a thing. And if someone were to send such a work to them, then it’d be straight-out sexual harassment at the very least. But the mere existence of that story, depraved and poorly edited as it might be, cannot be a crime in and of itself. It can’t.”

It doesn’t clang into place the way you’d hoped, like a government of the people, by the people, and for the people. But when you see two of the figures in the crowd – one mousy, one Amazonian – rise from their table and start to clap, you feel the immaculate sense of what you can do for your country.

“Two minutes to rebut,” floats up from below.

“My worthy opponent,” says the guy on the opposite podium, “is perhaps not aware that the author of the vulgar story Girls Scream Aloud was tried on obscenity charges on the basis that children could easily access their work…” But you are aware. You know all too well that this was comprehensively disproved in court, and what’s more, you can already feel the head of steam you’ll build up over it, that children have always sought out works full of sex and violence, that this can’t be laid at the feet of the author, that you yourself read Nabokov’s Lolita at around twelve and while you found it fairly unsettling that would be a pretty poor reason to disinter the late Russian and drag him into court.

*

Rhea gets you under your arms and whirls you three times around through the air, so you’re dizzy when she kisses you. When she sets you down you nearly fall over and it makes her giggle. “Well done,” she tells you with bedroom eyes.

“Yeah, I – we’re both really proud of you,” says Jen, God, she hardly even meets your gaze, so you’re the one to give her a kiss.

“I’m just glad they didn’t want me to defend Holocaust deniers,” you say, slightly breathless, though that’s mainly from what Rhea’s just done to you. “I mean, I could have done it, I could have argued that censoring them just gives them an allure, but-”

“Hmm, you’re right, maybe they have a point,” Rhea bobs her head about, then rests it on yours and holds you. You don’t want to, but you laugh, quite a lot.

“Don’t you, sort of, have feelings about this stuff?” Jen asks tentatively. “You told me about how you sometimes get fanfiction of, well, you.” It makes you freeze, knowing you have unthinkingly committed a grotesque faux pas against the woman who has her solid arms wrapped around you and could snap you like a twig.

“That’s why you put in that caveat, wasn’t it?” Rhea asks you. “That when people actually send me that stuff it’s basically sexual harassment, but if it exists somewhere out there and I never know about it, then what’s the harm...God, I bet if you wrote some of that, it’d be really sexy.”

“I couldn’t do it if I knew you’d be reading it,” you say, as you relax into her grasp. Then, with your trophy for Dominance in Rhetoric in hand, you take your two girlfriends out to eat, still desperately guilty at having publicly defended a snuff fiction about a forgotten bubblegum-pop outfit, unable to shake the feeling another shoe’s about to drop.

But you get through a large expensive meal and it’s all fine. Rhea picks loose bits of rare steak out of her teeth with a fragment of bone. Jen had shovelled down her couscous bowl like a final meal, but now she’s sitting back in her chair, relaxed and almost happy.

“Back in a sec’,” says Rhea, her shadow rolls up over you and then she is gone.

“That was really,” Jen waves her hand about as she tries to pluck the right word out of the air, “I really thought, it was one of those where it said essentially what I’d thought but never really put together. If you know what I mean.”

“I mean, I’m glad you agree,” you laugh, it’s not funny but you do want her to agree.

“And,” thank God, she laughs a bit too, “a guy going to court over writing some dark fan fiction of a girly pop band just seems so, so insane. But I get what you mean, if it was writing that I was seriously offended by, yeah, maybe I’d feel differently. I probably would want to, to, for it to be against the law or something.”

“What’s wrong, Jen?” you say, because she’s turned completely, she can’t meet your eyes again.

“I’ve been having an affair,” she says, she looks at you with tears welling over her cheeks.

“I understand,” you say, probably too quickly, since it’s in the context of everything you and Rhea have done, and, yeah, made her watch too. Next to that you can’t really blame her.

“I want you to know,” she says, as she grabs desperately for a hold on your hand, “that it’s nothing you did wrong, that this is my fault, it’s something I’ve done wrong,” she’s collapsed across the table now, her forehead against your knuckles, you look around nervously and she lifts her head again, “and I still love you.”

“Look, I mean, I don’t know what it-” No, do you really want to know? “I realise it’s all been a bit, you know, sudden change lately, and,” you have no idea how to follow this up, but it’s then that Rhea’s silhouette crosses over you again.

“Hey, guys,” says Rhea with a regretful little sigh, not her usual cheerful tone at all. “So, did you tell him?”

Jen nods, her eyes screwed shut, a tear drops from her chin. Oh! Well, that’s alright then.

“Yeah,” Rhea nods at you. “I’m sorry. And I know she’s sorry.” She has a hand on both your backs, she draws you in, all one huddle across the table.

“I love you so much,” Jen sobs, her clutches work their way up your arm.

“Tell him how it happened.”

“That time when, when Rhea walked in on me masturbating in the shower, I begged her to get in with me. I begged her. And I knew it was wrong, I knew it was a betrayal, but you were away, and, she’s so fucking hot.”

“Don’t gloat,” you chide Rhea, who still looks quite apologetic.

“Don’t be a dick,” she fires back, her fingers brush up the back of your head, her bicep and her shoulder squeeze against you. “I told her I would get in the shower with her, if I could get at you as well. I’m no home-wrecker.”

“She made me come so much,” Jen weeps. Now Rhea does smile a bit, it’s not quite a gloat, but you catch her with a look.

“Alright, alright. We’re apologising, aren’t we?”

“Jen’s apologised,” you say. “I haven’t heard anything like that out of you.”

“I’m very very sorry,” Rhea’s words warm your face, “that I made your girlfriend come hard in the shower.”

“Good. Alright then,” you’ve hardly even closed your mouth by the time that you kiss Rhea, and you feel Jen paw at your face. When you break apart you turn to her, “Jen, honestly, this is a relief. This whole time I’ve been killing myself worrying you hate this.”

“I really think you’re still dealing with a lot of very sexist attitudes,” Rhea muses calmly. “Like, your insistence on thinking that your pretty girlfriend just wants, I don’t know, a wedding and a suburban house and two point five kids, rather than rough sex with both her boyfriend and her girlfriend.”

After a moment, you say, “Yes, perhaps you’re right. Jen, I’m sorry if you ever felt I was anything less than supportive of this.”

Jen sniffs out the last few tears. “I’m sorry too,” she says, she still sounds wretched. You pull her closer in and kiss her forehead, as tenderly as you can.

“That’s why we thought we should get you caged,” Rhea continues, “to teach you a lesson. And I think we should keep you that way. Ah, don’t look like that.” Her grin turns manic and her voice lowers when she confides in you “I promise it won’t stay on too much.”

“You’re sure you’re okay with this?” you ask Jen, still holding her, not quite protectively but not unguardedly either.

“I was going to ask you that,” Jen laughs through her tears. “I mean, sometimes, I acted like I wasn’t, I was worried you’d suspect something. That’s, um, that’s why I did the thing with the knife.”

It’d be an alarming sentence at the best of times, but still, it makes you breathe a sigh of relief you hadn’t been holding. “So, that was, you were sort of acting out a little play for me to follow? Like the kayfabe?”

“Exactly,” Rhea credits you. “To be honest, the knife was a bit of ad-lib, but God, it got my blood pumping. This girl…” You feel her pull you closer, too, as she gives Jen a squeeze.

“I had, I thought you got that,” Jen confesses to you, “with all my but Rhea, what are you doing.” Her words turn sultry and suggestive then, you feel yourself grin like an idiot as the relief she really is alright, and enjoying this even, continues to buoy you up inside.

“I wish I’d thought of that,” you confess right back, “I mean, doing that too.”

“And see, you hadn’t wanted to that time because of what Jen might think,” Rhea explains, “but now you know it was okay all along.”

“Rhea,” you bring yourself to say, while you feel yourself melt into her body, “next time I ask you to stop, you’d better.”

“Of course I will,” she says, with the same gentle, sunny smile.

“That’s the other thing,” Jen comes in with her tiniest voice yet. “I also hoped you’d both help me fulfil my rape fantasy.”

*

“No, stop,” Jen purrs up at you, and just about holds in the laugh. You don’t, and on your next stroke you lean down and kiss her, and she puts her whole head into it. If she didn’t, if she wasn’t so obviously loving every second of it, you couldn’t bear it. You’ve got hold of her by her wrists, but that doesn’t really matter, because Rhea’s underneath her and has her in an implacable full-nelson. “I want you,” she lusts, “to take it out and then to stick it in again, because, that way it’ll be like, mmfh,” the little wriggle she does then is hardly even a physical movement, it’s more spiritual, but you feel it all the same.

You do as she asks, for a moment you just hold your cock and look down at them, at the very faint way Jen wrestles in Rhea’s grasp, these women you would do anything for.

“Squeeze me tighter,” she insists.

“I don’t want to break you,” Rhea teases, or pleads.

“You won’t,” Jen promises. So Rhea draws her up further, and as you put it in and make her wail you can feel the tension in her body, but somehow it’s not the kind of tension that resists you, instead it welcomes you in and threatens not to let you go. Her little body, those thick arms around it, you must be in a dream. But in that dream you would fuck them both, you would please them both, to make sure they both liked you too.

Jen wails like she’s been twisted around, for one awful moment it hits a note of distress. But then, as Rhea nuzzles into her neck, you hear it for the sigh of pleasure it is. Suddenly it’s not a cruel, sadistic stab motion you inflict upon her, you can feel yourself becoming one with her, and here you let go of her left wrist and clutch at Rhea’s iron shoulder, because you want so desperately for her to be part of this too.

You don’t quite all move as one, so as you fumble about, your hand ends up trapped between the two women you love. You’re in no hurry to move it, but you do, to touch Rhea’s face, at first just with your fingertips, but then your palm, you caress her properly, and she nuzzles into that, too. It makes you lose your rhythm, you flop down on top of Jen’s little body, feeling yourself press down on her, and her press up into you – but seconds before she looks at you and starts to complain you get going again, and her eyes flash with delight.

“Take it,” you tell her, “fucking take it,” it’s little more than something to say, ridiculous porn-star dialogue you’d never have thought of outside the heat of the moment. It works though, her eyes turn liquid and again she wails somewhere between pain and pleasure, she tries to break free of the way Rhea holds her but you all know she never, ever will.

The muscles in your neck tense, the blood thumps in your head, and with Rhea’s help and Rhea’s love you come directly inside your girlfriend. Your climax coincides with the last gasp of hers – so when you return to full consciousness, she is there for you in the afterglow. Her eyes flash at you, she smiles as if you had been gentle as velvet with her, and she whispers “I love you.”

Rhea shoves you both aside, as is her wont, and takes the big gulp of air you denied her. “God, you two are actually quite heavy,” she complains – before she props herself up a bit, arms folded back behind her head. “And I’d like to get off too, you know.”

The golden afterglow makes you sluggish for a moment. So by the time you dive in, Jen is already there with her face between Rhea’s legs, hungrily looking for any spot that will make her feel good. You settle for kissing around Rhea’s thigh, before she grabs you by the hair and pulls you up to look you in the eye.

“When do you think you’ll be ready to go again?” she asks, so sweetly, but by now you know, that light in her eyes, that belies the hunger.

“Oh! I, I’ll do my best,” you say limply, able to think only that she’d be ready right away. It’s an unfair comparison, but it’s the same results you get every time you compare yourself with her. Against her gorgeous sculpted torso, feeling the heat of her body, your cock flops, not even fully gone down yet, nowhere near going up again. You waver in her grasp, ready to collapse if she wasn’t there, “I can, I can help you get off in other ways,” you mean it, too, even if Jen’s face has still got Rhea’s vagina firmly occupied.

“I want to get fucked,” says Rhea, quite flatly, and you squirm in embarrassment that you cannot give her what she wants immediately. But then she smiles again, and with a little sing-song cadence adds “I know how to get you ready.”

The chill of desire you get when she says that is nothing compared to the chill of the metal on your balls as she pops them one after another through the chastity ring. Then there is the intense pleasure of her bending your still-half-erect cock about, to work that under the ring too, all of a sudden you think maybe you could go again. You collapse onto the bed, but immediately nuzzle up as close to her as you can, you thrust her hips to help her ease the cage over your cock. And then, when she looks at you with untrammelled delight and clicks the lock shut, then you get the first twinge of another erection.

“When it starts to hurt,” Rhea emphasises hurt like a French kiss, “we’ll know you’re ready again – ooh, Jen.” You feel her muscles move under you as she wriggles about with enjoyment.

