#i do not fail to see the irony in that the thing i want to teach my children is the one subject i always avoided

[millerscoffee]

Hello!! 🤍 I was wondering if you could write something where Joel is the reader’s college professor, and then Prof. Miller INSISTS that reader comes over to his home for tutoring assistance, (because of failed tests or bad essays), and then finally coaxes her into letting him have his way with her.

hi nonnie! here it is! i hope you enjoy 💖

extra credit

6.2k | joel miller x afab!reader (professor!joel au)

rating: 18+ MDNI

warning: professor!joel au, age gap (joel is 46, reader is 21), soft!dom joel, pining, consensual sex, pet names (darlin', doll, baby), oral (f receiving), face riding, fingering, piv (unprotected, wrap it folks), squirting, joel spitting over the reader's ass for 0.5 seconds (OOPS IDK???), a pretty dress with easy access, hints of after care, spoiler: honestly prof. miller could've told reader to just do the paper in a different format but – that's the point 🤭

When you picked your major, English was a necessary credit needed to achieve your goals.  It wasn’t your strong suit, but you weren’t one to quit just because you were bad at it.  So far you were coasting through, getting a mix of good and bad grades in your English Lit class when the last essay before finals was presented.

Among the crowd in Professor Miller’s lecture hall, you typically sat in the front.  He hands out papers, hovering by your desk.  Giving you a look of disapproval, he places the grade face down.  You peel the pages in anticipation, a sense of dread falling over you when you scan the big, red mark of failings.  “Shit,” you say to yourself.  That was it.  That was the grade that was the defining factor of whether or not you had to retake this course.  You use the side of your hand to wipe sneaky tears in falling.  You failed.  Doing your best to keep it together, you’re not sure you even heard the rest of the lecture from the possibilities running through your mind.  What were you to do?  How would you recover?

Class was over before you knew it.  The sounds of bags zipping and feet stepping, you stayed seated until you were able to look over to Professor Miller.  Dressed in black slacks, a brown button-up with leather shoes.  His hair was slick, the slightest bit of salt and pepper patched at his sideburns.  He looked like he had it all figured out, and that struck a nerve.  A feeling of jealousy that he knew what he was doing, and you obviously did not.

Professor Miller calls your name when the class is emptied, and you sniffle, standing up to straighten your skirt.  Your manicured nails pick up your essay as you walk over in an attempt to hand it to him.  “I guess you want this back,” you hold your full bottom lip between your teeth.

“Did you read the material?”  Professor Miller inquires, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.  His voice is so dark and honied in comparison to his scowl.  Proving not to judge a book by its cover.  The irony.

“Well, I did, but… I struggle with this stuff.  Predicates and imagery?  I’d rather be learning about biology.  But I need this course, you know.  And I…,” you swallow hard.  God, the last thing you want is to embarrass yourself in front of your teacher.  He doesn’t know you, out of the hundreds of people he teaches – how could he possibly even remember your name?

“Hey,”  Professor Miller takes his glasses off, putting them on the table.  He looks as concerned as you are over it and crosses his arms.  Keeps his distance.  “It happens, you know.  There are things we can do to accommodate.  You’re very bright, I’d hate to see you fail.  You have options.  I can’t let you rewrite the paper, but I could tutor you for your final.  Another option is getting a student tutor, but it’s rare.  You know the workload of this university.  Not a lot of people are willing to sacrifice their precious time.”

“And you are?”  You look up at him with grateful, bright eyes and he loves it.  The praise just from your stare alone is cause for him to clear his throat.

“Listen, for someone like you, I believe it is important to help.  You just need a little more time understanding what you’re doing, is all.  I’m not in my office for the rest of the weekend, though.  You’d have to come by my house…,”  he watches those pretty eyes widen again, and that makes a smirk fall over his greying features, “if that’s okay, of course.  If it’s not, we could work something else out.”

You think about it.  You’ve never had a teacher invite you over, much less someone who looked the way he did.  Though, that was neither here nor there.  His lips formed words you couldn’t even pay attention half the time in hearing.  Maybe that was part of the reason why you were failing in the first place.  But you needed to pass, and if he could help you – and was so kind enough to do it in the first place, you should jump at the first opportunity.

“Okay.  Is there a particular time you’d like me to be there?”

“Are you busy tonight?”

What the fuck. That makes your heart race.  Tonight?  Tonight?!  Ton–

“Tonight… tonight is good.”  How did you even form the words?

“Perfect,” he started, bending down to write his address on a sticky note – his cologne wafts in your direction, and you clamp your legs shut reflexively.  “Here’s my address.  7 o’clock.”

“Seven.  Okay… thank you, Professor Miller.”

“Please, call me Joel.”  His teeth gleamed in a smile, and his personality shined through it.

A personality you didn’t get to see too often from your position behind a desk.

Shit.

---

According to your phone, he didn’t live very far from campus, and you were able to walk to his house without breaking too much of a sweat.  You decided on a black dress, although it was a casual one, that paired nicely with your sneakers.  It had buttons down the front with a relaxed collar.  Your bag slung over your shoulder when you knocked on his door, a nervousness fluttering in your stomach.  It was such a weird thing, meeting your professor in his home.  Much less having him request you call him by his first name.

Your knees all but buckled when you saw him on the other side of the door.

He looks… young in his jeans.  His t-shirt stretched over the broadness of his shoulders, but it’s still loose enough that it doesn’t look ill-fitted.  His stomach, soft at the bottom.  You flash him a smile, but internally you’re reeling over how casual he looks.  You’d never seen him like this, not even during those school meetings that were informal.

“Hey, you,” he’s bright, too.  Charismatic as he invites you into his home.  Takes your bag, lets you take your shoes off until you’re in your socks.  His words hit your stomach, how easy it is for him to talk to you like you’re the brightest sunflower.  What’d you even do to deserve it?

“Hi, Prof– uh, Joel,” you titter, taking in the curated decor of his home.  It was sophisticated, yet a little cheesy at the same time.  His alumni cover his walls and a mix of pictures.  Some with a couple of young girls you assumed were his children.  He has children, you swallow.

“Wasn’t too hard to find this place, right?  When I moved here, I wanted to make sure I wasn’t too far – not much of a mornin’ person,” Joel laughs and you do, too.  Fuck, this feels so easy.  But it’s nothing – it’s nothing.

What you don’t pick up on right away is his open body language.  He places your bag on his couch and you follow him like a puppy – he likes that.  You look so soft under the sienna hue of his lights, your hair falling into place naturally.  Plump and ripe for the taking.  Of course, he meant it when he said he’d tutor you, but the air got thick the moment the door was shut behind the two of you.  What were you doing to him?

Joel’s large frame walks over to his bar cart, turning on his heel to face you, “Interested?”

“Huh?” You blink and he laughs again at your deer caught in the headlights expression.  You’re cute.

“Do you drink?”

“Oh, uh… water would be nice.”

“Water it is,” Joel’s pleasant, gesturing his hand for you to follow him.  And you do – that puppy he was coming to know, right to his kitchen.  You study the marble countertops, the farmhouse style kitchen sink.

“So, tutoring,” he starts, taking a glass from the cupboard, he fills it with filtered water before handing it to you – you thank him with a nod, “I was thinking we could look at your paper, and then go over how to fix things in the future?”  When you take the water from him, your fingers graze.  The first sign of contact, your head continues to nod unthinkingly, but all that scorches your mind is how his skin feels.

“That sounds good,” you overcompensate, shoving the ideas from your mind.  He was your teacher, and it was easy to get back into the mode of why you were here.

Joel’s expression doesn’t change much, still the same grin with hooded eyes and wrinkles at his forehead.  The two lines between his brow.  “Alright, well I have it on the coffee table.  Let’s get settled on the couch, and we’ll get started, okay?”

So you agree.  You take your glass of water and follow him back to the couch where everything was set up – your paper, his laptop.  All of the correction marks in your face as you sit down.  You take another sip of water before placing it down on the coaster.  You dread it, you really do.  Going over your failures?  You scrunch your nose up to yourself, but Joel notices when you’re both settled on the cushions.

“You know, Voltaire said, ‘perfect is the enemy of good’,”  Joel bends his knee on the couch, thigh pressing into the cushion to turn to you and it causes the couch to shift.  The quote makes you giggle a little to yourself, and you shake your head.  “What?” His eyebrow quirks in curiosity.

“Voltaire also popularised the story of Newton’s apple, doesn’t make it true.”