“Uh huh,” comes your choked reply, your mouth pressed up against her shoulder, the cage somehow throttling your voice.

“But not a bad hurt, I wouldn’t want to do that to you, that wouldn’t be fun,” she specifies quite carefully. “I mean a kinky hurt.”

Jen pops her head up. “You said I was a shit girlfriend for doing th-” But without the slightest change of expression, Rhea rams Jen’s head back down between her legs. Jen produces a few satisfied “Hmm hmm hmm” sounds, you know these by now, the sound of smutty laughter muffled by Rhea’s thighs.

Rhea sits you up, lays her arms gently around your shoulders, and then with no force but immense power pulls you back in. First a little peck right on the lips, then a longer, deeper one, she nips your tongue with her teeth, you yelp – that’s muffled too – as you feel yourself swelling in the cage and the metal close in around you.

Her teeth release you, you do have the power in your limbs not to slither down her body and end up with your mouth on her breasts, but somehow that’s what happens. With all the talk of kinky hurt, that’s probably all the grounds you need to give her a little nip. But that’s not even what you want to do. With one of her arms around you, and the other keeping Jen in place, you kiss and suck on her tits as if you’re getting married to them and a priest’s told you to.

You can feel yourself filling up the cage completely now, feel the tip of it around you. But in spite of that bodily demand, you work your way back up Rhea’s chest, you smear your lips across the bottom of her neck, and she giggles to feel you land under her arm. There it is, the light sheen, the flavour and tang of the very slight exertion she’s suffered holding Jen in place for you. You scrub her remorselessly with your tongue, not wanting to miss one little bit.

While you love and mouth at that softer, more private skin, you feel her shift and go “Oh,” a low sexy intonation from the core of her being. Her chest heaves, she trembles which shakes you about too, and then comes the eruption, a long rattling cry of ecstasy. Part of you is tempted to pull away, to enjoy the look on her face, but you have latched on too firmly, and when she sweats out her climax you know you have made the right decision.

You straighten up, you finally take a breath – and so does Jen, a huge gasp for air when Rhea finally opens her legs and sets Jen free. For a moment she is slumped on the dampened sheets, and you go to her and check on her, help her up, genuinely worried she might have been squeezed too hard between Rhea’s thighs. But she leaps up to meet you, laughing merrily, then kisses you and lets you taste Rhea’s pleasure, all over her face.

“Mmh,” sighs Rhea, she settles down on the bed, gazing up at you both. “Look at you…” and the warmth of it fills your heart, before she blinks her eyes properly, focuses on you, and all business again asks “Are you ready yet?”

Jen grabs the cage, you feel her fingers through the bars and you yelp, she declares “It feels like it!” She cradles your balls, gives them a little squeeze, and asks them “Are these refilled for her?”, yes, there’s that heat of the moment filthy-talk again. You just manage one passionate kiss before Rhea’s got hold of your balls instead and pulls you over toward her.

“Well well,” Rhea muses, playing with the cage and your cock inside it, bouncing it on her hand. You’re hard enough by this point it doesn’t flop down but stays pointing painfully towards her – like she said, a kinky hurt. And she relishes it, she smirks, devours whatever expression’s on your face as she undoes the lock, she hadn’t even needed to take the key out after shutting it. She grips the cage, and pops it right off, you produce half a groan and half a gasp.

“I hope you fuck her real good,” Jen whispers, snuggled up to you from behind, she takes hold of your cock and points it directly at Rhea’s vagina, poking at her on your behalf. For a second you are nervous, you’re hard again but your erection doesn’t quite feel fully recovered. And hunched over Rhea’s big, lovely body you feel as inadequate as you ever have. But then Jen shoves you forward, with a trill of delight that Rhea echoes – and when you pump eagerly away, you can tell, she really does feel good too.

Rhea squeezes you with her legs, the way she did Jen’s face – the same face sticking to yours now – to hold you in place, inside of her, and you’re happy, and she’s happy too, and you’re all happy, more than you could ever even have wanted.

[weshallc]

When is the Wedding?

Old Skool Turnadette.

Second of (which is now) three parts.

Thank you @fourteen-teacups and everyone who commented, reblogged or liked part one.

One O’clock

Shelagh returned to All Saints’ Church for the second time that day. Dr Turner had gone on his rounds and she had prepared lunch for Timothy and his grandmother. Marianne's mother had volunteered to keep the boy company while she and Patrick made their arrangements.

Granny Parker appeared to be as excited as her grandson about the forthcoming wedding. This had taken Shelagh by surprise at first, aware that her daughter had only passed away two years ago. But, the more she watched grandson and grandmother together, the more Shelagh began to realise that Timothy’s happiness was the older lady's main concern.

Mrs Parker had confided in her over Christmas that Shelagh believed to be a God send. She hadn't been convinced Patrick was coping as a single parent . Not wanting to come across as an interfering busty body, she had been summing up the courage to suggest to her son-in-law that Timothy go and live with her in Bexly Heath for a couple of years. Shelagh had been really shocked at this revelation and although she appreciated Mrs Parker’s concern and her willingness to help, she knew this would have hurt Patrick's feelings.

Shelagh had rarely seen him lose his temper, maybe occasionally with a negligent professional or an over officious board member. Only once on a personal level when the nursing staff refused Shelagh access to sit with Timothy because she was a day away from being his mother.

Mrs Parker was a warm and jovial woman, but she could see that Timothy didn’t just inherit his straightforwardness from his father's side. If Granny Parker misjudged her approach when raising her concerns and its solution, it could have damaged their relationship irrevocably.

These thoughts occupied Shelagh’s mind as she made her way through the transept and headed for the back of the church, retracing Patrick’s and her steps from earlier that day. She knocked on the large mahogany door of Reverend Raymond’s office.

The responding “Enter” brought a smile to Shelagh’s lips. How often had she heard that word from those lips over the last ten years? Although from behind a different door. She pushed the heavy barrier open.

“Shelagh, it’s so lovely to see you.” Sister Julienne was so impressed with herself for not throwing herself upon the young woman standing before her she released a rush of air which she disguised with a cough.

“Reverend Raymond said you’d be here this afternoon. I hope you will forgive my impromptu visit?” Shelagh rushed her greeting, alarmed that she hadn’t thought to telephone ahead.

The older woman was now by her side and had taken hold of her hand to reassure her friend.

“Reverend Raymond has been so generous in allowing me the use of his office, on an occasional basis, to complete Nonnatus paperwork and to store a lot of our documents in the crypt.”

Sister Julienne never changed, Shelagh thought, always thankful, always seeing God’s will in every hurdle that crossed her path.

“I also have full permission to make use of the kitchen. Would you like a cup of tea?” Shelagh’s protests of being a nuisance were soon silenced as her host explained she had been just about to allow herself a much desired break.

As a nun who had once wondered if she herself might one day be called on to run a convent, she admired the deftness of her mentor’s social skills and ability to put everyone around her at ease.

In the end, the church housekeeper had ushered the two women back into the office, perhaps not with the same social skills as Sister Julienne. She entered the office ten minutes later carrying a tray set with a fine bone china Royal Worcester Torquay tea set. A tea plate was full of raspberry jam tarts, which she informed her guests were the reverend’s favourites, but he could spare a couple.

As Sister Julienne played mother, sadness enveloped Shelagh; her own dramas had detached her slightly from the struggles her former colleagues were facing, as a result of being forced to abandon Nonnatus.

“I’m sorry to take up your time, Sister. I know this must be a difficult time for you, as us all, so many memories to be just ground into dust.”

“I can’t deny it has been a challenging time, but a building will be ground to dust. But, my memories and faith will remain very much intact. The order and our spirit are still very much alive.”

“Of course, Sister.” Shelagh took a sip of tea, wondering if it was the exact same teacup she had drank from that morning.

“But we mustn't dwell on the past. What of the future? May I enquire how did your first visit of the day to this office conclude?”

“Thank you for asking, Sister. Dr Turner and I are to be married the second week in February.”

“Splendid, the Lord dwells not in the old and decaying, but in the new and flourishing. One of many fresh starts I hope this year.”

As Shelagh helped herself to a tart, she wondered if they had been baked between visits or if the vicar actually didn’t like to share,

“So, when is the wedding?”

Forty minutes to two.

Talking to Sister Julienne always calmed her fears. Her steps were lighter, leaving the church and heading back to Timothy. She had been foolish to cut herself off from her friends, her family if she was truthful. She had been so thrilled to be forming a new family with Patrick and Timothy she had underestimated that change, even positive change, takes time and effort. She had found herself no longer a sister, yet not quite a Turner.

As traumatising Timothy’s illness and the consequences had been the blessing behind it had been the postponing of the wedding. It had given her and Patrick time to get to know each other a little better against the backdrop of tragedy rather than caught up in the nervous energy of a new romance.

It had also broadened her notions of what being a mother involved. In the sanatorium she had daydreamed of tucking the boy up in bed and helping him read. She’d wanted to draw with him and play the piano. She imagined sitting in the front row beside Patrick and applauding him in his school play.

That moment she was stranded behind the ward door looking helplessly on with the Matron’s words echoing around her head “You are not his mother” she’d known there and then that she wasn’t Timothy’s mother. The realisation had hit her that repeating her vows before God and wearing Patrick’s ring wouldn't miraculously make her fit for the role. It would be a title she would need to earn. She had a lot to learn.

A squeeze of her arm jolted Shelagh back to reality.

“Hello, you”

“Oh hello Trixie, how are you?” The young midwife was gingerly maintaining her balance on her bicycle, one foot planted on the pavement.

“Very cross with you. Chummy and I have been trying to arrange a time with you to design your wedding dress. If I didn't know better, I'd think you had been avoiding me.”

“My main concern these days is caring for young Timothy and encouraging him with his exercises, not on frivolous things such as gowns.” Shelagh knew she had overreacted. that her all too recent musings on motherhood had coloured her reply.

Trixie paused for a second, as if she was considering how to respond herself. As she studied Shelagh, she wondered what she saw; her confident colleague and superior or a neurotic woman, only slightly older than herself, but completely out of her depth.

The midwife hopped off her bike and leant it against the wall of the nearby Napoli. Taking hold of Shelagh’s arm once again, she pushed her through the Italian bistro’s door.

The warmth of the cafe complimented the welcome from behind the counter.

“Nurse Franklin. Lovely to see you again. Sit anywhere, you have avoided the rush.”

Shelagh sat opposite Trixie, filling a table for two next to an enormous mirror. It had been three months since Shelagh had looked at herself in the sanatorium mirror wearing her tired 1940s two piece, but the unexpected appearance of her reflection wrong footed her. She noticed Trixie gave her own image the briefest of glimpses and adjusted her hat in response.

A dark haired man in his twenties with a pristine white shirt and military ironed black trousers arrived at the table offering to take their coats. Trixie explained they would just be taking tea and a cannoli each. Shelagh wanted to protest that she could still taste the vicar’s Typhoo on her lips and had a raspberry seed wedged into one of her molars. The discomfort brought on by the mirror and the lack of familiarity in her surroundings somehow weakened her ability to protest.

The tea arrived swiftly in a large stainless steel teapot accompanied by two white pyrex turquoise band teacups and saucers. A matching tea plate with the Italian cream filled pastry followed.

Trixie ignored Shelagh’s raised hand towards the tea strainer she was flowing the hot amber liquid trough and filled her teacup to the rim.

“How long have we known each other?” Trixie had obviously come to a conclusion regarding the dilemma that appeared to have gripped her out doors. “You were the only one who saw through me almost ten years ago.” The bridge of Shelagh’s nose wrinkled in confusion. “You saw through my clipped, cut glass tones and my faultless sense of style and saw a nurse and a midwife and believed in me. I now can see through you, Sister Bernadette as was, you need to believe in yourself as a bride worthy of the man that adores you.”

Shelagh smiled affectionately at her friend and used the pastry fork to poke at her unprecedented third treat of the day.

“A little bird told me that you and Dr Turner had a very special appointment this morning.”

Shelagh decided it was only fair to relieve her animated companion's agitation.

“Yes, the wedding is booked for the second week in February.”

“That soon! Oh, we have so much work to do in such a short time.” Trixie dropped her fork and placed both hands on either side of her waist as if steadying herself.

“We do?” Exclaimed Shelagh.

Trixie frowned at the woman opposite, as if she was without reason.

“When is the wedding?”