“Huh…,” Joel trailed off, keeping his eye on you – his tongue skating over his bottom lip in thought.  You were so quick all he could really do was laugh, and that made your shoulders relax.  Makes you feel more in control and comfortable to laugh at yourself.  “You got an answer for everything?”

“Not everything.  See this,” you pick up your paper, thumbing over the ink of corrections the man on the couch made and you shrug, “I don’t really understand why this got marked wrong.”  Joel’s gaze flashes over your mouth when your teeth press into the plushness of your bottom lip – he should be given some damn award for having so much self control around you.

“Wrong format.  This citation works for your research papers, right?”  He nods with you before leaning in closer, that damn cologne coming back in full force just like earlier in the day.  You all but freeze when his warm touch graces you again – this time, fingers tracing over where you’re holding the paper.  “Oh,” your voice is soft, a bit of disappointment pangs at your ribs.  You were so busy you didn’t even realise that was the majority of the issues you had.

“So… it’s not really what I wrote, it’s how I wrote it?  You asked if I read the material?”

“Exactly.  If you read the syllabus, you’d see the required format.  Listen, there are some ways for extra credit, I do think this is salvageable.”

You suddenly feel silly.

You did all that work, Professor Miller was kind enough to let you into his home, and it was all for some redundant formatting.  An open palm curls over your chin as you look at the paper in deep contemplation.

“I really fucked up,” you say, hushed in the space.

“You didn’t fuck anything up,” you manage an exhale of amusement at the sound of your teacher curse.  You shift your gaze to look at him.  The curls at the nape of his neck, the way his t-shirt dropped enough so you could see his neck, his chest.  The freckles that splayed over his aged skin.  “You just needed someone to tell you what to do.”

That was the loaded statement.  And a pointed one, it seems.  Someone to tell you what to do.  And Joel wanted to be that person?  Your eyebrows raise for a flash, thumbing over the paper.

“That would be too easy,” you scratch at your neck idly before going for the glass of water, sipping in contemplation. “...I mean, I should’ve known better.”

Joel takes the glass from you, offering himself a sip of your water and it stuns you speechless, doing your best not to convey it.  Maybe he did that just because this was his house.  That must’ve been it.  He was comfortable, but goddamn – the eye contact he gave you when he swallowed the liquid.

It felt intentional.

He watches your features, vague as they were, in what to do next.  He honestly wasn’t so sure what he was doing either.  What?  I know how to give you extra credit, sweetheart.  Too forward, too boastful, too… cheap.  You deserved better than that.  He saw you in class, how hard you were on yourself.  He talked to your other teachers, how well you were doing in your other classes.  He felt for you.  And he was a bit lost in your eyes.  You were all too pretty, too brilliant to be dimmed down to a fuck for extra credit.  Joel could see that.  He wasn’t even sure what he was thinking, you had him distracted.  You threw him off without even trying.  The plight within him grew stronger as he handed back the glass.

“You’re too hard on yourself,” Joel straightens up, his hand cups over your forearm in a way that’s understanding, but also makes goosebumps rise.  You look down to see where you connect and he pulls away slightly.  “Sorry, I–,” “No, it’s okay,” you agree, “It’s okay.  You’re right.”

“It’s just, I see hundreds of bright, beautiful young people every year, but none of them have stood out to me like you.”  He can’t believe the words that are coming out of his mouth.  The candor, the nerve.  A filthy old man, that’s all he was in the eyes of someone as sweet and innocent as you were.  Even if you happened to be experienced – god, what was he thinking?!

Joel clears his throat, shifting a bit in his seat, but he sees the way your lips part, but your eyes don’t show an ounce of shock or distain.  They look soft, and… willing.  You know that is because the pull at your core feels too strong to think of anything else.  You look down at his left hand, making sure you’re not dreaming.  He’s not married?  You’d casually look at his hands from time to time during class and ignored the ache it gave you, but this?  So close?  Backed by the glow of his house?  It was so different from the boys you were used to.  In their dorms or disgusting apartments.  It smelled as nice as it looked.  You realise you’re not speaking, but the way you lean into him says more than you really ever could.

“I don’t know what to say,” shyly, you touch your knuckles to your cheek, “you should teach the guys that go here how to chat with someone.”

It’s a mutter, but not to yourself.  You drink one more mouthful of what you were offered before putting it back on the coaster.  Honestly, any distraction was welcome to defer from the ever-present density in the room.

“Those guys don’t know what they’re talkin’ about anyway.  I know I didn’t at that age.”

There.  The topic right in front of both of your faces.

“How old at you, anyway?”  You inquire, thumb mindlessly circling over your knee.  Joel tracks it, licking over his lips as he answers.  “Forty-six.  You?”

“Twenty-one.”

Fuck.  Fuck fuck fuck.

There’s this standstill, as if you’re both in the air together looking at each other in slow motion.  How will this land?  What are you both even doing here like this?

“I’m sure your boyfriend takes good care of you,” Joel’s eyes, round and bright brown, get lost in yours – the way your breath hitches, the shift of your thighs on his sofa.  He wondered what you tasted like, what sounds you make when these boys who don’t know what they’re doing with their tongue attempt to eat you out.  Do you fake it?  Do you give it to them straight?  Neither of you had a drink from that bar cart in the corner of the room, but somehow you’ve become closer – and more intoxicated.

“Don’t have one,” you respond softly, orbs flickering to the set of plush lips that grow more red the longer you let the tension build, “what about you?  N-no partner?”

Your attempt in confidence wavering the longer he stares at you.  It’s like staring back into the sun and you have your brows knit together until the tug of muscle makes your forehead hurt – smoothing them apart with the twitch of muscle fibers.

“No partner,” Joel’s hand settles on your thigh and you can’t hold it back; you gasp.  But you do something he doesn’t anticipate, or well, you don’t do something: you don’t pull away.

How did you two get to the topic, anyhow?

How did you end up straddling his lap, for that matter?

It’s within six eager seconds that his hand, hot and rough, touches your soft skin, and you – green, you – fervent, throw all inhibitions aside and lunge.  It’s more fluid than you realise, and his hands (both now) grip the backs of your bare thighs and you whimper at the sensation of him squeezing you.  Your wetness against your cotton panties grows from the kneading alone.  No, absolutely not, the boys back in the dorms didn’t know how to do this.

It takes an even shorter time for your mouths to meet.  He’s first to kiss, and he tastes like coffee and his dinner, and the faintness of a cigarette – maybe early in the day?  You couldn’t tell, your head was swimming too deep in now to come back from.

And although his calloused fingers roll patterns into your soft skin, he’s just as willing.  Just as desireful and you can feel it beg to be set free at the seam of his jeans.  His tongue skirts against yours, hips rolling up the second yours tempt to roll down; causing you both to moan in each other’s mouths.

It gets feverish after that.  All teeth, tongue, bite.

You don’t want to stop, you don’t want to take a moment to breathe because fuck, that could stop things.  That could make him realise what is happening.

But that only is another item to your list of naivety.

Because Joel, he’s ready.  His masculine arms wrap around your frame to lift you up just enough so he can get out of his fucking jeans that he now regrets wearing.  Shoulda been wearin’ sweats, but it’s effortless… eventually.  He hurriedly pushes the thick fabric down until they hit at his thighs and you’re pushed down onto his boxers that – holy fucking shit – leave nothing to the imagination.  “Joel, J-,” you pant between kisses, fingernails digging into the base of his neck, he pauses.  Pulls away, gets a good look at your face.

“Y’want this?” And goddamn, you can’t see yourself, but you imagine you look just as fucked out as he does.  On the cusp of every little fantasy he’s had about you from the moment you sat down behind that desk.

“I want this,” you repeat.  You weren’t sure exactly when the nerves subsided, maybe because all of the blood is now rushed at the apex of your thighs, but you mean it.

You want this.  You want Professor Miller.

“You got me,” his breath dances over your lips before guiding you back a bit, “here… I’m going to lie back, I want you to– I’ll show you.”  Your lips quirk up at the fact he’s so flushed he can’t even finish his sentence.

But that soon turns to you flushing when you realise his request.  “I – what?”

“No?”  Joel sits up on his elbows, looking over to you and you’re worried you’ve killed the mood.  It’s just, straddling his face?  Blood rushes to your cheeks.

“I’ve never done that… What if it’s bad?”  His eyes, reassuring, but a deep shade of black now beckons you.

“Darlin’, I think you’ll be a natural.  But I can teach you, if that’s what you want.”

You swallow, straddling his knees somewhere at the bottom of the couch and you think about it.