[risnabeaute]

“Skincare is Self-Care, Inside and Out, because Your Skin is as Precious as You”

pics from pinteres; for example the results of affects using retinol and serum, exfoliating and the other active skincare.

Hello my beautès! ε(´｡•᎑•`)っ 💕 I hope you're doing well there! I want to share some stories and how my skin changes me into a different person. You know the most important asset is our faces/skin so make sure you choose the right one for your skin.

How important is skin care?

Your skin's condition has a huge impact on your emotional well-being, therefore it's important to understand the link between the two. The mental health barrier associated with skin concerns persists in our society, making it difficult to accept and enjoy your skin if beauty standards are not satisfied. So, skincare can be viewed as a path of self-acceptance, letting the individual focus on enhancing their natural attractiveness rather than comparing it to false beauty standards. Furthermore, body positivity is essential for boosting mental health and can be enhanced with having access to skincare products and aids. It helps your skin stay in good condition; Because you produce skin cells throughout the day, it's important to keep your skin bright and healthy. Skincare is closely linked to both physical and mental health, so when you care for your skin, you also take care of your mind. Completing your skincare routine can make you feel refreshed, energised, and optimistic. Moreover, taking care of our skin can help us practice mindful living. By focusing on the sensations and feelings of skincare products, we can develop awareness and become more in the present. This may reduce tension, encourage calmness, and enhance mental clarity in general. And I think our mental and physical health are closely impacted by our skin, which is not just a reflection of my physical health. Due to our habit-forming and self-care-oriented nature, skincare routines have a profound impact on our mental health. Consistently following a skincare routine can be an effective means for us to decompress and give ourselves some time away from our hectic lives. Applying skincare procedures allows us to take time to relax ourselves and de-stress. Just using a facial mask or moisturiser can provide you a sense of refreshment and relaxation, much like a mini-spa session. You can feel less stressed and anxious and feel more at ease by setting aside this time for self-care. So beautés please take care of yourself by caring for you skincare routine because Your skin is precious as You (✿ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)⁾⁾🫶🥹. I understand that sometimes we are simply too sleepy to do skincare, or even remove our makeup before going to sleep. We have to fight them and take care of our skin, and if we follow a skin care set up on a daily basis, the results could change us into an optimistic person who is healthy on the inside and out. Skin is a part of our identity and a reflection of our mental health, even if we don't realise it. The brain and skin have an unbreakable connection, so it is more than just a physical barrier to the outside world. Your skin can reveal how you're feeling emotionally and spiritually, and how you take care of it can have a significant impact on your mental health. Taking care of the skin may be a kind of self-care and self-esteem, allowing you to feel more confident in your identity and how you express yourself to the world.

First step to do is just skincare routine! Taking care of yourself is an important part of any skincare routine, as is using the right products. It offers a chance for you to schedule a short period of time during your hectic day for self-care. You can take use of this time to relax, be mindful, and enjoy the ritual of taking care of your skin. Additionally, maintaining a skincare regimen gives your daily life structure and regularity. Having a designated time for self-care might help you feel stable and at ease. No matter what else is going on, it becomes a reliable and constant aspect of your day. Trust me you will enjoy your day if you do a skincare routine in the morning. Also, committing to a skincare routine can benefit your emotional health. It acts as a daily reminder to put your requirements and needs first. Taking easy care of your skin can make you feel more confident and self-esteem, enabling you to face the world with a bright glow. So, dedicate yourself to your skincare regimen and make a promise to yourself. It doesn't have to take a lot of effort or time. Choose items that are effective for you and maintain a regular schedule. Beyond only having beautiful skin, self-care will have a profoundly positive impact on your general well-being. Just do basic skincare before you start your day. Basic Skincare; your facial wash, your sunscreen so important don't miss this one! and moisturize your face its so helpful and make ur skin brighter ✨🦋🥰

The following five ideas can help you get the most out of your skincare plan:

1. To help you take a minute to focus on yourself, try out these various exfoliating procedures.

2. Spend some time practicing mindful masking so that you may unwind and concentrate on your breathing for a short while.

3. Take your time choosing the products that are most appropriate for your skin type and requirements.

4. Use products with awareness, taking note of their aroma and texture as you apply them.

5. Include face massage techniques in your barrier to give yourself a little time for self-care and relaxation.

Make sure use of relaxing ingredients Using products that have relaxing ingredients is especially important because of this. Make sure the skincare products you use have relaxing elements like aloe vera, snail mucin, ceramide, niacinamide and it's also brightening your skin. Take care for your eyes. Even though it may seem that anxiety and eye care are unimportant, depressive states frequently result in changes to the appearance of your eyes. Whether or whether you have puffy eyes right now, taking good care of your eyes is essential. Dark circles and puffiness around the eyes are classic signs of anxiousness. Applying a mild eye lotion or applying a cold compress to your eyes might help lower inflammation and enhance circulation. And learn how to guide/use your skincare right. For example guides for new beginning using serum because i was wrong using serum and it cause fatal for me, I was using serum vitamin c 2 times per day 😅🥲, so beautes make sure you use then right ❤️❤️❤️.

You deserve to feel beautiful and at ease in your skin✨ and skincare can be an effective tool to help you get there. According to research, having healthy-looking skin might have a psychological and emotional impact on the person who has it. A skincare routine customised to your specific needs can lead to increased confidence and self-worth.

[handyowlet]

I’ve seen a lot of discourse lately about the newer parts of this (and other) fandoms. Some of it is just calling out people for bad behavior, but some of it seems downright hostile to people just for being new, and that seems unfair to me. Anyone who is being a dick to others should ABSOLUTELY be dragged for that, whether they’ve been around for 6 months or 6 years. Common decency should be the baseline.

But we can’t control when we became aware of a fandom, or when a new world was opened up to us. And trying to lock people out, devalue their opinions, or refuse to engage with them at all simply because you were here first is just mean.

For example, I was obsessed with My Little Pony back when I watched The Glass Princess (1986) on VHS multiple times a day. But it’s been a long time since then, and while Friendship is Magic is not the same, I don’t begrudge anyone loving it and I don’t think I would be a more important fan or that my opinions would be more valid just because cause I loved it before a newer fan did, especially because I am (probably much) older than a lot of those fans. I only got there first because I was born first and my mom bought that tape. This isn’t exactly the same as some of you because I’m not into MLP any more, but my daughter’s starting to love it, and I’m not going to keep her from watching the new stuff just because it isn’t the old stuff.

I was only 5 when GO was published, so of course there are people who read it and fell in love with it before I did, because I was a child and didn’t know it existed. I didn’t know about a lot of things- I didn’t know anything about Star Wars, Star Trek, LOTR, etc. until college because my parents didn’t let me. I only learned about Rocky Horror, Eddie Izzard, RENT, Queer as Folk, etc. because of the people I met in Creative Writing and drama club in high school, because they had been given access to those things and shared them with me. Drag Race was several years old before someone introduced me to that.

I am relatively new to this fandom, even though I did read the book many years before the show came out. I didn’t even know there was going to be a show until suddenly there was, and I loved S1, but circumstances in my life kept me from becoming obsessed. I also had no idea S2 was coming until right before it came out, and by then I was in a place where the brain rot was able to take hold. I thought Tumblr was like Tindr until around then as well, and I had no idea AO3 even existed. No one else I known IRL knows what these things are either, except for what I’ve told them. I don’t think my participation in this fandom should be any less valid just because I didn’t have access to it before now.

I have dived into this fandom headfirst and unabashedly. I still don’t understand all of how Tumblr and AO3 work, but now that I’m here, I participate as much as I can (sometimes I don’t respond to those tagging posts because I haven’t figured it out yet). I post on Tumblr when I think I have something to say, and try to boost others who say things I think might enrich someone else’s life too. I devour fanfic on a daily basis, leaving kudos and comments and recommending anything I’ve liked to anyone who will listen because I want to support the amazing artists in this community and spread the happiness they’ve brought to me. I try to engage with anyone who engages with me, and I’d like to think I’ve been respectful to you all (but I know I can be blunt too, so if ever I am a twat waffle, feel free to drag my ass for that).

I guess my bottom line is, while I’ve mostly felt very safe, loved, and accepted jn this fandom, the anti-newbie discourse is disheartening. I will absolutely join you in blasting anyone who chooses to be an asshole, but I’m never going to support the unnecessary gatekeeping. I don’t think Aziraphale, Crowley, Michael, David, Terry, or Neil would either.

Thank you to all of you who have shown love and acceptance to me. I’ll strive to return it and pay it forward to every chance I get.

[marshmallowprotection]

Could I request Ray, Suit, and Unknown with an MC who has pots? Since Ray wants to be a prince, would he try to catch me in his arms or something like that when I get dizzy?

Ray will find out everything there is to know about your health if it's somewhere he can access it before meeting you. If he doesn't find it before meeting you, God, he's putting his spare minutes into finding out what he can so he doesn't have to bother you! He can't consider himself... to be your prince if he doesn't know everything there is to know about you.

A part of him would want to learn everything there is to know about your health from you, and then another part of him wouldn't want to plague you if you are easily exhausted.

He doesn't think it's fair that there's only so much you can do for the sake of your health, but you better keep in mind that once he figures out what you need to stay comfortable, he's going to have dozens of it added to his supply for you! Salty drinks! The right amount of protein and fiber to keep you smiling.

He may not be in the best of health himself but he's not going to let you fall over and hit your head if you feel dizzy. You should be aware that he will coddle you more than you might like, however. He doesn't want you to hurt yourself in any way, which means he might babysit you whether you need it or not.

It's the frustrating part about him when it comes to his desire to take care of you. He will want to do everything for you whether you need him to or not, and there's not really a lot of room to argue with him about it. 

But, in terms of making sure you have somebody there to catch you when you fall, you can count on him for that. It's all the more reason for him to hold you closer in his embrace as the two of you walk through the garden. He gets to hold your hand and you at the same time, sounds like a win.

Suit Saeran will already have some awareness of your condition since Ray would've already been made the wiser of it. That means he's got a glossary to look into that's all about you and what you might have to deal with on a day-to-day basis.

You would think he might not look into it because what point would he have in looking after something with a toy that's not going to stick around for very long? However, as easy as it would be for him to use your health against you, he's not going to do that.

Outside of the mistake he makes and withholding food from you, he's not going to torture you about your health because he knows what it feels like to have somebody do that to him. The projection is the only thing that will happen here, but for whatever reason, there will always be a drink high in electrolytes for you no matter what happens. Don't call him on it because he will never admit to it.

If you try to call him on it, he'll say that there is likely somebody out there who pities you and it's not him. Which is funny coming from somebody who is determined to make sure you don't eat or drink poisoned food from the savior. 

He might not believe your health is that bad until you have a flare. It'll take you collapsing once for him to realize just how difficult it can be for you sometimes, and that's going to add to the guilty experiences later on when he realizes he's been doing everything wrong since he met you. He will catch you, but he will fall to the ground just as quickly as you do, panicking because what can he do for you when they want you dead? 

Unknown likely had no awareness of your health beforehand. All he had to know about you is that you would be willing to go to a second location without complaint. After all, if it's got nothing to do with his revenge, he doesn't need to know about it.

Of course, don't take that to mean he won't do anything at all to help you if you feel bad, it's just that he is born of apathy and it is hard for him to care about much of anything these days given the fact most of his emotions were tortured out of him out of necessity to survive. 

It is nothing personal because it's not like he has anything against you. Why would he have anything against you? You didn't go to the apartment when he told you to, you didn't enter the combination when you told him to, and he had to take you because he knew the operation would be a failure if he didn't. But, it wasn't because he wanted to torture you specifically.

That is certainly no excuse but it frames the situation as one where he's not going out of his way to be cruel to you, specifically. 

As far as what he would do to make sure you're taken care of, there wouldn't be much of anything but that doesn't mean there would be nothing at all. He may be somebody who seems like he has a lot of power but in the end, he has almost as much power as you do. Which is no power at all. The most he could do for your sake is make sure you have the right amount of salt intake.

He can get you some energy drinks, but he's only going to be able to get you the right food now and again. He won't be soft about saying he got it for you, either. Even if he softens up to you and tries to be nicer, he's still going to be brash around the edges. 

The only warning you need in this situation is that he will catch you if you start to fall over, but he's not as strong as he looks, and he might end up on the floor to cushion your fall. He tries to play his health off all the time but he's not as well off as he tries to make himself seem. 

[seth-shitposts]

System ramblings below the cut ft the main trio

Sebastián💚 & Alice💖: *pokes at Lexie*

Lexie💙: *tired groaning muffled by a pillow*

Sebastián💚: buddy,, process your thoughts.

Alice💖: you've been warding this one off for like. Three weeks now.

Lexie💙: excuse me if I *still* haven't processed the last two existential crises I've had. I'm not ready to add a third onto that pile.

Alice💖: Yeah, so process it just a little. So it doesn't get thrown onto the unprocessed pile.

Sebastián💚: and you don't plan on touching either of the other two for awhile. Options are *low*

Lexie💙: uuuggggghhhhhhhhhhh.

Lexie💙: I think I might not be as male leaning gender identity wise as I thought. Or, at least, as I had been before I merged with Haimo sometime last year.

Seb💚&Alice💖: *nodding*

Lexie💙: I'm still not comfortable when strangers or people we aren't close to percieve me in a feminine way, and the masc perception is still a better lean in that aspect, but it's more of the enjoyment of masc/neutral than of man/male. I like to lean masc sometimes, but not be fully percieved as man. Bevause it's just as uncomfortable. And in that way, I do prefer to lean back towards feminine/neutral. I'm not quite comfortable with she/her, especially around strangers, unless they're queer or have a different understanding of gender culturally than how we grew up around. But I think I like being percieved as man even less.

Alice💖&Seb💚: *taking notes and making helpful color graphs*

Lexie💙: I'm still solidly gender in between, and I think I might have a Sapphic lean, but I'm not sure. I'm not even sure if I would classify for it.

Alice💖: well, from what you've described, you're a non man. And isn't that part of a basis of Sapphic? Non man & non man?

Lexie💙: I'm not sure. I don't really keep up with the community or the constantly shifting definitions. I can barely keep up with us and how each of us feel individually. And keeping up with myself is even harder.

Lexie💙: I wasn't even the one to realize when Shig and Haimo merged when Shig was healing himself.

Seb💚: don't be hard on yourself over that. It's for real a miracle that we can be aware of anything that goes on in this system. Since the way we found out was kind of by mistake. We don't have access to anything else. We've barely begun to make any type of progress in the like. What. Two and half to three years that we've been aware of the system?

Lexie💙: *tired muffled groan again* we don't have enough time for anything. We work seven days a week and most of our off hours are spent recovering so we don't burnout. But that doesn't leave us with much time to do the things we want to do, to fully & properly take care of ourselves, and to work on making progress on system things.

Lexie💙: and we've hanged the plans. Originally, we were just going to work these two jobs seven days a week until June and then get a different job in the town we're moving to with the friends once we get an apartment. But with what we're being paid, it would be more cost effective for us to keep the two jobs and get a vehicle that's more fuel efficient.

Lexie💙: but the prediction of us only being able to work the seven day week for six to seven months max is looking to ha e been correct. I can't tell if it's just the fact that we're on our cycle and have [undiagnosed] pcos or if burnout is just on the horizon, but I just hope whatever it is doesn't linger or weigh us down.

[karahalloway]

Morally Grey - Part II: Hard Drive

Fandom: TRR x Mission: Impossible II

Pairing: Drake Walker x F!OC (Harper Gale)

Series: Morally Grey

Synopsis: Drake drives after Harper and things get wild, in more ways than one...

Word count: 3,700

Rating/Warnings: E (swearing, road rage, all kinds of dangerous driving do not try this at home)

Chapter theme song:

A/N: So, I apparently had too much fun writing Game of Thieves, so after I finished it, my mind decided that it would be great idea to create a follow-up exploring the car-chase scene from Drake's POV. So, here we are! There will probably be two more parts after this.

A/N2: The clip (for anyone who hasn't seen the movie, or doesn't remember) is below. Enjoy!

"Dammit..." I cuss under my breath as she drives off.

As asset recruitment went, that had crashed and burned like the Hindenburg.

Not that I strictly know why I need to recruit her in the first place.

Apart from the very clear directive I received in my mission brief.

...you may select any two team members, but it is essential that the third team member be Harper Gale. She is a civilian, and a highly capable professional thief. You have forty-eight hours to recruit Miss Gale and meet me in Stormholt to receive your assignment...

In and of itself, such an instruction — while rare — isn't that left field. Because even though IMF prefers to operate in the shadows, there are times when the mission parameters call for third-party assists. To gain access. To throw off suspicion. To provide specialist expertise.

So, over the years, I've found myself teaming up with all manner of civilians — from world-renowned scientists, through morally shady politicians, all the way down to your entry-level gang-banger in order  to get a mission over the line.

But Gale isn't any of those things. She's a common thief. Admittedly a drop-dead gorgeous and bitingly sassy thief who's quick on her feet... but a common thief nevertheless. And those are a dime a dozen. In both IMF, and the underworld.

So, that doesn't explain why Constantine has gone to such pains to single her out as a mission-critical part of this assignment.

Which means that he obviously knows something I don't.

But I'm not gonna find out what by standing on the Beaumonts' drive like a moron.

"Hey, Pete," I call, turning back around. "One more for you."

The valet manager deftly catches the token that I toss to him. "Right away, Mr Dallas."

"Thanks," I acknowledge as I pull out my phone.

One of the upsides of having had to pretend to be the Beaumonts' external security consultant over the past couple of days is that I'm now on a first name basis with most of the staff.

Which definitely pays dividends when you need something done quick.

Like I do now.

Unlocking the encrypted device while Pete radios through for my ride, I tap on the tracking app and enter the number that I pulled off her phone while waiting for her to crack the safe.

Because somehow, I'd known I'll end up in this exact situation.

After a few moments' calibration, the software throws up a map with a flashing red dot in the centre.

I feel the corner of my mouth twitch. You can run, but you can't hide, girl...

"Your vehicle, Mr Dallas," advises the valet, pulling up in front of me.

"Perfect timing," I grin, pulling my wallet out to extract some notes to stuff into his breast pocket as he exits the car.

"Oh, th-thank you, sir," he stammers, clearly unaccustomed to receiving a healthy tip for his services.

"You're welcome," I nod, getting behind the wheel of the Porsche 918 Spyder.

Besides the fact that the average Joe's manning these kinds of events made fuck all money while the guests drank champagne costing several grand a pop, it always paid to cultivate goodwill with the staff. Not just from a common decency point of view, but also because you never know when you’re gonna need their eyes and ears.

So, parting with a couple hundred Euros, or a favour, in exchange for potentially priceless intel down the line is always a fair trade in my book.

"Have a wonderful evening!" enthuses the still star-struck valet as he closes the driver's side door 'round.

"Yeah. We'll see about that," I mutter under my breath as I slot my phone into the cup holder at the top of the centre console.

The evening hasn't exactly gone to plan so far...

But, as Constantine likes to say, this was Mission: Impossible, not Mission: Difficult.

Which means that even though Gale would probably like nothing more than to shoot me on sight, I have to go after her. And somehow convince her to change her mind.

Otherwise, I'm gonna be up shit creek with this mission...

...and with Constantine.

And neither of those things is something I'm particularly keen on letting happen. Now, or ever.

So, pressing my foot down, I throw the car into drive and take off with a throaty roar as the naturally aspirated 4.6-liter V-8 kicks the 608 horses under the hood to life.

And, despite the height of the stakes, I feel a grin spread over my face.

Fuck, this car's something else!

Thanks to the less-than routine nature of my work, I frequently find myself behind a wheel. Planes, trains, automobiles — I've driven them all. But I can still count on one hand the machines that have simply taken my breath away.

And the 918 is one of them.

Because despite the fact that it doesn't come with the covetous price tag of a Koenigsegg, or the iconic lines of a Ferrari, the 918 is still a work of art. Not only does it go like shit off a shovel, but it also handles like a dream. Which means you're not crapping yourself every time a high-speed corner comes around.

And for these unlit, backcountry roads that I'm about to drive, that is critical.

Reaching the end of the gravel-lined drive, I spin the car out onto the main road and open up the throttle.

Gale is already a good few miles ahead of me, and — based on the way she hightailed it off the estate earlier — has no intention of slowing down. So, I'm gonna have to step on it if I want to keep pace with her.

As even though I have a lock on her carrier signal, her phone could be a burner — she could decide to turn it off, trash it, or leave it in a dumpster somewhere. And I'm up against the clock, so I don't have time to play hide-and-seek across the width of the continent with her.

Probably shouldn't've told her about the alarm...

But, hindsight's always 20-20.

Not that that necessarily would've changed my decision.

Because despite the fact that I need her professional skill set, I couldn't let her swindle the Duke out of his priceless heirloom. For one, it had merely been convenient bait. And for another, next week's auction is all that stood between the Beaumonts and bankruptcy.

And while I may operate in the shadows, I'm not a complete ass.

Plus, I'd wanted to be up front with her. From the very start.

Because nothing sinks a team like secrets and bad blood. And I'd much rather deal with any potential fallout now, before the start of the actual mission, than smack, bang in the middle of it when a lack of trust has the potential to claim actual lives.

And — if I'm being honest with myself — I kinda like the chase. It makes the eventual win taste that much sweeter.

Especially with a firecracker like Gale.

I swallow an inadvertent groan as my mind falls back to the feel of her pressed up against me in the tub, her eyes flashing with defiance, and a hint of—

I shake my head. Focus, Walker.

But the Beaumonts' unexpected interruption had been worth it. Because it'd convinced me that despite her civilian status, she has exactly the right combination of brains and balls needed to not only stay alive, but actually be an asset on this mission.

But, I don't have her yet. And if I'm gonna finish reeling her in, timing will be key.

So, as I spot a pair of Mercedes tail lights in the darkness, I ease off the gas.

Because her emotions are already running high and I don't want to spook her further by making her think that she's being tailed.

Especially not on these blind-spot riddled roads, in the middle of the night, where one moment of inattention could easily become your last.

And what I definitely don't need right now is my mark ending up in the ER — or worse, the morgue — because I let the heat of the moment get the better of me.

Best that I just hang back, let the dust settle, and re-engage upon arrival at our destination. When she's hopefully calmer.

Key word — hopefully.

Because let's face it. I'd be pretty pissed off too if some asshole'd fucked me out of a six-figure payday.

So, I can't exactly blame her for her explosive reaction.

But, unfortunately for her, there's a lot more at stake here than a jewellery heist gone wrong. The mission brief wouldn't have landed on Constantine's desk unless all hell is about to break loose.

Better pray this girl's got a conscience...

Rounding the bend, we come upon the lights of the town of Ramsford.

But, despite the fact that we're entering an urban environment, Gale blows past the 50 km/h speed limit sign like it doesn't exist.

"Christ, girl..." I grumble under my breath.

And even though I told myself mere minutes ago that I was gonna hang back and give her space, as I see her whip the roadster 'round a narrow corner at breakneck speed, I find myself throwing my original plan out the window as I press pedal to the metal to keep pace with her.

Because while I don't want to lose her, I also know that engaging in a midnight drag race through the streets Ramsford's only gonna result in one thing — the cops coming out of the woodworks to breathe down our neck, and Gale even more pissed off at me than she is already.

So, I need a Plan B.

Skimming my thumb over the controls on the steering wheel, I pull up her number and hit dial...

...and pray that I can talk some sense into her.

The ring of the pending call echoes out from the Spyder's infotainment system once... twice... thrice...

She finally picks up after the fifth ring. "Hello...?"

"Would it kill you to slow down?" I ask dryly.

I see her stiffen as her gaze flies up to the rear view mirror in disbelief.

I flash my headlights at her in response.

"How the hell did you get this number?" she demands as she manages to find her voice again.

"You got your tricks, I got mine," I tell her simply, easing up on the gas slightly as I pull up behind her.

"Yeah, you're a regular David Copperfield," she snarks down the line.

"I prefer Darren Brown, personally..."

"Hmm..." she purrs. "Then you're really gonna love this trick."

The call goes dead.

I shake my head with a scoff. 15-Love to Gale.

But the match ain't won yet. And I'm not backing off that easy.

So, hitting redial on her number, I wait for the call to reconnect...

...but all I get is radio silence.

"You wanna play it like that, huh?" I say under my breath as I swing the Spyder out into the oncoming lane.

Luckily, at this hour, the roads are deserted. But that doesn't means that they're gonna stay that way for long. Which means the time for games is up.

Opening up the throttle, I force my car up alongside hers. Raising my voice so that it'll carry over the roar of the engines, I shout, "Pull over and listen to me, will ya? Just listen!"

"Yeah!" she scoffs in reply. "'Cause that worked out so well for me last time!"