Joel, on the other hand, was living in a fantasy of teaching you things in and out of school.  Showing you how to make yourself feel good on his mouth – make you forget all about the essay that caused you grief today.  He leans over, pushing it under the couch out of view for good measure.

“Okay,” you agree, though nerves still flood you.  “Okay, you wanna take your panties off?”  You lick your lips at that, biting back another whimper that brought you to this predicament in the first place.  And you did – you wanted nothing more than to slip your underwear off and give into your pleasures.  His voice was deep, graveled with the prospect of him fucking you senseless on his couch and who were you to deny him that?

Who were you to deny yourself that, more importantly.

“Yeah,” doing as you say, you slip off your lace-trimmed undies and abandon them somewhere on your Professor’s floor.  “Fuck,” you mutter.  This was naughty.

“Already so good for me,” you weren’t even sure that Joel’s voice could get deeper, or more inviting, but it does.  You bite your lip and oblige when he pats his chest.  Going over to him, you straddle just above his broad shoulders, and he’s almost out of view with him like this – somehow making it easier to just feel what he could do to you.

Joel on the other hand?  All he can do is see the outline of your glistening core from the shadowed tent you’ve made of your dress and his groans are muffled slightly from the fabric, “Fuckin’ Christ,” he wants to devour you, but he takes his time instead.

Peppers kisses along your thighs that make you claw the armrest, causes you shiver at the contact and you can’t believe this is happening.  “J-Joel,” you hesitate, but his hands are wrapped around your hips now, fingers digging into the breadth of your ass.

“Sit.”  Joel commands.

Oh, fuck.

You’re almost certain you’ll break skin at your lips from biting down so hard, but you do as you’re told.  Anchoring down, it’s subtle at first – the brushing of his facial hair against your folds, his chin prying you apart.  Then, it’s incredibly palpable.  His lips are the first thing you feel as they press and kiss over your middle and as you shudder it only makes your muscles sink deeper on him.  You’re the first to moan, and then Joel, and his mouth is open when he invites you inside it.

“Oh, my god,” thighs shaking, Joel flattens his tongue under the hood of your clit, a body part you were certain hadn’t been touched by anyone else but yourself.  There was no time to compare, the white hot pleasure coursed through your veins and he took his time with it, too.  Made sure he was teasing you, his tongue dipping inside your entrance, as sloppy as it felt.  “Hmmn,” you can’t speak, forearms resting on the armrest now as your head hangs between your shoulders and his fingers make pliable work of your asscheeks.  Pushing you down, using your hips to move back and forth against his mouth – like he’s using you while you use him.

The air is thick under your dress, sticky and humid, as Joel swirls this tip of his devilish tongue in the most astonishing circles you’ve ever experienced, and you know it’s because he has more experience than you do.  Has so much to teach you, if you let him.  Your mouth hangs open as you try to inhale, but it’s just too much.  Especially with the way he thumbs into your stomach, then your pubic bone – lifting it just slightly to expose your clit to him.  An angle, not even you have found yourself.

It almost feels like too much.  It’s intentional, the way his tongue flicks over that bundle of nerves right at the top of your cunt.  Delicious, deliberate.  Two fingers greet your entrance and it startles you, the way he’s rubbing your hole with his two fingers in slow circles before pressing them where you want them most.

“Tell me you want it,” you hear, muffled and fucked, and you shiver at the slightest bit of lack of contact.

“I want it, I want your fingers – please!”

And that seems to send him over the edge of how much he’s willing to hold back because he’s exactly where he was.  Mouth on your clit, but fingers skillfully pressing inside of you and you don’t know how long you’ll last.  Not with the pads of his fingers tapping in the perfect tempo against the ridged spot inside you.

That’s when a weird sensation comes over you.  A pressure, you felt like you had to pee and your insides pulled in more trying to keep it all contained.  “I–,” you start, but it happens so suddenly.  Your orgasm rushes through you, convulsing and almost falling over the edge of the couch, you dig your fingernails into the upholstery.  Your eyes roll back, and fuck, so are your hips.  Unable to stop yourself using Joel’s mouth to keep you exactly right there.  Pleasure pricks your skin, it feels like every cell is ignited – but you jump when you feel a rush of fluid come out of you.  The pressure rebounding out, then rippling pleasure back inside you.  Joel fucks you with his tongue and fingers until he feels you calm down.

“W-what, what… did I do?” You pant, and Joel is groaning, too.  He lifts your hips to get lungfuls of oxygen, so dizzy on you and you notice how soaked his pair of fingers feel on your skin.  Sits you down on his chest and you can see his face finally.  Can see his mouth parting, gasping as his eyes are hooded and so gone.  Curls stick to his forehead, his shirt a dampened colour at the collar.  You blush heavily, embarrassed because you aren’t even sure what that was.  Did he hate that, was that weird?

“C’mere,” he growls with gritted teeth and sits up, the tables turning instantly.  Joel’s stripping his shirt off, kicking every last bit of the bottom half he had on to be abandoned on the floor.  His fingers remove the buttons, but he can’t really get them – those fingers too big for the buttons.  “Here,” you whisper, an intense feeling of lust falling over any self-conscious self talk you had.  You undo the top of your dress one button at a time until your breasts are released from your bra – you moan when he has no problem spilling your tits from the satin, nipples in stiff peaks from your orgasm.  And everything else.

“You know what you did?”  Joel asks, taking both of your nipples between his fingers from each hand.  You moan, lifting your hips and he bites his lip when he sees your cunt front under your dress.  “What was it?”  You ask, curiously.  Innocently.

“You squirted f’me, baby,” he slurs, thumbing over your clit now as he gets a good look at you and he’s drunk on you.  His cock throbbing against your thigh, he taps it against your skin before realising what he needed.

 “Fuck,” Joel mutters and you can tell by the tone it’s not just at your appearance.  “What is it?”  You inquire, eyebrows knit.

“Gotta get a condom,” you hear him mutter, getting onto one foot and you stop him.  “No.  No.  I want to feel you.  It’s okay, I don’t get pregnant–” well that sentence isn’t exactly how you mean for it to come out, but your mind is mush, your body feels boneless underneath him, and he chuckles at that.  At how gone your brain is.  Here he was, thinking he was the only one.  “Okay, okay, darlin’.  I believe ya.”

And really, maybe he should be using more discretion.  But he can’t get the feeling of you out of his head.  You were everywhere.  His mouth, his glistening chest and beard.  He takes you by the hips then, sitting back to flip you on your hands and knees with your help and you moan at the sensation.  Joel looks down at you, groaning of your ass in the air, pushing back for his cock.  “Such a needy little thing, now,”  it’s as if someone else is talking.  This isn’t the Professor Miller you know.  This man has layers and you’re first in line to know exactly what that entails.

Joel takes the base of his cock, bobbing it as it throbs alive in his hand and runs through your slick with the head of it.  “So fucking wet.  Beginning to think you’ve been wanting this for as long as I have.”

You bite a whine and he can see the back of your head nodding as you crane your neck back enough to make eye contact, but his eyes fall down to your ass pressing eagerly on his cock.  Doing your best to press him inside yourself.

“Go ahead,” he slaps his cock on your folds and you mewl at the wet sounds coming from it.  “Take my cock.”

And take, you do.  Joel holds it out for you, keeps it steady and you push back slow on his cock.  Clenching around the head and he growls at that.  “You dirty thing.  This how you fuck all your teachers?”  It burns your skin, pushing your face into your arm and you shake your head.

“Words.” He warns.

“Just you!  Just you, Joel!”

“Just me,” he parrots, hissing when you shift back and you both twitch and groan when you take him to the hilt of you.  It was so thick, stretching you out until you felt split apart from him.  “Just me, show me then.  Show me how you fuck me.”

You bite into your arm then, choking on a sob as you push your ass back over and over.  Your cunt taking him deep like this, it almost feels like too much and not enough at once.  Torturously slow against the spongy spot again

 It felt so amazing taking him yourself, but it was like an itch you couldn’t scratch on your own.  The tapping of his balls against your clit was too far apart in tempo, his cock speared inside you at a pace that didn’t have quite the same leverage as Joel did behind you.

His hands busied themselves on your ass, peeling the muscle apart – pressing his digits to leave bruises and just when you think it’s too much to take, he gives you something else.  His spit falling from his lips right to the velvet of your asshole.  You shudder and flutter around him when it falls to where you’re connected.  Your fingertips grip the other armrest now, cheek resting atop of your hand and you can’t do it yourself anymore.  “Fuck me, Joel!  Professor Miller, please!”