"You walked away, remember?" I remind her. "Can't guarantee that'll be the case next time 'round."

Her gaze snaps defiantly to mine. "Is that a threat?"

"It's simple maths!" I tell her. "You can't evade the law forever! Especially not with a Red Notice hanging over you. But if you help me, I can make all that go away."

"Go aw—?" Her eyes suddenly widen. "Holy shit! You're a spy!"

I answer her with a self-deprecating shrug. It paid the bills.

She recollects herself to throw me a sly look. "Prove it!"

Without warning, she rams her Mercedes into me.

"Jesus fuck!" I cuss as the Sypder lurches to the side from the impact, its rims scraping the curb.

Flipping me the bird, Gale punches the gas to dive back in front of me, whipping her car 'round a tight bend.

Spitting profanities under my breath, I yank the Spyder back onto the road.

She wants to play rough? I'll play rough.

Throwing the engine over to sport mode, I reach for the seatbelt over my shoulder and click it into place as I throw the car after her, the rev counter on the dash going mental as the engine doubles down.

And despite the adrenaline-fuelled chase, I can't help but grin.

This girl's definitely something else...

And she's sure as hell determined to make me work for it. Or — at the very least — give me hell for the way I screwed her over back at the Beaumonts.

Either way, she's got my blood pumping, and she knows it.

Which makes me even more determined to catch her.

We hit a roundabout, and Gale looks like she's going straight over...

...but at the last second, she slams her car hard to the left to take the third exit instead, tires smoking as they battle for traction on the cobblestones.

"Shit," I cuss, twisting the wheel hard over to keep pace with her, the Porsche's Pirellis screeching in protest.

Exiting the roundabout, the road in front of us cuts suddenly to the left. Slamming on the breaks, Gale skids her Mercedes 'round the bend, the force of the manoeuvre kicking the roadster's tail out. Very narrowly missing a lamppost, she manages to right the car at the last second to barrel it down the start of a tight switch-back that led to the centuries-old bridge on the edge of the town.

"Sweet fucking Jesus, girl..." I gripe under my breath as I speed after her.

There's being cocky. And then there's being reckless. And the way she's driving, she's definitely tempting fate. Because there's only so many times you can luck out before your luck actually runs out.

Which means I have to figure out a way to stop her before she runs herself off the road.

Depressing the gas pedal again, I search for an opening that I can use to dive in front of her and force her to slow down. But she seems to anticipate my plan, and closes off the gap before I'm able to make use of it.

Grabbing the e-break, I rip it upwards, forcing the Spyder’s tail out as I skid the car 'round her, looking for a gap on the other side.

She rewards me for my efforts by ramming into me again, nearly sending me into the flimsy metal railing that lined the edge of the asphalt.

I feel my jaw tighten at her antics.

First time? Kinda cute. Second time, not so much.

Especially since there were only a grand total of 918 Spyders ever made, and I damn sure don’t want to be responsible for taking one out of commission.

So, I make the reluctant decision to back off again, biding my time until the road opened back up.

We hit the bottom of the switchback, engines blaring and tailpipes sweating, and she immediately punches it towards the old stone bridge that spans the Rams river.

"Better luck next time, Walker!" she calls over her shoulder.

But my attention isn't focused on her. "Watch the road, girl..."

She whips her head around at the last second to clock the rickety Fiat that had just pulled out from behind the blind corner, straight into her path.

Instinctively knowing that she isn’t gonna avoid a collision, she ditches the breaks to try and swerve the Mercedes 'round the hazard instead.

But her momentum is too great, she's forgotten to account for the oversteer...

...and she descends into a tailspin.

"Fuck..." I curse under my breath.

All rational thought evaporates as my adrenaline spikes and my faculties give over to raw instinct.

I gotta save her.

Barrelling the Spyder after her without any semblance of a plan, the only thing I'm focused on is stopping her before she hits the bridge... or worse, the river.

The nose of her car whips past me, and I wrench the wheel to the right, clipping her bumper.

The off-the-cuff interference is enough to change the course of her trajectory, helping prevent her getting wrapped around the stone pillar at the foot of the bridge.

But the Merc's still freewheeling out of control.

Jerking the Porsche 'round, I slam it into the side of her car, trying to use the weight of my vehicle as a ballast to counteract her momentum.

But we're still going too fast.

We go flying down the narrow concourse of the bridge, like a pair of buzzards locked together in a high-stakes dance, speeding towards our fate.

The force of the impact whips her head around. She catches my gaze, and despite the low light, I see the sheer terror in her hazel-green irises...

...and the world around me condenses down to a single point.

Her.

The bridge, the cars, the entirety of my being fades to inconsequence in the face of the nakedness of her vulnerability.

I'm barely even conscious of my actions as I battle against the inevitable, trying to keep a lock on the steering wheel that’s threatening to jump out of my hands, feathering the throttle with a mix of reflex and dogged defiance in an attempt to alter the course of our trajectory, to slow us down, to narrowly avert disaster.

Because even though I know in the furthest recesses of my mind that I'm engaged in a fool's errand, like Icarus, I'm too much of a stubborn ass to back down.

Especially when I know that I'm literally the only thing standing between her and death.

The Merc hits the curb and slams into the low stone wall lining the side of the bridge. The centuries-old mortar crumbles under the weight of the impact, falling away into the ravine below.

But — whether by the grace of God or blind, dumb luck — the red roadster somehow catches itself on the mess of granite and skids to a stop, suspended over the edge of the bridge.

Only... there's no Gale in the driver's seat.

Throwing the seatbelt off, I leap across the seats into the Merc, where I find the driver's side door flapping over the darkness with Gale hanging on for dear life.

"Ahhh...!" she squeaks, scrambling for non-existent purchase as she tries to maintain her hold on the elbow rest...

...but I can see she's slipping.

Knowing that we're fast running out of time, I throw myself forward, reaching for her.

"Harper!"

Her eyes snap to mine, and I can see the fear and desperation welling within.

Latching onto the top of the door with one hand to anchor myself into place, I snap a hold around her wrist with the other and heave her back up.

"I got you, girl..."

Clearing the side of the car, her free hand shoots out to tangle into the material of my shirt as I pull her toward me. She crashes against me with a sob of relief, knocking me backwards into the seat.

She lands on top of me, trembling, and I wrap my arm around her, holding her to me, heart hammering as I stare up into the night sky, trying to catch my breath.

Her quaking form sink against me as she buries her face in the crook of my neck, fingers still latched onto my shirt, our hands still entwined.

Sweet Jesus, that was close...

"You okay?" I ask, running my hand over the arch of her back questioningly.

"Yeah," she nods shakily, not quite meeting my eye as she quickly wipes the wetness from her cheeks.

"Hey," I say softly, reaching up to cup her face in my palm. "It's—"

"I feel like such an idiot..." she grumbles.

"Well, you're the one who decided to Mad Max it through Ramsford like a—"

"Shut up!" she reproaches, smacking me on the chest.

"Christ! I save your ass twice and this is the thanks I get?"

"I didn't need saving!" she counters, laying into me again.

"The evidence points to the cont— Ow!"

"The only reason I'm in this mess at all is because of you!" she cuts in heatedly. "If you hadn't shown up tonight I'd—"

"Probably got caught anyway..."

"Fuck you!" she shouts, giving me a shove. "Why can't you just take 'no' for an answer, instead of chasing after me like some—"

"For fuck’s sake..." I grit, grabbing her by the back of the neck to yank her towards me.

Her eyes widen, but before she has a chance to protest, our mouthes have crashed together like cars in a freeway pile-up — violently, hazardously — the unexpected brush with death and the heart-thumping chase beforehand having already kicked both our pulses into overdrive.

And as our lips meet, that pent-up tension explodes like a flash-bang.

Her teeth scrape against mine with an intensity that's almost feral, even as I feel her body press into mine, her nails raking over my shirt.

My tongue thrusts past hers forcefully to claim the coveted warmth of her mouth, coaxing a soft moan from her as my free hand glides down her body to clamp onto her backside, pulling her to me hungrily as I throw every rule I'd ever been taught out the window.

Never get involved.

Well, too late for that.

Because I'm sure as shit involved now.

The story continues in Part 3 - Russian Roulette.

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Picture credits:

Drake - Porsche - Harper

[ruleofbirds]

𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚕𝚘𝚐_𝟶𝟷.𝟷

Kia Ora, Te Ao!

Hello, World! It's official - Robbie has a tumblr now. Absolutely unfathomable. Honestly, it's mostly because it was this or Wordpress (or a more obscure indie dev forum) and this seemed the most accessible and quirky. I'm sure this won't lead to another awful endless scrolling habit. Any advice for the visual side of things is warmly received! I want this blog to be a fun part of the week, because a lot of fun will be had developing RoB. Just realised that acronym happens to be my name. Could be worse.

Okay! Now that the initial ramble into the void is out of the way, it's time to get into the c o n c e p t.

This tumblr is a devlog for my NZ ecosystem simulator currently titled "rule of birds", which I will be working on for the next 8 weeks as part of Blackbird Foundation's "Protostars" program. This means a weekly check-in with the other creatives in the program, the organizers at Blackbird, and a post for all of you here.

I'm breaking this week's post into 3 sections just to cover the bases;

01.1 -a bit about my creative practice and how it led to this project

01.2 -a discussion of "flocking" in programming (using p5.js)

01.3 -a discussion of NZ natural history

So here's the intro post, where I ramble about myself for a sec.

So! basically, I specialize in spatial design, I love working with anything nature-related, and I want to make a video game.

Lately I've been on a tangent based around art in NZ's cultural context - the design principles behind whakairo (Maori woodcarving) and how their composition conveys meaning, how histories of spirituality, tribal and colonial relations affected design, and my own art interpreting my natural surroundings with photography and charcoal drawing. I can neither confirm nor deny whether there will be an art zine compiling a wee bit of this work on the community table at the Whanganui Zinefest this Saturday.

That tangent branched off into a focus on natural history that's the keystone of rule of birds. My motivation for focusing on an ecosystem simulator is to articulate a basis for the sort of games I want to come out of Aotearoa. The sim will be the proof of concept - and I suppose this blog will be the manifesto.

I feel like there's a massive demand for games exploring NZ history - like, imagine a big-budget maori-led release set in pre-colonial time, with all the unique aspects of survival, resource management and day to day activity that involved - or an assassin's creed type action game based during the time of Te Kooti. It goes unsaid that Kupe is one of the best parts of Sid Meier's Civilization VI - iykyk.

What I think separates a good game from a great one is how alive the virtual world feels - rather than being led through an a-to-b progression of events presented in the same visual style I've seen countless times before, if the world can react in a dynamic way, and the details in the background are crafted to feel organic and immersive, I'm going to want to stop and wander off the beaten track that an objective marker may be pointing me towards.

The last game that caught my attention in this way - and coincidentally the one that made me want to put my coding knowledge to the test with gamedev - was, of course, Rain World. To everyone who knows me, I'm sure you're surprised I've made it three paragraphs without bringing this game up. I'm not going to go into too much detail here, because there is *a lot*, but key points are you are one creature among many scavenging for food in a brutal biomechanical ecosystem, hibernating between cycles of cataclysmic rain, and the game plays like basically nothing else due to how the coded behaviour of every entity in the world follows its own logic that has much more to do with its own survival than the experience of you as a player.

Here's a nice little illustration of the physics behind a movement-sensing tentacle monster, to give a sort of discrete example - but the creatures that act according to behavioural karma systems and the dynamics of how the different lizards scuffle and coordinate with each other is worth looking into too, if this is your thing.

(Source: GDC, Curious Archive)

Now, I really want to jump into some of this behavioural coding stuff, so I'm just going to move on to collecting things for the next post - hope this has been an interesting read! if you somehow found this page in your tumblr algorithm, welcome! I'll also be posting bits on the instagram page @robbiek_devlogs and you can check out my other work on my main insta @robbiek_art

Hei kōnā mai,

Robbie K

Next up: simulation in coding, natural history research post #1

Next week: Adventures in Godot Engine!

[filthforfriends]

Chapter 10

Alpha!Damiano x Omega!Reader

Word count: 7.7k

Day 1 of Silence

When Damiano’s stomach rumbled you got up from the bed, assuming he’d want to go eat. Based on the look in his eyes, he very much did not.

“Love, you need food. You have a freakish metabolism.” His expression didn’t change. “How about I get you something to eat and bring it back?” Dami reached for his computer. Why hadn’t that occurred to you? He opens up a document and begins typing.