“Shit – you know where to push, don’t you?”  Joel’s wide hands slide up your sides, keeping them locked in place as he pulls your hips to him at first.  Using your whole lower body, your head hands doing your best to keep yourself up but you’re so close when he uses you like this.  When he picks up the pace and you let your head fall on his throw pillow – your screams of desire are targeted into the plush cushion.

Joel is bound up in amazement behind you.  How you feel around him, your gorgeous figure in front of him as he gives you every bit of power he can now.  His hips hammering into you, but with the right amount of speed – not too fast, not too slow.  The sound of his balls slapping against your clit is faster now, and the difference is what you focus on.  The way it sounds.  Joel feels you tighten, pulse around his own pulse and he has to say something to you.  Has to talk you through it, even if he’s not sure you’ll like it.

“So fuckin’ good for me,” he drapes his body over your back, huffing into your ear as the controlled weight of him pushes your ass down just enough to make your thighs shake.  You are soaked, sticky against his abdomen, between your thighs.  Over your own stomach.  You move your face so you can feel his skin closer against your.�� His lips staying on your cheekbone, he grunts and nods.

“That’s it, fuckin’ take it.  I know you can take it.  Those shaky fuckin’ thighs better hold on.”

You feel yourself coil and he is quick to sooth over your hips with his palms.

“Relax, baby.  That’s it, that’s good, darlin’.  Shh, easy.  Do you feel that heat?”

You nod hopelessly, the buildup was so strong you couldn’t do anything but curl your fingers into fists and whimper repeatedly.

“Give into that heat.  Come for me, I know you can be so good for me.  Good for – fuck – fuck.  Good for my cock,” Joel groaning in your ear makes you flutter uncontrollably, and he wastes no time in wrapping his arm around your front, rolling quick circles at the split of your cunt, right at your clit.  “Milkin’ my fuckin’ cock like that, don’t stop.  Don’t fuckin’ stop,” he grits, and you’re gasping.

Clawing at the pillow, head craning up and back as you come.  Mouth gaped, Joel takes advantage – pouring his tongue into it, swirling and drinking you while his cock bottoms into you repeatedly until he can’t take it anymore.  You feel too good.  Perfect, even.

“Joel!” Your whine is high, as your wet folds take his merciless shoves.  “You feel so good, youfeelsogood!”  Your lip quivers, jerking in aftershocks that feel a lot like multiple orgasms.  You aren’t even sure how you feel, but he knows he has to pull out.  So he tells you, rough and pained against your ear.  He doesn’t want to any more than you do.  But as soon as he does, that reward feels just as sweet.

He exhales roughly through his nose, a popping sound filling the room when he pulls out.  Not even needing to touch himself to spill himself over the small of your back.

“Fuck,” he’s out of breath, grunting, and doing his best not to collide into you.  You’re still, the nape of your neck dews with sweat and you can feel it stick to your dress instantly.

“Stay there,” Joel pulls away, and you sit up on your elbows now that you’re fully flat and study his frame walk into the kitchen.

The back of him is just as irresistible as the front.

You hum hungrily at the landscape of his back.  But you do as you say, you don’t move a muscle.  When he comes back, you take note of the splotches of his chest, his neck red and sheened with sweat, too.  He’s just as disheveled.  The paper towel he comes back with is rough against your lower back, but tickles more than anything else.

Makes you wriggle and laugh.

“What did I say?”  He threatens, but his voice is much more smoother and tender.  More playful.  More like what you’re used to.

“Tickles!”

“You must endure it if you know what’s good for you.”  he’s finished enough for you to roll over.  You pull your tits back into your bra with another low laugh, but to yourself at how exposed and a mess you’re sure you look on your professor’s couch.

“I think I like that threat.”

“No more,” and that makes your heart drop.  He must be able to see the disappointed look on your face, so he rephrases his sentence in an instant.  “No more tonight.”

“Maybe I should be teaching you the importance of ambiguity.”

“Next lesson.”

Your heart soars just as fast as it dropped.

---

While you slip on your sneakers, you turn your heel to him – bag in tow.  “Listen, I don’t want this to be why I passed.”

“It’s not – it won’t be,”  Joel chews up the space between you – his hand pressing against the doorframe that your delicate hand adorns at the knob, fully dressed himself, now.  “You will pass by your own volition.  I meant it – you are bright.  You won’t let anybody take that from you, will you?” You knew that wasn’t a question as he tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear, but you still swayed your head ‘no’.

“Not even me.”  He whispers, pressing his lips to your forehead before dropping his arm – allowing you to leave.  And that’s exactly what he’ll let you believe.

“Especially not you.”  You smile, leaning up to kiss his lips – your flavour lingers over his facial hair and tongue.  Your panties in his pocket.

“Goodnight, Professor Miller.”

“Goodnight, doll.”

taglist: @cool-iguana – comment to be added!

#bee's requests #professor!joel #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x afab!reader #joel miller x f!reader #tlou smut #joel miller requests #soft!dom joel #softdom!joel #professor au #professor joel miller au #tlou au #joel miller au #by bee

[daylightflaneuserie]

while i've been away at uni, my brother's developed the same fear of spending money with which i'm still trying to deal, which is so upsetting because he's literally 17 this stuff shouldn't have to worry him

#the fact that he developed it too separately to me is very interesting though #because it does support my hypothesis that i picked it up from my parents' attitudes towards money #anyway when i have children i'm going to try and teach them simple economics from a young age & show that it needn't be scary #i do not fail to see the irony in that the thing i want to teach my children is the one subject i always avoided #but it's all about making things better for the next generation isn't it? #for now i just hope i can help my brother a little bit <3 #not to get possibly pseudopsychological but it all seems very generational #i think it goes back to my grandparents' childhoods & them being protective & secretive with money after growing up in poverty #an anxious and private disposition towards money which they passed down to their parents and now to us

[pheonixgrave]

Ignore It (18+)

This is really my first time posting a story to here, I usually only do it to AO3, but this is what I made this account for. Might as well start using it?

WARNINGS: Heavy smut, corruption kink, mild blood kink? (not sure about that one) Fem Tav, hetero relationship, stress fucking, not beta'd, angst, use of cunt

Smut blow the cut, please enjoy!!

Trekking through the wilderness was exhausting as is. But the bickering? That was starting to drive Tav crazy. Vampire this. Shar that. Eating magic this. Demons that. It was always something else. No matter what she did, they were always at each other’s throats. Oh the irony in that. Maybe the Illithid worm wasn’t the worst thing. Maybe this, the arguing, was the worst thing to happen to her. If she had to hear any Githyanki phrases in the next thirty minutes, she might kill Lae’zel herself. Tav was at her wits end, ready to beat her head against the nearest tree just to see if that got rid of the tadpole. It would be a win-win if it also got everyone else to shut up. 

They didn’t even let up at camp. Sure, they all had their respective tents and spaces. But the glaring. Oh, the glaring! Not a moment of peace before bed. She sat near her bedroll, closer to the fire Gale had set up. A tankard in hand, her back to the more vocal members of the party. She could practically hear Lae’zel glaring at Astarion. And Shadowheart wasn't exactly quiet about her distaste for him either. It’s not like there was an Infernal being less than ten yards away from him. Or a Warlock just across the flames. 

She very quickly downed the rest of her drink before tossing the tankard near the flames. Curling up in her bedroll, she tried to block out all of the noise and barbed words. It was currently taking everything in her to not scream at her first three companions. They had all been through something insane and deadly. Why could they not have it in them to simply get along? It felt impossible. 

Fortunately, her sour mood was noticed by her party. Not that she’d realize it at the moment. The biggest point of contention, Astarion, managed to get the courage to walk up to their fearless, albeit grumpy, leader. He nudged her with his foot. Which he immediately realized was a bad decision. Taz shot up to meet his eyes in the blink of an eye. “What do you want?”

The bite in her voice was unmistakable. But he knew how to handle it. “I want-”

“Don’t bother,” she cut him off. She never cut him off. She was more than happy to let him talk at her sometimes. The final glare she gave him was intense as she stalked towards the lake, away from everybody else. Astarion watched her walk away. Did he only watch to see her hips sway? Absolutely. But that didn’t change the fact that the Bard needed to relax. He smiled to himself before following her. “Didn’t I say don’t bother? I’m not in the mood to be your midnight snack tonight.” 

He didn’t fail to match her step. “Why darling! Do you truly think so little of me?” He pouted. 

Tav just sighed, “Take your antics somewhere else for now, Astarion.”

“Will you just sit down?” He pushed on her shoulders, forcing her down.

Much to the rest of the party's dismay, she did trust the vampire. Whether that would lead her to her own doom was yet to be seen.

Her knees crumbled under the pressure as she fell on the ground. She shot another glare in his direction but that didn’t seem to dissuade him from his plan.

“You’ve been far too stressed today, darling.” He purred in her ear, his hands never leaving her shoulders. 

“Astarion?” He continued to move her body until she was on her stomach.

“Shhh, do you trust me?” Gods, that man was always far too much for Tav.

“Should I?”

He chuckled as he readjusted himself so he was sitting on the back of her thighs, straddling her. It took every ounce of self restraint he had to not immediately rub her ass. Gods, it always looked so perfect when she walked. He took a deep breath before applying pressure between her shoulder blades. He felt her body tense before slowly relaxing. 

It wasn’t what she expected. Was he giving her a massage? His hands worked slowly from the base of her neck to her waist. And-oh? Did she just moan? 

“It’s alright, my dear, I love hearing you.” He smirked before continuing his work. He continued like that for a few moments, just enjoying the little sounds she was making. “Let's get you out of these clothes, shall we?”

She pushed him off her, rolling on her back and sitting up. “So that’s what this was? Just an excuse to get me naked?” That fire was coming back.

“Darling, if I was trying to get into your pants, I’d try flattering you more first. Unfortunately, it is difficult to get this right over your clothes.” He sat next to her, staring out at the water, just watching the water crash against the coast. “I was taught how to do this a long, long time ago.”

She stared at the rogue before swallowing. The tips of her ears and the back of her neck were flushed. But she did trust him. He would say if this was untoward. Right? With a shaky breath, she sighed but said “Alright.” 

Astarion watched her shaky hands start to untie the little knots holding her bustier. His mouth started to water, but he had patience. As she shrugged the last of her tunic off, she covered her chest and turned the other way. He did manage to lay down her tunic so she wasn’t just laying on the dirt anymore. She laid herself in front of him. He could feel how shaky her breath still was as he climbed on top of her once more. 

He resumed his previous work, addressing the knots in her lower back. The elf’s skin was so soft, so warm. He found himself just getting lost in the feeling of someone trusting him. It was a strange feeling but a welcome one. 

Tav, on the other hand, was getting lost in his touch. His cold hands worked their way up her back and she liked it far more than she thought she would. What started off as little moans slowly became louder. It didn’t help that he was an expert with his hands. And her mind started to trail off to things that were unbecoming of a lady.

But Astarion could feel her thighs clench. No matter how she tried to move without him noticing too much. Gods, he could almost smell her arousal. Over 200 years old and here he was, still trying to keep himself from getting hard. But then she moaned his name. And what little restraint he had disappeared. He put his hands near her head before leaning down towards her ear. “This wasn’t an excuse to see you naked but you are making it very hard to not act on my…baser impulses, my dear.” He felt the shiver go down her spine. 

“Astarion,” she moaned again before grinding back on him. And she got what she wanted when he flipped her on her back without moving from his spot. And there she was, laid out in front of a vampire spawn with her chest bare. She looked up at him with wide eyes, unsure how to go from there. But him? He had far more experience than most. He moved faster than she thought. He captured her lips as he slotted himself between her thighs. And just like that, his hands were everywhere. 

It was like he couldn’t decide where he liked them best. Her throat? Her breasts? Her hips so he could grind against her? He just couldn’t decide. And she tried so hard to keep herself quiet. But then he moved his lips down her neck, his fangs brushing over the still healing marks from the night before. He thought about feeding for a moment, but something far more filling had his attention right now. He moved until he had her nipple in his mouth. Flicking the nub with his tongue, his hand went to massage the other one. He wasn’t gentle. No one that knew Astarion for who he was thought he was a gentle man. It was rough but Tav didn’t seem to mind. 

In fact, Tav seemed to love it. Her back arched into him. “Astarion!” And then her hands were on his shoulders, urging him downwards.

And he didn’t want to fight it. He kept moving, biting and nipping at her stomach. And then he got to her trousers. He sat up, panting and looking wild. His fangs were bared and he was panting hard. He threw her legs on his shoulders, tossing her loafers somewhere behind him. And then he went to work on the knots holding her trousers up. Which he made very quick work of. He shimmied them off her, making sure to keep her underwear on for a moment. He stripped off his shirt before returning to her mouth. 

He needed her. 

“Astarion, please, touch me.”

He was quick to snake his hand towards her cunt. And even quicker to find the spot that made her gasp into his mouth. Gods, he could do this forever. He made his way back to her neck, lapping over those same marks. Her hand tangled itself into his hair and the other gripped his shoulder with far more strength than he expected. His cold hands were a sharp contrast to the warmth of her. Her head was thrown back against the ground as she gasped for air. She was shaking. 

It was already so much for her. She had been so pent up and so angry. But the way he worked her clit? It was a way no one ever had before. Not even herself. In fact, no one had ever touched her like this before. Nothing past shy kisses or heady glances. If she had known, maybe she would have lived her life a little differently. 

But once her back arched and she cried out his name? She clenched around nothing. She felt so empty now and he hadn’t even gotten close yet. He chuckled as best he could, “Already, darling?” he muttered against her neck.

“I-” she gasped once he slid a finger inside her. “Astarion,” his name rolled off her tongue and he swore he wouldn’t mind hearing her do this forever. He could still feel her cunt clench around his fingers and he groaned. He couldn’t wait much longer but she was enjoying herself. “I’ve never-” he curled his finger before adding a second one. 

“You’ve never felt this good before?”

“Done this before,” she managed to gasp out before he curled his fingers again. 

His hands stalled for a moment and she whined. “I’m to be your first?” She nodded, wriggling her hips, trying to will him to move again. “My dear, why didn’t you say anything?” He removed his fingers and she cried out. “Shhh, I have to make a good first impression, don’t I?”

He practically ripped her underwear off. She was a virgin. He couldn’t lie that it made him even harder to think about being the only one who got to touch her. But he had to take care of her if he wanted to be the only one.

He buried his face in her cunt, holding her thighs open with his hands. Tav covered her mouth to hide her cries of his name. But it was his name on her lips. His fingers going right back inside her, where they belonged. His lips on her clit. He groaned again when she came, this time right on his face and hands. He lapped at her for a moment longer and started pistoning his fingers in and out. He couldn’t help but watch her cum make a mess of his fingers. 

“Astarion!” She cried as she came on his fingers yet again. “Please!”

“Please what, my dear?” He wiped her juices off his chin before closing the distance between them. His lips hovered over hers, those red eyes glazed over with a hunger. Her eyes fluttered open. She smiled at him, all too happy to offer herself to him. She bared her neck. And dive he did. His fangs pierced her neck once again as he drank. He knew better than to drink more than his share but he wanted nothing more than to keep drinking as she wrapped her bare legs around his waist and rubbed her cunt against the fabric of his trousers. He released her neck and practically shredded what was left of his clothing. 

He leaned back for a moment, taking in the sight. This elf, a noble from Waterdeep, was laid out before him. Freckles dotting her skin and her blonde hair spread out like a halo before him. It would be angelic if not for the blood slowly trickling out of her neck. “Astarion,” she whispered. Her voice was full of something he couldn’t quite place. Something he had pushed aside a long time ago. 

All he could do was nod before he lined himself up to her. As he slowly slid in, he swore that this was the closest he could get to heaven. 

Astarion wasn’t small. Tav could feel his cock stretching her cunt out. Why did no one ever tell her it could feel like this? She gripped his shoulders and wrapped her legs around him once more. She sighed as he finally finished. “Gods above, you’re amazing.” She whispered, almost too afraid to say it. Too afraid to say the other things on the tip of her tongue. Her eyes traveled down his body to where they were connected before looking back up at him. 

“Shit,” he panted, withholding every emotion that came flooding through him. Instead, he snaked a hand underneath her thigh, lifting it up before he began to thrust.

She thought just having her inside him felt amazing. But this angle had her barely able to breath. She threw her head back and arched into his body. It was all she could do to hold on to him as he upped his pace. Tav could barely gasp out his name as she tried to look at him. His eyes were shut and his hair was more than perfectly tousled. “Beautiful,” was all she could get out before she tightened around his cock. 