I’m really sorry for scaring you earlier. I don’t expect you to be my maid. 

His expression is so earnest. You take his face in your hands and press your foreheads together for a second.

“I don’t feel like your maid. You’ve watched over me for a year, Dami.”

I don’t want to hide in my room.

“Okay, but it seems like you don’t want to leave either.” He pauses and sighs.

They’re all going to be standing there, waiting for me to say something. I feel like if I start talking all the pressure comes back. I’m also so exhausted that talking sounds impossible, but also panicked. 

“Panicked, why love?” You rub a hand along his back, the same way Damiano does when he’s trying to comfort you.

It’s all just too much. 

He stops typing and looks at you, pleading with his eyes that you understand. Of course you do and he can see that too.

“You feel trapped?” He nods. “Trapped because everyone expects you to speak. Trapped because if you start talking everything goes back to the way it was, which is how we ended up here.”

Yes. Trapped by my AD2. I have to play the perfect part in case something happens. My entire life is an insurance policy, but it's necessary.

“I’m – I know you’ve been raised to think that, but I wonder if it's true. There might be another way.”

There isn’t. 

He’s so sure, but you aren’t. However, anymore destabilizing today would be cruel, so you put that in your back pocket as something to research.

“I think you’re so courageous to participate in the world. You have so much life and passion inside. No one realizes how much.” He doesn’t type. Instead he just rests his head against yours and folds your hands together. He can’t always be by his computer. Even with a cell phone, this written text thing is going to get exhausting.

“Let’s figure out a way to communicate, just us. One tap for yes and two for no?” Tap. “Okay that's good.” Yes or no questions were the place to start. Dami opens his computer and types one-handed.

Three=maybe

“Okay.” There's a burning question you can’t resist asking. “Have the non-verbal episodes happened since you were diagnosed?” Tap. “So you must have stuff like this,” you raise your clasped hands, “with your parents.” Tap, tap. “It's just all been on devices?” Tap. That struck you as strange. This was a fuck of a lot easier and more accessible than typing.

There’s specialty devices, but I hate them. Docs called me treatment resistant.

“Well, fuck them.” Tap. Dami smiles, finally. You knew Isabella and Matteo weren’t trying to punish or silence Damiano. They were terrified, too. They had to be. Doing everything by the book was their only way to cope.

“As long as we’re holding hands, we can talk like there’s no one else in the room. Okay?” He nods, looking weary, but more willing. “So I can either go get us lunch, dinner, whatever meal it is. Or you can come with me and we’ll feel like zoo animals together, because I guarantee I’m getting weird looks too.” Tap.

“Okay, so I got our meeting with the board pushed by, so you’ll be able to play on a temporary basis. Our appointment with Dr. Khatri is Monday morning. I’ll pick you up after your first class and we should have you back to school by lunch.” Tap, tap. “Of course, I’ve booked you in with your normal therapist –” Tap, tap. “But we should also see the specialist about more treatment options. I was thinking y/n could be somewhat involved this time.” Tap. “Dinner should give us time to strategize. As for what happened today –”

“Woah, that’s a lot of information!” Isabella had started hurtling words at Damiano the minute you turned the corner. “And none of it was phrased like a question,” you observe pointedly. Sandro has disappeared, but both Dami’s parents stand in the kitchen. No wonder he didn’t want to eat. Isabella looks floored, like she never thought to ask Dami instead of telling him what she perceived to be in his best interests. Matteo seems to be more receptive. 

“Right, good point y/n. So, um…” He doesn’t know where to start, so you jump in. Physically putting yourself between Damiano and his parents, you speak gently.

“Do you want to continue playing soccer right now?” He nods, tapping your hand as well to confirm the answers. “Would you prefer waiting to meet with the collegiate board until you’re more verbal?” He shrugs his shoulders and taps three times. “Okay, let’s give you time to think about it. Are you okay with having a doctor’s appointment in the morning?” Damiano winces, but nods. “Do you feel ready to go to school on Monday?” He shakes his head and then commences a stare down between him and Isabella. You expect her to demand Dami go to school for appearances sake, but she folds. Meanwhile, Matteo looks terrified.

“Are you okay with meeting with your old therapist?” He shakes his head and Isabella moves to speak up, but Matteo raises a hand to stop her. “What about a different therapist?” He makes eye contact with his mother while nodding. This seems to calm her.

“Well when would you like to decide on a new therapist? I could pull everything up over dinner today and —” She’s interrupted by Damiano shaking his head. “But our past specialist is okay? Fine, alright,” she sighs. That seems to be an adequate amount of integration for the evening. Matteo herds her down the hall and into the bedroom. Luckily, it’s too far away to perceive any concerned whispering. Still, you poke your head around the corner and try to eavesdrop.

Damiano watches this and shakes his head in light-hearted disapproval. When you turn around he’s pulling cilantro and shallots out of the produce drawer.

“Are you cooking?” you gasp. Confidently, he fills a pot of water and puts it on the stove. Afterwards, he takes a container of pasta out of the refrigerator with a block of what you assume is parmesan.

“I’ve never had fresh pasta before.” Dami is absolutely scandalized, holding a hand to his heart in Italian offense. You try to chop the tomatoes, but he won’t let you near the knife. You argue for your competence and end up stuck on cilantro duty, picking leaves off the stem. Damiano sits you up on the counter right next to him while he slices, dices, and works over the stove. The domestic proximity is nice. It seems that this is a hobby he genuinely enjoys because he starts humming. Occasionally he’ll look up from stirring and smile when he sees himself being admired.

“This counts as our first date,” you decide. Dami cocks his head to the side. “Dates aren’t always at a restaurant. They can also be someone making you a nice dinner.” At the word nice, he rolls his eyes. “This is fancy!” Cue a secondary eye roll. “Oh, I’m sorry we’re not all Italians who can make sauce from scratch.” You reach a finger towards the sauce pan to taste and get your hand slapped away. He probably doesn’t want you to burn yourself, which is why you do the gesture again to annoy him. This time Dami growls a little while batting your hand away.

With a burdened sigh, he goes to the drawer, pulls out a spoon, and dips it in the pan. Damiano blows on the liquid to cool it before handing the utensil over. Deciding to annoy him further you try the sauce and gasp dramatically.

“Why didn’t you warn me this would be hot!?” He tries to glower, but it doesn’t work because he’s smiling at your dumbassery. Dami gives you a peck on the lips and you repeat yourself with much different inflection.

“Why didn’t you tell me this would be hot?” You wink, wiggling your eyebrows. Damiano mimes hitting his head on the oven hood, putting himself out of the misery that was your sense of humor. 

Day 2 of Silence

It was barely Sunday when he woke you for the first time. The word codependence had crossed your mind when it was just assumed you’d spent the night again. You hoped the David’s were reasonable people who reasonably wouldn’t expect a 15 year old omega to do all the emotional labor of comforting Damiano. Upon reflection, they absolutely were. Isabella reminded you to prioritize your well being and gave you an out daily. However, she also lacked soothing maternal instinct, even for an alpha. While soothing, Matteo didn’t possess Dami’s intensity and couldn’t begin to understand it. So he could only provide well-meaning platitudes that he learned in the effective communication section of a parenting book.

Regardless of efficacy, they were there, they were committed, and they’d seen Damiano through to the other side of episodes before. If you felt over your head, you’d put yourself here, right? Except that giving Damiano their best wasn’t necessarily giving him everything he needed. So while you weren’t socially obligated, you did experience Dami’s suffering viscerally, in a way no one else did. There was simply no way to love him, feel pain that you could alleviate, and do nothing. 

Which had landed you here, in Damiano’s bed at 12:36am. Wide-awake and contemplating it, because being marked by someone suffering so much emotional turmoil, was uncomfortable. How could Dami sleep was answered three minutes after you’d rolled away from to get some personal space. He woke up, anxious, about to say your name but the words got stuck. Instead he sought you out via that gravitational pull and exploratory hands.

His touch didn’t make you jump, because you’d heard Damiano shifting around by the rustling bedsheets. He was a pretty active sleeper, so you ignored the hand that came to rest on your arm, pulling on you weakly. When he tapped, you assumed his hand was trembling, moving in a dream. However, the repeated canine whines got you to check for a nightmare.

Damiano was awake, his eyes fluttering open and closed. He was panting, breath heavy like he might cry. 

“Love, did you have a nightmare?” He shakes his head. His exploratory hand is lightly stroking your hair where it rests.

“Do you want to snuggle?” Dami nods, leaning in closer already. Based on him not pulling you over, you guess that he wants to be on your chest. With Dami’s upper body halfway on yours, his breathing returns to normal. His soft snores in your ear lull you to sleep. Trying to cool down, your unconscious body eventually creates room between itself and Damiano. This time you barely wake up. Your arms were already positioned tightly against you in sleep. Dami just pulls you against his chest, getting your head under his chin. 

Only during the third time do you realize the issue, because Dami startles you awake. The sensation of someone touching your scent glands overpowers any other feelings of safety. You sit upright immediately, bleary eyed and scanning your surroundings. Two warm, smooth, and study arms wrap around your waist. The anxiety immediately plumates, body recognizing Damiano before your brain does a second later.

“You scared the shit out of me,” you pant. Damiano sits up as well, pulling your back against his chest. One hand goes to your hair. When he moves it to expose the right gland, your entire body tenses. Damiano scents you and your heart rate slows. You relax against him while he kisses everywhere but your scent gland for a couple moments. When his lips finally brush the area, you don’t jump, humming in delight at all these sensations. 

Finally, you get your bearings. It’s 3:11am and this is the third wakeup because Damiano can’t sleep unless you’re physically touching him. How the fuck is he gonna sleep tomorrow? Also, how the fuck are you gonna sleep? This level of clinginess had gone from endearing to claustrophobic.

“Baby, I need you to tell me what's going on.” Dam grabs his computer from the nightstand and begins typing.

Afraid you’ll be gone. 

“What kind of gone?” Admiring Dami’s profile he’s beautiful as ever, but he’s also tired. There are bags under his eyes, his skin looks older. You’re both squinting at the screen, painfully.

Everytime I wake up and we’re not touching, I panic that it became too much. When I try to fall asleep my anxiety goes “if you’re not holding her then you can’t be sure she’s still here.”

“Oh, love,” you sigh, holding him sideways, check pressed to his shoulder. “I can’t sleep here every night. I have to go home.”

I know. It’s more if you said you’d spend the night then disappeared, what that would mean. I’d also be so worried about your safety, but you might not answer my calls because you’re mad at me, so I’l never know if you’re okay. Maybe you’d never talk to me again or you wouldn’t be okay and I’d never know anything and I’d just have to wonder forever. Like I could help if I knew, but I don’t know, so what if

Damiano’s typing speed has become hysterical and his hands are shaking. You push the computer from his lap and take its place, kissing Dami with his face between your palms. He mewls and crushes your body against his. This could easily became sex, and maybe preventing it from doing so is a bad idea. However, Damiano’s nervous system needs solutions that last longer than a couple hours.

“Mm ‘kay,” you pull away. “Let's go through this.” You pull the computer up beside you. “I wouldn’t disappear in the middle of the night because I love you and I know how stressful that would be.” At some point you’d have to muster the courage to say the words on their own and not in a phrase. Dami rests his head on your clavicle and gazes up at you with wonder and adoration in his eyes. He’d smiling, just barely showing his perfect teeth. His hand comes to tuck the hair behind your ears, so he can see your whole face. Taking a breath, you bite your lip and continue on.

 “As for ignoring communication, we can come up with a code word which means it's an emergency and we both promise that we’ll answer to that word no matter how angry we are.” Damiano loves that idea, nodding while adjusting your faces to be level. “And that word will be…we’ll figure it out later because I wanna go to sleep. Anything else?” 

How are you?  

Honestly

“I really need to sleep in my own bed tomorrow, but I don’t want to worry about you needing me to be here.”

I don’t, really.

“I’m worried that you’re not getting everything you need, but that you’re –”

But I love having you here, always. You’re always welcome.

“Thank you, dear. I wasn’t feeling rejected, but um…I worry that you can’t ask for the things you need,” you admit, stroking his cheek.

Really, I’m okay. Promise. If you knew the team of doctors I have behind me…

“Well, I mean…should I?” It’s something you’d considered, but didn’t want to overstep. “Because I plan to be here for the long haul.” Damiano squeezes you way too tight in response. “Oof! Alright.” He hums happily in your ear, more canine dialect than English. It's impossible to accurately translate because spoken language is dependent on a standardized system and the other is dependent on individual bonds. 