“Shit!” He followed closely behind her, seemingly unexpectedly. They laid there for a moment, just feeling each other before he slipped out of her. She cried, a palpable sense of emptiness. He watched her breath for a few moments longer, secretly enjoying his cum starting to drip out of her cunt. Normally, he’d leave. He’d get up, put his clothes back together and leave. But Tav? Something told him he couldn’t. So he grabbed his tunic and wrapped her in it before carrying her to the water. 

He tried not to notice her nuzzling his neck. He tried to ignore the praises she said. He tried desperately to ignore the draw she had on him. He tried to ignore her moan as he set her in the shallow water, gently taking his tunic off her shoulders. Instead, he sat next to her and let the water wash away the previous activities. 

#Astarion #baulders gate 3 #bg3 spoilers #astarion x tav #astarion smut #fem!Tav #god help me #this speaks for itself

[queerfables]

'Wilson' as an episode fucking slaps. I'm obsessed with Wilson's complete lack of boundaries and I'm obsessed with the way he acts out to express resentment while still being completely incapable of saying no. He gave a patient part of his liver!! The man is in no way hinged.

For all the emphasis that gets placed on Wilson's failed marriages and infidelity, we don't ever actually see it directly on screen. This is a narrative choice I love, for the record. We see Wilson's relationships through House's eyes and it allows us to understand Wilson as a deeply flawed person without ever making him unlikable, because Wilson's flaws and contradictions are what make him irresistible to House. It's so effective, the way these failed relationships say so much about Wilson's character while being constructed largely out of inference.

In this episode, though, we watch his inability to self advocate play out in real time, and I guarantee that this is what every one of his relationship meltdowns looked like from the inside. On some deep fundamental level, James Wilson doesn't believe "I don't want to" is a valid reason not to do something. You know the fantasy trope of an obedience curse, where the victim is inescapably compelled to obey other people's requests? Wilson casts that spell on his own damn self, and he'll hold true to it even to the point of violating his own bodily autonomy. When you lack boundaries like that, it becomes almost impossible to even know what you truly want, let alone to act on it. So Wilson says yes and yes and yes until it breaks him, and then he still can't say no.

When saying yes feels like surrendering to torture and saying no feels like committing murder, the only option left is escape. So Wilson goes out drinking to trash the liver he's going to donate. He gets dinner with the pretty nurse instead of going home to his wife. All of it is him scrabbling at the bars of his cage. And the irony is that the cage is unlocked, he just has to walk through the open door, and that's the last thing he could ever bring himself to do.

I'm pretty sure that when he went to Cuddy and told her his plan to donate, he wanted her to say no. She almost did! And I think she should have, because her first impulse was right, it is insane. Unfortunately this is the Insane Lack of Boundaries Hospital, and she can't actually be expected to guess when her employee's mouth is saying yes but his eyes are saying dear god no. By the rules of universe that House MD operates within, this doesn't even break a 7 on the "unhinged measures to save a patient" scale, and Wilson invoked the power of friendship. What was she supposed to do?

And through all of this, House is the person Wilson lashes out at. I love, love, love that House is the person Wilson lashes out at. Wilson can't even admit to himself that he's angry about the position he's in. How can he be angry when he's the reason the patient needs a new liver? But House sees right to the heart of everything going on with him, and he says all the things Wilson wants to be true and can't afford to believe. Because if he lets himself believe this wasn't his fault then he might not be able to say yes. And he's going to say yes. And he hates that he's going to say yes. And he hates that House knows he's going to say yes.

So he gets angry with House, because it's safe to get angry with House. He lashes out, because with House, he can. He tells House he's wrong about him, and demands House move out, and that's not at all what he really wants but he feels helpless and coerced and he desperately needs to exercise some kind of control over his own life. The fact that he can let go like this with House is in part about knowing House isn't ever going to leave him - the closeness of their relationship is always defined by what Wilson wants, House has never once pushed Wilson away and fights to reconcile when Wilson wants distance. But it's also about knowing that he can't hurt House by setting boundaries with him. Mostly this is because House will walk right over any boundaries he considers unacceptable, but in fairness, the fact that House is kind of a terrible person is part of his appeal. If Wilson had issues around other people violating his stated wishes, House would be the last person in the world that he should have anything to do with. But Wilson's issues lie in the fear that not being compulsively available and accommodating to everyone around him might permanently fuck up the life of someone he loves. House's fucked up life is never going to be Wilson's fault and even if it was House would still kind of deserve it, so Wilson's anxious people pleasing compulsion can chill the fuck out for five minutes at a time.

I don't want to idealise, there are times in their relationship when Wilson absolutely makes fucked up sacrifices for House. I don't think it's the case that he earnestly wanted to every time. But it's also true that House brings out authenticity in Wilson that few other people manage to. House knows him. House allows him to give in to his selfish impulses without guilt and consequences, and for all the people who love the best in him, House knows and loves his worst. While Wilson is caught up in trying to bend himself into whatever shape someone else needs him to be, what House wants more than anything is the truth. For Wilson, who is so out of touch with his own desires, being an object of fascination to someone obsessed with drives and motivations must be a rush. And if we accept the throughline of this episode, it might just be the case that House's boundary pushing and obsession is something Wilson needs.

#house md #fable talks

[deliciousbasementtrash]

Playing Nurse for the Batfam

Summary: you are a nurse working for Gotham General Hospital. On your way home from work, you encounter an injured superhero. You have seen his secret identity. Now what will he do about it?

Pairing: Slowburn Jason Todd x reader, (maybe a why choose with Dick Grayson as well?? Idk tell me what you guys want)

Warning: Adult language, verbal abuse, parental abuse, severe injuries

Word Count: 1.5k

Note: These characters are not my own they belong to DC. The only character that is 'mine' is the reader. I am going to be as nondescript as possible for the reader as well for physical attributes. This is a continuation series; I’m not sure how long it will be. Also for some reason, my replies to comments are not showing up. I’m not ignoring your comments Tumblr won’t let me respond :( But please, please comment I live for it 

Part One: Is that Trash or a Man?

There is calm chaos when working in the emergency room. You get used to the cacophony of beeps and alarms. Of moans, crying, screaming, and arguing. You get used to being on your feet all day and moving from task to task, from patient to patient. You get used to it because there is no other option. People need care and they need it now. You either step the fuck up or switch to a different unit. Or move to a calmer, cleaner, less crime-filled city. Calm wasn’t really my vibe. Maybe externally that’s what I portrayed, but internally my mind craves the chaos of the ER. It craves the chaos of Gotham. And the Gotham ER was an entirely different beast.

I finished nursing school about a year ago. A lot of my peers used it as an out. They went to more stable cities in New Jersey that had better funding and less chance of getting knifed in the staff parking lot. I was one of the only ones that stayed. I definitely was the only one that worked in the hospital. I couldn’t deny the demand for nurses was high, and the paychecks were even higher at Gotham General Hospital. And maybe some small pathetic part of my brain wanted to make the world a better place. I wanted Gotham to be a better place. Every day I worked. I convinced myself that how matter how shitty it got; I was making a difference. Even if it was only a handful of people in the grand scheme of things. 

I could convince myself that I mattered. That everyone mattered. That these people deserve more. They deserve better; they deserve a second, third, fourth, fifth chance. If I stopped trying to convince myself of that I know I would give up entirely. Seeing gunshot wounds, stabbings, overdoses, mutilations, burns, crushings, poisonings, beatings, day after day is a lot like erosion of the soul. Little by little it wears you down. You become jaded and jagged with time. Empathy becomes blame. Hope becomes desolate. Love becomes anger. The only thing you can do is gaslight yourself into thinking you’re making a big enough difference. That you’re helping enough people. After all, the brain can’t tell the difference between truth and irony. You tell yourself so many lies, you can start to believe them, right? 

Gotham City: 16 Years Ago 

“Dad, when is mom coming home?” My small voice asked. I was scared to make Dad yell at me again. I didn’t like it when I made him yell.

“She’s got stage four fucking cancer she is coming out of the hospital in a body bag, y/n.” 

I fought the tears that burned behind my eyes. Dad would get even angrier if he saw them. It was stupid of me to even ask. 

I felt him turn to me. His eyes bored into my skull. Quickly, I looked down at his feet. 

“Have you tried again?” He asked. His tone clipped. I knew he expected a timely answer.

Involuntarily, my fingers ruthlessly picked the skin around my nails. The sting was grounding in a way. 

“No, sir. Well yes, I have tried, but I… I failed,” the last word felt like a hot poker being placed through my throat. 

“Look at me.” Breathing became difficult, but I looked up at my father. He leaned his face close to mine. I could smell Jack wafting off him. “What good are you? What good is having healing powers if you can’t heal your sick mother?”