You try to tap into your feral side to bridge the understanding gap, but it's not coming easy. Could be because you're sleep deprived.

“Sorry,” you shake your head. “I’ve never been good at this.” You sigh and lay back in bed. Damiano types something and shows it to you before plugging in his laptop to charge. 

Don’t try to translate into words or emotions. 

You look at him, confused and a little frustrated. Deriving sentiments has always been the way you understood canine dialect. How was a person supposed to glean any meaning from the sounds?

Feel it on your body only.

He slides the computer under the bed and lays beside you. You comfortably find a big spoon, little spoon shape. As solacing as the position may be, your inability to communicate with Damiano via the only language he presently spoke was distressing. It felt like failing him as a partner. 

Dami made that rumbling hum from the back of his throat again and you tried to take his advice. The sound felt warm, soft…round. Gentle wasn’t the right word. It didn’t have any sharp corners or things that might poke you. It felt not gold, but silver…metallic? No, it shimmered in your mind’s eye. That shimmery feeling runs down your spine. The ball of warmth settled in the pit of your stomach as you yawned. 

Damiano’s hands tried unfurling your balled fists and you went easily, relaxing. He made a second, similar sound to encourage this behavior. The muscles in your face moved, even as you tried to still them. You felt the sides of your mouth curl into a smile. Between your legs tingles, too. The soles of your feet and palms of your hands felt toasty warm. Enjoying the sensation, you rubbed your fingers and toes together.

Dami fondly asked what you were doing. Except he didn’t ask, and you didn’t need him to, understanding his canine vocalizations. You shrugged in response and yawned again. He accepted this as an answer. To someone else it’d sound gruff and aggressive, but Damiano was actually being quite affectionate. He even scents you and rubs his cheek against yours. 

In this moment of shared peace, the significance of Dami’s communication sets in. He didn’t compliment you. It was so much more than that. He’d wanted you to feel good inside, good about yourself, content in your body, safe in his den. The way you’d made Damiano feel made him want you to experience all that in return. 

You tried saying I love you but the noise was too guttural. You were doubtful it made any sense until Damino growled in return. With a sentiment that big, there was no translating it, but all those pleasant sensations flared up once again. Instead of that ball of warmth and shimmering feeling, it was as if a heavy quilt came to cover you. The fabric was made of sunlight. That should have blinded you, but it didn’t. Nothing would harm you. Everything inside felt so cherished that your significance in the world was nearly suffocating. Each organ, each bit of connective tissue, every drop of marrow was affirmed as being special. This typical, average body that you’d had for 15 years was made a temple, consequential to the entire universe. Dami wanted to show you how he felt about you. 

Unsure if it's been a second or a full minute, you surfaced with tears in your eyes. Damiano’s thumb swept along your cheek in case, unable to properly see your profile in the dark. Still, he was deliberately observing, breathing relaxed and even. Relaxed perhaps because he felt all your gratitude and reciprocation. Dami kissed the back of your head and nuzzled to get comfortable. This indicated contentment and that he expected no further validation from you on this front. Each warm exhale tickled your healing mark.

Day 3 of Silence

“Is that a hickey!?” Watching the milk and coffee combine in a travel mug, you couldn’t help but wonder if the world couldn’t have waited another 10 minutes for this particular interaction. 

“Uh…yeah?” Dad stomps across the kitchen’s laminate floor, but you dodge him. Thinking you have a hickey is probably the best case scenario, so you hide on the other side of the fridge. Unfortunately, he’s having none of your evasion. 

“Don’t make me chase you around the goddamn kitchen, y/n.” With a sigh, you stand still. He yanks the collar of your pajama shirt aside and gasps in horror. The goal was to get your mark fully healed before he saw it. Without coffee, you’d forgotten all about that.

“Did he hurt you!?” your dad bellows. You swat his hand away and take a step back. Having someone yell in your face at 8am wasn’t exactly conducive to a positive state of well-being either.

“No. dad. Dami would never hurt me.” He’s shaking his head, face turning bright red.

“That – that thing is – is,” he stammers, enraged and pointing an accusatory finger at your precious mark. Seeing the anger and disgust directed at something sacred made you pull your shirt to cover it.

“It's not like that!” How you yearned to have a verbal Damiano, whose charisma could make this conversation so much easier. In an ideal world, you’d have told your dad together. Being accosted before you’d even caffeinated was perhaps one of the worst ways this could come about.

“What in the hell…” he turns you to the other side. Knowing the bruising on the right is going to be difficult to explain away, you cover it with your hand before he can get a good look. 

“Stop that,” he orders, checking his pockets for something. “Where is my phone? We need to call and report –”

“NO!!” Your feral scream surprises even yourself. The sound reveals exactly how violated you feel even when your words don’t. You’d done a lot of yelling with your dad, but this outcry was a novel sound that made even him freeze. He looked over his shoulder in alarm, at least shocked into silence and inaction. Upstairs are sounds of hurried feet and doors opening.

“It’s my mark! Damiano marked me. It’s completely normal, dad.”

“That is not normal,” he seethes.

“Mom! Clio!” you call. “Do you want to understand or is your mind made up?” Stomping down the stairs is definitely not your mother’s measured physicality.

“Why the fuck are you yelling before 10am?” Clio demands, gesticulating dramatically. “Oh, that,” she winces, looking over her shoulder for backup. “Listen, dad, I know it looks bad, but Damiano actually took care of it really well. It’s like wearing his letterman jacket.”

“Are you out of your mind, Clio? Look at it!”

“Well, what did you expect? Everyone knows how marking works.” Even discussing the interaction with your father felt icky, and a wee bit treacherous.

“I’m sorry, what did I hear about reporting something?” Your mother rounded the corner, breathless and still in her sage green nightgown. After quickly surveying the situation she speaks.

“Oh, no, Kevin there's been a misunderstanding.” She places a delicate hand on his shoulder, like all her softness could quell such brute force. Clio slinks upstairs, happy to be free of the situation. How jealous you are of her.

“There’s no misunderstanding, he doesn’t want to understand. He doesn’t give a damn! Why’d you have kids with an omega, huh? Why not just adopt and spare us all the misery?”

“Y/n -”

“He was going to report Damiano for abuse!” You don’t feel the hot tears on your face, but your parents' faces change in the way they always do when you cry. It’d become such an uncommon occurrence that your dad has a satisfying amount of dismay in his expression. You lean against the counter while panic creates a tightening fist under your sternum.

“Let's all just sit down and lower our voices.” Somehow, the three of you end up at the dining table, yourself and dad at opposite ends, glaring. Taking a deep breath, you pledge to give the man in front of you exactly one chance.

“He didn’t hurt me. Damiano marked me to show his devotion, how much he cares about me. If you actually went to Supports you’d know that it doesn’t hurt when you do it right.”

“Oh, bullcrap!”

“Kevin!” An even tempered person would recognize that this was all out of fatherly concern, but he’d threatened Damiano when he was already vulnerable and wounded.

“Darling, I’m sorry to make you cry with all the shouting.” Mother squeezed your hand, but everyone knew that the yelling wasn’t the reason for your tears.

“How's this for the omega you never wanted? I asked for the mark and it's my favorite thing about myself. Because he’s always with me!” You choke on a sob and make an ugly sound.

“Y/n –”

“I just want him to be here,” you confess through the tears. “I want him here,” gasp, “with me. Because he’d – because he’d know the right thing to say.” Except he wouldn’t because he’s not speaking. Partially because of bigots like your own father. The look in mom’s eyes reveals that she hasn’t mentioned it. She hasn’t mentioned any of it, probably so dad doesn’t find out about Alpha Dysregulation and exile your boyfriend.

“Well, until we can get this figured out,” dad motions vaguely towards your neck, “you’re not gonna see him.” There are no words to articulate your infuriation, so you accidentally dip into canine dialect. Standing up, you try to push your chair away from the table, but end up just pushing the whole table. Coffee splashes everywhere, dad’s chair almost tips over, the fruit bowl flips, and all its contents scatter. The apples make dull thuds as they land on the floor.

“No. We won’t be forbidding our teenage daughter from seeing her alpha right after she’s been marked.”

“He’s not her alpha, they’re not mated!” Mother doesn’t design to acknowledge this petty outburst.

“You should know that is unacceptable and irresponsible.” Your father assesses the situation, looking between his wife and his youngest rapidly. He comes to the conclusion not to challenge mom. 

“Right.” Kevin nods once, and it's a reminder of how miniscule proud men can look. 

“I think I am partially to blame here.” Mother’s words are shocking, not just to yourself, but also to father. “As an omega who decided they were not bound for an alpha, I have given you an inaccurate idea of what should be expected.” She sighs heavily, looking vaguely in the direction of the far wall. “And I haven’t done enough to correct that.”

“Well Olivia, I don't know that that’s true,” your father splutters. He gets up and grabs the kitchen towel to begin mopping up the coffee. 

“You shouldn’t be justifying yourself to him,” you bristle. The only person that should be undergoing self-actualization was your father. Never had her fickle submission to him been more arduous to watch.

“I’m not,” she replies curtly. “I’m apologizing to you. Your father is accustomed to a sanitized, genteel version of omega’s and I believe this is a direct result.” He straightens up slowly, then forcefully hucks the towel into the kitchen sink, insulted. For once, dad’s glowering doesn’t reduce her. Your mom isn’t quite standing up for you to your father, but she’s putting herself in the way. Every appraisal of your character has to pass through her first.

“It’s not your fault, mom.” You’re still flabbergasted at the turn this argument has taken.

“Maybe, but I allow the man I raised omegan children with to look at their world through a deficit lens. I should have shouldered that from the beginning.” You hear the floorboards creak and wonder if Clio is listening, just as enraptured, around the corner. 

“Olivia, I’m right here,” dad exclaims, indignant. Your mothers gaze never wavers from yours. It feels like a promise.

Day 4 of Silence 

53 hours was officially more than enough space. It was good that Damiano respected his own boundaries and didn’t show up for school. At the recommendation of his new therapist, he decided to take Tuesday off as well (after some reassurance on your part.) It’d also give the very colorful collection of rumors time to calm down. Still, you missed him like hell. Unknowingly, you’d become accustomed to Dami’s presence, months before you spoke. This building you’d driven past hundreds of times felt foreign without him. 

Ever the protector, Damiano was trying to give you time to recover and recharge. It’d been a tremendous amount of emotional labor and now he had other competent people to support him. Apparently, the new therapist was great and the hormonal specialist was discussing new treatment options to prevent the episodes. Messing with Dami’s endocrine system made you extremely nervous. What if he didn’t smell the same? 

Not hearing his voice puts a damper on your intimacy. You’d grown so accustomed to speaking almost daily. Whether it be on the phone or in person, the warm timbre of Dami’s voice was always soothing. After lunch, the missing him becomes too much. You send a text asking if it's alright to come over. It's mostly just courtesy. Two hours later he hasn’t responded and it's the end of the school day. You decide he must be napping and head over anyway. Maybe you could slide into bed next to him. A nap sounded pretty damn good right now, especially in the safety of your alpha’s room. What might occur after the nap was even more alluring.

It takes much longer than usual for the door to be answered. When you peek through the window, there's multiple figures having an unintelligible conversation. You’re about to leave since the David’s have company when Matteo finally opens the door and invites you inside. He looks uncharacteristically muddled, distracted even as he greets you. Standing formally in the foyer are two professionals with tablets in hand and analytic gazes.

“Sometimes there are drop in assessments after an episode to objectively evaluate home life,” he explains, obviously caught off guard.

“Oh, sorry! I texted Damiano, but he didn’t respond and I thought I’d just come over anyway.” You imagine that positive conclusions won’t be made about the pushy omega girlfriend who barges in. “I’m sorry for interrupting, I can leave.”

“No, that’s just fine,” a woman with intricate braids answers curtly. “It gives us a more holistic assessment.” She’s probably a psychologist and the balding man besides her you suspect to be a social worker, based on their uniforms.

“In cases of alpha-omega selective mutism, normalcy is good. Special treatment can actually make episodes longer,” he says. So act like nothing is wrong, reduce empathy, and hope the whole situation goes away. Great. After yesterday’s blow out, your capacity for holding your tongue with ignorant men is drastically reduced. It wasn’t very substantial to begin with. Giving the psychologist a pointed look, you decide to remove yourself from the situation.