The simple hangnail became a chunk of missing skin. I lowered my head. Fighting back tears. 

“Sir,” my traitorous voice wobbled as I tried not to cry, “I keep trying but… I don’t think my power is that strong. I can close cuts, fix broken bones, but tumors are… hard.”

My father tilted his head back and laughed. Hard. He grabbed my wrist as quickly as a viper, “If I could put your mother’s cancer in you I would. You’re about as useful as a wet match in a dark cave.” 

I couldn’t help the tears that fell down my cheek. It felt like I was involuntarily waving a white flag.

Gotham City: Present Day

I had to be stealthy with my gift. I couldn’t heal every one of the patients to full health right away. That would lead to suspicion. But if I could help it I could stop the major damage. I would heal internal organs. Replenish blood. Reduce ten fractures to two or one. It all depended on timing and if people were watching me. 

I was walking home from the hospital. I only lived about three blocks away. I got off shift at around 20:49. I didn’t start my next stretch for another three days. And I was milking my walk home. Stopping to smell the roses or whatever. That is normally not a very smart thing to do in Gotham at night, especially as a woman. But part of me didn’t care. 

Earlier, I looked at my phone and frowned when I realized the date. 

Thursday, May 19th. 

My mom died 16 years ago today. Waves of emotion flooded my senses. Anger at myself for not remembering. Sadness that she had been gone more of my life than she had been in it. Restlessness for what my father might do or say. Some years he likes to reach out. Others he doesn’t. But most of all I was feeling reckless. Like I wanted someone to give me a reason. Obviously, I would only hurt someone to defend myself or others. But there was so much anger living in my body, part of me hoped some idiot would try something with me tonight. 

So, I walked home. Slowly. 

Normally, you keep your head down and you keep moving. You don’t look or gawk. You listen out of necessity. I was listening just because I could. It was the normal stuff. Men smoking cigarettes and catcalling. Women were offering their nightly services. Random people either praising or damning superheroes. Drug deals. Graffiti artists. Fights. And of course, people who simply were walking home from work. Gotham had range and was never boring that’s for sure. 

But something picked up on the very edge of my senses. Despite my better logic, I turned toward the very quiet sound. It could have just been rats, but it sounded so familiar. It sounded like a death rattle. The thing you hear just before shit hits the fan and the patient codes. 

Without thinking I ran down the alley toward the sound. At first, it was nothing. Just trash and rats. But then I saw it. He almost blended perfectly in with the shiny black garbage bags. His cape was the same color but reflected the light less. 

“Sir? Sir, are you alright?” I walked hesitantly forward, grabbing my pepper spray just in case.

The man did not answer, he only garbled and coughed. My work brain took over my fear. Instantly I rolled the man over and began assessing him. I suppressed a gasp when I rolled him over and a familiar cowl mask came into view. It was cracked down the middle. His face was bleeding from an unknown location. His breathing was labored and staggered. 

Calmly, I closed my eyes and pressed my hands against his chest. 

Oh yeah. Batman was dying. He had several broken ribs. A pneumothorax. A bruised liver, kidney, and pancreas. His cardiac output was a joke. The man had no perfusion. 

I didn’t think. I didn’t hold back like I do at the hospital. I just healed. And healed. And healed. I healed him down to his bone-on-bone knees, sprained ankle, and fractured wrist. 

God, this guy had a lot of injuries. 

I was close to passing out by the time I was done. I had done too much, ate, and slept too little. My powers were demanding when it came to energy. If I didn’t eat or sleep within 30 minutes I was about to pass out next to bat boy himself.

I gave him one last assessment. After double-checking that he would live and that I didn’t miss anything I finally looked at his face again. 

This time I gasped. Batman was the billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne? I shook my head like I was clearing cobwebs. I didn’t have time to dwell on it. Much like Batman, I didn’t want people to know what I could do. The last time people knew…

Just as I turned and took a few steps I rolled my eyes at my nagging thoughts. 

What if someone sees him before he wakes up?

Reaching into my tote bag I pulled out a black medical mask. I not so gracefully MacGyvered it across his exposed face so that it was covered. And with that, I made my way home.

My cat, Hashbrown, eagerly greeted me at the door. I nearly fell asleep locking it. I bent down to pick her up and gave her a kiss on her perfect little cat head. I ripped my gross work scrubs off, threw them in the wash, and crashed on the couch in my underwear before my brain could process what happened.

I healed Batman. 

I healed… Bruce Wayne?

Part Two, Part Three

#batman #batfam #batfamily #jason todd #dick grayson #barbara gordon #duke thomas #tim drake #damian wayne #bruce wayne #alfred pennyworth #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd x y/n #nightwing #red hood #red hood x reader #red hood x you #x reader #female x reader #whump #whumptober 2023 #whump writing

[circeyoru]

Contracted Love

[Alastor x Crush of Contractor!Reader]

Alastor didn’t expect such a treat when he took up that foolish human’s summoning. It was to pass the time since things were going slow and dull in Hell, with the new changes in Hell that new sinners brought, he was curious to see how the times have changed, so he let himself be a ‘servant’ of a human soul until it was time to collect it and add to his powers and abilities

The contractor was a poor excuse of a human, couldn’t get their life together and couldn’t even rely on themselves, thus the demon summoning. Perhaps they were lucky and summoned him, he doubted other demons would entertain their wishes. Speaking of, his contractor wanted their life to be happy and not depressing, like no worries of wealth and loved by all they meet. Simple enough

Until the contractor’s happiness contained earning the love of another human. You. Oh, you were everything that contractor wasn’t. So talented and successful in life, surrounded by valuable friends and a loving family. The picture-perfect crush

Alastor admits, you were special in your way, but he was a demon, so in the end, a soul is a soul. He’d tell his contractor that there wasn’t much he could help if they wanted to earn your love the healthy way, he did suggest the toxic way, but his contractor had their moral. So they weren’t all that bad

For the time being, he passed on courting tips and wooing advices. Here’s the issue, his contractor didn’t have that energy, that charisma that Alastor had in both human and demon times. Everything was done right, but there was no spark that caught your attention, you humored them (much like Alastor now) and that was it

“Arghh! Anything, isn’t there some other way I can get their love?!” His contractor would scream at nothing as another failed attempt brought them to their knees

“Hmm… Why not allow me to possess your body and kick start your courting? The moment they agree to date you, you will be in full control! How’s that?” Alastor suggested on a whim, he was getting bored with standing on the sidelines, why not some action?

His contractor agreed, with some limitations like no causing harm and all that bad stuff Alastor would love to do

It was odd. Because the first time Alastor was in his contractor’s body and tried wooing you, you sensed something was amist and asked if he (his contractor) was feeling alright. You’re more perceive than he observed, maybe it was because it involved him now? Maybe

It wasn’t. You were that observant. Even when his contractor wasn’t a close friend or your romantic interest, you took note of the usual behaviours. Like you analyzed the people around you no matter their connection to you

You were much more interesting than he gave credit

So he had to test out his theory. As easily, he got you to let him date you, in secret. It wouldn’t be public and even when the relationship was broken, no one would notice. When that was done, he got his contractor take control again. You knew. When it was him in the body. You knew

That wasn’t even the cheery on top. You prefered him over his contractor! Oh the irony

“What is happening!? I thought you said we’re dating! Why are they so distant to me?!” His contractor cried

It was because you had no talent with romance. Alastor thought to himself behind that smile. He had to be honest, the more he spent time with you, the more he wanted to be the one actually courting you. There was more to your perfect image and he enjoyed exploring it

Still there was a problem. You didn’t know it was an actual demon that caught your attention. Even when he took over his contractor’s life and lived it as his own, it wasn’t the same because it wasn’t his body!

He needed to find a way around this. Oh wait. Your deepest secret. A one-way ticket to Hell. Murder is a grave sin and you committed more than one. It was accidentally, but you started it. Arson at a night club to hide the fact you went there. You kept that close to your heart and reveal it to him on the spur of the moment when you were drunk

You’re going to Hell even without his doing. No wonder there was a spark between you two

Now he regrets help that contractor of his earn your affection. What if you slowly fell for that foolish contractor?

But could he just wait for you to arrive in Hell and sweep you off your feet instead? Let his contract for you for the brief moment of a human lifespan and he could spend his days with you in Hell, which was eternity 

Well, that was his idea and he loves the sound of that

Note: This is short and I just had some ideas so, here

Circe Y.