“I think I’m just gonna go.” You awkwardly slink backwards towards the door, but before you can even reach it, you hear pounding footfalls coming from the direction of the kitchen. Damiano slides around the corner in socks, bites it on the hardwood floor, and catches himself, all while looking at you.

“Hey, crazy!” The rest of the room turns awkward while Dami’s face comes alive with a bright smile. Of course, they’d all been calling him crazy all day in veiled language, but no one would ever address it. You throw your arms around his neck and the embrace is so enthusiastic that it lifts you a few inches off the floor. He gives you a single, brief kiss, but in it is conveyed all the gratitude for forcing everyone to see that he wasn’t fragile.

Verifying that nothing has changed, you rest your face by his scent glands. Damiano does the same thing. The high bridge of his elegant nose presses into your trapezius muscle. You can feel his breaths quicken as he takes in your scent. Both by the sound of his sharp exhales and the quivering of his movement of his abdomen which is pressed against yours.You try to pull away after hugging for an already inappropriate amount of time, but he tightens the embrace. Damiano nuzzles your profile, a loving alpha who is unapologetic to the polite society that nearly asphyxiated him. If the room was empty, you’d close your eyes and treasure this moment where Dami uses your pheromones to self-soothe.

When someone clears their throat, he finally lets go, but keeps you in his personal space. As he kisses your head, temple, cheek, and back up again, you forget everything else. Smiling so wide that you feel shy, you hide your face against Dami’s chest, hugging again. This time the embrace is loose and more relaxed. The piling on his old sweatshirt is rough against your skin, but everything smells like him, so other senses lose their relevance in comparison.

When Dami presses his face to your hair, you realize it's been a few days since you’d washed it. There’s a moment of insecurity before reminding yourself that he’d far prefer the scent of natural oils to the fragrance of shampoo. It’s exactly what you’d prefer. Like in the car after soccer, when he was disgusting and sweaty and absolutely irresistible.

“Ahem,I just realized I haven’t properly introduced you. This is y/n, Damiano’s girlfriend.” Matteo not so subtly prompts the pair of you to let go. Damiano does so begrudgingly, keeping a hand wrapped around your waist.

“Great to meet you, I’m Clem, by the way.” Her eyes flit up to Damiano’s face, looking for permission to breach doctor-patient confidentiality. He nods, and her shoulders relax.

“I've been Damiano’s psychologist for over three years now. He’s a good one.” She clearly means it, despite seeing Dami at his worst. You like that about her.

“You’re a good judge of character. Oh, and it’s nice to meet you.” Before the other, less favorable, visitor can introduce himself, there's a new voice from the kitchen. A man with a scraggly beard, flimsy wire glasses, and a frumpy gray sweater leans against the doorway with his arms crossed. He’s judging you, but out of genuine interest, not critique. 

“That’s the first smile I’ve seen all day,” he exclaims, warmly. They must have been speaking, or rather communicating, in the living room when you came inside.

“This is Dr. Laurel, Damiano’s new therapist.”

“Please, call me Jay.” He’s relaxed in a room of anxious people. While everyone is treating Dami’s silence as a crisis, he seems almost curious. He’s invested in getting to know him, not just in doing his job for the sake of it. 

“Let's talk.” He beckons you over with a casual hand gesture and nonchalant nod towards the living room. It was all calibrated to not make the request scary, but it still was. Dami’s expression is reassuring, and he’s not all tensed up from stress. From the foyer, through the kitchen, and into the living room, you wondered about how sound would carry. Regardless, Jay got credit for not disrupting the safety of Dami’s den. Besides his bedroom, this was the most private place in the house because the living room was only accessible via the kitchen.

“Don’t worry about anyone overhearing,” assures Jay, as if he can read your mind. Damiano sits in the cushioned armchair, which you didn’t expect because it leaves you to sit on the couch alone. Bringing it up would just make the situation more awkward, so you cringe internally and go to take a seat. Dami makes a sound of indignation and grabs your wrist. He guides you towards him until he can get a grip on your forearm and tug. Surely he didn’t mean for you to sit on his lap in front of his therapist.

“Excuse me, young man? Young man, what are you doing?” you jest in a formal voice. Humor is the only thing you can think of. Jay chuckles, shuffling through papers with his eyes averted. Damiano puts the index finger of his free hand through a belt loop on your jeans. While you’re distracted reading the room, he manages to pull you close enough that he can lean forward, wrap his arms around your hips, and haul you onto his lap.

“Oof, okay.” You settle on sitting upright, knowing from the strength of Damiano’s embrace that you weren’t going to get away. He uncrosses his legs, hands hovering a couple inches away like guardrails while you adjust position. You roll your eyes at how overly cautious he was, as if falling two feet to the carpeted floor was going to hurt anything beyond your ego. 

“However you’re comfortable is fine by me.” Jay seemed to get his forms in order and set them down on the coffee table. He sits with his feet on the sofa, facing you. It’s a strange dichotomy: such a youthful gesture, to take up the entire couch, but at the same time he meticulously arranges the pillows behind him, grumbling about his back.

“So y/n, you are not my patient and are under no obligation to answer any of my questions if you don’t want to.” He clears his throat and clasps his hands. “With that said, everything that happens in my sessions with Damiano is covered under doctor-patient confidentiality. This includes anything you say as well.”

“Okay…I’ve – I don’t know if this matters, but I’ve only ever been to family therapy. I didn’t talk much though, because I’m the most normal of my sisters. I don’t know how it works.” Dami opens his laptop.

You don’t have to be here if it makes you uncomfortable. 

“No, no, I want to be involved. I just thought I’d meet your doctors at an office. I didn’t think I’d be part of it though.”

“Ah. You’re here to provide information, not receive treatment.”

“Oh, okay!” You relax back, leaning against Dami instead of sitting bolt upright.    

 “What do you want to know? We’ve only been together for…god, has it really only been three months?” You turn to Dami and he seems to be having an equally difficult time wrapping his head around how such a strong bond could be built so quickly.

“Fresh perspective,” Jay declares, cheerly. “Obviously old coping mechanisms aren’t working, so we need to find new ones. Dami feels you’re the only person who sees him for who he is.” Rather than meet your eyes, Damiano adjusts the position of his hands, one coming to rest just above the knee.

“So you want my opinion?” Jay gives a tight-lipped smile and gestures for you to continue. “Well, he’s not usually like this.” You tame Damiano’s hair as you speak, sweeping it away from his neck. “He has this cool, mysterious facade and under that is a confident, sporty exterior and under that is cocky alpha hard shell.”

“Sounds like a lot of defense mechanisms.”

“Oh, yeah and if you get past the hard shell he’ll pretend like he doesn’t really care to protect himself.” You fondly tuck a lock of hair behind his ear and Dami looks up at you through his lashes. He’s blushing and it distracts you completely until Jay reclaims your focus.

“Obviously, you’ve built a lot of trust. Which was the hardest layer to get past?”

“Oh, that would be the next layer.”

“There’s more?”

“Absolutely this man was a fortress.” You rest one arm on his shoulders and Dami uses the position to press his profile against your chest. “Once you get the bastard to actually feel something he freaks out and tries to control everything. But under that he’s afraid of himself.” Your smile drops and you press a long kiss to Dami’s forehead, breathing in deep through your nose.

“And is that fear of your Alpha Dysfunction?” Dami nods and Jay flips through some papers. “Well, it looks like you had one significant episode at..you were 11.”

I wasn’t diagnosed yet.

“Right, so that’s to be expected and you aren’t to be held responsible.” Jay gives Damiano a pointed look, reminding him to be forgiving of his childhood self. 

“But he had to move schools.”

“After a series of minor incidents. Essentially, he just got too many strikes.” Jay shuffles the papers pensively and takes his time setting the stack behind him.

She knows I went into headspace while hooking up with a beta a couple years ago, about how they flipped out and involved their parents.   

“Yet, clearly y/n knows you’re not dangerous.” He gestures to the way you’re tenderly cuddled up together. “Where does that fear come from? Is it fear of what you’re capable of or fear of Alpha Dysregulation itself?” The room falls silent, Dami drumming his fingers on his leg while he thinks.

I don’t know. Everyone acts like it's the worst thing in the world. They act like it's the end of the world that I have AD2. I probably internalized that.

“There's a lot of fear of abandonment.” Just saying the words makes you choke up a little. “It’s all to hide the AD2. Everyone needs to stop treating it like a dirty secret if they want Dami to get better.”

“I agree.” You look up at Jay in surprise. “Absolutely.” 

“But it’s not, uh,” you take a deep breath, fighting for an amicable way to phrase this. When you can’t find one you decide to speak anyway.

“It's not like it's just some small group of alpha parents who hate that Dami is better at soccer than their kid. It’s everywhere. Even that asshole,” you point in the direction of the foyer. “It’s his job and he can’t extend a modicum of empathy. No one can! Fuck, even Isabella doesn’t know how to be soothing.”

“Isabella is Dami’s mother?” Jay starts typing. Perhaps ranting to your boyfriend's therapist about his own mother was over the line.

“Yeah, but maybe it’s because she’s burnt out. I don’t have some special skill set. I just take the time to be comforting and loving and fucking listen. The whole family has protocols, but none of them actually comfort Dami. They always skip right to the solution.” You glance at Damiano to see if you should hold your tongue, but he looks genuinely interested, and a little impressed.

“Go on,” Jay encouraged, accompanied by rapid tapping sounds.

“Basically, all the parents are ignorant and they raise ignorant children. They create stereotypes that aren’t even accurate for Dami. But they don’t actually care about the truth, it's all about feeling important. It's not like he’s a grown up either who's been hardened by life and can take this shit. He’s technically still a kid!” You can feel that you’re ranting, but no one’s ever asked and listened before. 

“As long as he has to keep a secret, there’s stress. But the consequences of getting found out…how is a person supposed to function with that hanging over their heads? Why can’t we remove the stigma? Why can’t we just teach children how to interact with people that have developmental differences?”

“Excellent point,” Jay validates, gesturing at you to go on. It takes some of the wind from your sails, since you’re so used to fighting in these conversations.

“Yeah, everyone is doing what they think is right for his physical health, but what about his mental health? What about his autonomy? He should be consulted. He can’t be made responsible for whether he’s rejected or accepted by society. That’s not fair. That’s fucking unreasonable. He’s 17!”

“Asking these questions is important.”

“Yeah, but everyone is asking the wrong questions. ‘How do we get him talking again? How do we fix it faster?’ They should be asking why he stopped talking in the first place so it doesn’t happen again.” Jay must take a full minute to finish documenting. Or, at least, it feels like it. When he looks up, you realize you haven’t checked on Dami in a while. His face is still lent against you, pressed against your breast. Even partially concealed, you can see that his eyes are watering. It feels like a dagger to the heart.

“Wait, no!” you exclaim at the prospect of Dami enduring even more emotional hardship. The hand on your thigh comes to your face and he guides you into a passionate kiss. Even with your mouths closed, the public display of affection was entirely too personal. Knowing he’s only going to get this one kiss, Dami draws it way out, sliding his palm under your ear, fingers threaded into your hair. When he does allow it to end, he keeps your right there, forehead against his. Rather than pull back, you wait for him to release you, praying every moment that he’ll decide not yet. 

Despite having barely an echo of public decency when it came to physical affection, he does have to let the moment go eventually. Your cheeks burn, but Dami doesn’t have an ounce of shame. He sits up tall, challenging Jay to take issue with the act. After all, he is an alpha too. Jay’s demeanor is constant, unprovoked. You’re horrified at the prospect of Dami ruining his relationship with a therapist that could do him some real good. Tapping twice on the back of the shoulder doesn’t work. Resorting to school yard tactics, you flick his ear, finally earning his attention. He’s surprised and a little bit ticked off, but at least he’s not intimidating Jay. 

“It’s good that you two are so comfortable with each other,” he chuckles. Well that's one way to put it. You remove your arm from behind Dami’s neck, trying to create situationally appropriate space. That actually upsets him.

“Y/n, the vast majority of my clients are young alphas with behavioral issues. It takes a great deal to offend me.” He stands up with a groan, once again shuffling his papers. Jay does seem genuinely unbothered, bordering on serene.

“It’s good to see that Damiano is still feeling like himself. Tea, anyone?”

Notes: Expect chapter 11 much sooner! Thank you for reading my silly little fics <3 I always enjoy hearing your favorite parts and your thoughts. I know this isn't as spicy as past chapters but trust me it heats up very soon.

-XOXO Eden

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