MASTERLIST

#alastor imagine #alastor x reader #alastor x y/n #alastor x you #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel alastor #alastor #alastor headcanons #hazbin hotel fanfiction #hazbin hotel oneshots #Circe's Nighty Writings #Contracted Love

[nothorses]

I noticed that you reposted something that is along the lines of proship

I agree with leaving media alone but I think its incredibly disgusting when people ship, for example siblings, because what it feels to me is that they have an incest fetish or something

I know just because someone writes about murder doesnt mean they support it, and I believe that. but usually when people write about murder it's in a negative context, obviously showing how it is so incomprehensible to outsiders about how someone could do that, or showing how we need to get these people help.

trying to apply this to, for example, incest, if someone ships an incestuous relationship then it seems like it would be in a good context, and it seems like they support it should it be in real life. that's how I view this all. (itd be different if they shipped siblings as a strange headcanon and talking about how it's bad... this reasoning I can understand the most to the point where I can let myself ignore it)

how am I supposed to learn to not care? especially when they are really outward about it?

okay.

I do not participate in shipping discourse because I do not participate in shipping. I'm not really In Fandom anymore like, generally. I don't... care.

Because of this I had literally no idea what you were referring to in this ask. I had to scroll. So far back. To get to this post, which also doesn't refer to shipping discourse.

I also have not talked about incest here, and the post in question doesn't talk about incest.

It's about murder. And gore. Which you say here is fine.

Literally why did you send me this ask.

And like... there's a fair chance this is just bait, and there's also enough of a chance that you're genuinely asking that, like, fuck it. I'm gonna get shit no matter what I do, so I may as well try to do a little good.

You use the words "feels" and "seems" a lot in this ask. And I'm really glad you did, actually, because I think it's honest; you're operating on your feelings and assumptions, and that's really important to keep in mind.

And your feelings on this are valid! It's normal to be uncomfortable with certain content, and it's normal to not want to see or engage in it. You don't need to feel any differently about those things. You don't have to consume incestuous content, you don't have to be okay with it, and you don't have to be around it.

But ask yourself: you assume that other people engaging in this content means they support it in real life, but what if they don't? What if you're wrong?

Maybe they're saying it's wrong in a way you're just not picking up on, or that you don't recognize. Maybe they aren't saying it's wrong; maybe it's in the context. Maybe it's in a genre trope in a genre you're not familiar with. Maybe it's irony or satire that you aren't picking up on. Maybe they aren't saying it at all, but that's still what they think, and they just chose not to put it in that content for... who knows what reason. Maybe they're literally just bad at writing.

What then?

Sometimes you're going to feel or assume that something is going on, and you're just gonna be wrong. And you could ask who's fault that is- did you fail to pick up on something you should have been able to, or did they fail to communicate it well enough?- but like, what are you going to do with that information?

Sometimes people are not very good at literary analysis, and sometimes people are not very good at writing, and that's just part of learning. Do we tell everyone not to attempt to talk about certain topics unless they're "good enough" to do it "right"? How do we know when someone's "good enough", and how do they get to that point without practice? Do we just ban those topics altogether? What topics do we ban- where's the line? How do we enforce it? How do we prevent that from being weaponized against marginalized people?

Anon, you asked me how you can "not care" about these things existing. And I think that's a valid question; you feel there is injustice, and you want to stop it. That can be a very noble impulse, and it can be harnessed for a lot of good.

But it can also be really, really toxic- not just to the people you hurt because you act on assumptions and impulses that are incorrect, but to yourself. You can't control everything. You can't control how other people feel, whether or how they engage in certain topics, or what they do or say. You just can't. And trying, or wanting to try, or thinking you should try- it's going to drive you nuts.

So here's how not to care:

Remind yourself that you might be wrong. Take a moment to think about all the things you don't know for certain, and the things you would need to know to be absolutely, 100% sure that you're right.

Consider how important this is to you. How close is this person to you? How important is this issue? What would it feel like to let this go- would it continue to impact you? Do you have other options? (removing yourself from the situation, blocking tags/posts/people, etc.)

Consider what you can do, and what you should do. Think about the tools at your disposal, the power you have in this situation, and how likely this person is to listen to you. Think about whether those tools are ethical. Again, what if you're wrong? Is there any reason you might regret your actions?

If you still feel like it's worth addressing, start by asking questions. Make sure you really know what's going on, and if (and when) the situation changes with new information, walk through this process again. Repeat back what you believe is happening until they confirm that you're right, decide again whether this is worth it, and then proceed.

Sometimes it's more effective to just vent to someone else, or to make a post about the issue generally without confronting that person- especially considering your assumptions might be wrong! Maybe it's worth it to talk about what you thought was happening, but you don't know that what you thought was happening is what was actually happening. You can still talk about it, just, y'know, without making it an attack on someone else.

And again, I don't give a shit about fandom discourse. This is important to me because these are themes that crop up in regular-ass media all the time, and disagreements that crop up in regular-ass relationships with friends and family and loved ones. I think it's important that people have the skills to navigate disagreements, unintentional harm, and perceived slights in healthy, productive ways.

You can't live your whole life demanding that everyone agree with you on everything, or blaming other people for everything you misinterpret or assume incorrectly. You cannot assume that everything that hurts you was designed to hurt you. You can recognize that these are assumptions and feelings, and that's great! And I hope you're being honest when you say that you want to learn to let things go.

[naffeclipse]

Hi! Same Anon that sent in the human Y/N with the baby Sirens Sun and Moon (I'm so glad you liked it! :)

You wrote that piece so wonderfully! And I adore all of your stories so much!

I just can't help but imagine that the Reclusive Writer Y/N might be more open to becoming a Siren, with the irony being that their babies would get the chance to teach them things!

Of course that first day as a Siren might not go over that well because the babies-now-teens failed to register Y/N never had a fluke before and the things they knew the basics from birth. Like stopping...(Crashed into a rock) Depth perception (Missed the air hole and hit the ice with their head) and hunting... (Got sucker punched by an octopus)

First night ends with Orca-writer unconscious on Eclipse from a concussion...

I loved it so much, ahh! I'm glad you enjoyed it! <3

The recluse isn't an easy human to persuade into becoming a siren. As much as Eclipse adores you and wants you in the water with your siren sons, you're a bit stubborn and set in your ways. (Hence the recluse part.) So, you would spend a long time telling Eclipse no whenever he says you could swim with him, Sun, and Moon. It would be an easy song to sing.

You keep resisting due more to their nature than any logic or will, and Eclipse tells you that one day you will say yet (and you laugh at that), but eventually, you notice how Sun and Moon keep swimming farther and farther out, exploring the sea. You enjoy the closeness with Eclipse and know you could still be closer if you simply accepted...

It's just a hard thing to change about yourself. You love your babies (and you love Eclipse, you love raising Sun and Moon with him), but trading your legs for a tail is a big decision. It's not one you take lightly.

You finally ask Sun and Moon one day if it would change anything if you become a siren, if they might see you differently than the human who raised them. (Eclipse says they're almost grown, ready to be adults.) Sun and Moon look at each other before agreeing that no, it wouldn't change anything. They love you. So long as you are here with them, they are happy.

That's the only answer you need before you turn to Eclipse and tell him that you'll let him sing his song and take you into the water. Sun and Moon are thrilled.

Of course, the first day is full of baby steps (wasn't it just yesterday you were filling a bathtub for the baby sirens, and now they're helping you to swim under the ice sheet to open waters?) Eclipse guides you most of the time. Sun and Moon are a bit too eager and restless to truly teach you, but they do hold tight to your arm to keep you upright when Eclipse has to leave your side for a moment, and they sing and trill such joyous sounds because now, there's no reason to ever be apart from each other. You're with your family forevermore.

#apex polarity #recluse!reader #orca!eclipse #orca!sun #orca!moon #naff writing

[mortalityplays]

This is a very good illustration of the increasing susceptibility to conspiratorial thought patterns I've been seeing on the left lately. Just because you don't believe there are space marines on Mars doesn't mean you're immune to building imaginary connections between aesthetic or emotional data points and mistaking them for evidence. A lot of well meaning people in my circles have been sharing this story, buying uncritically into the first narrative they encountered. I want to break down why:

Jones' twitter thread was extremely emotional and extremely urgent. The idea of a child being ripped away from his frantic mother and a ticking clock to decide his fate both helped the story to bypass analytical scrutiny. It sends the message 'act now, before it's too late, it's the only compassionate thing to do'.

Her connection to an existing conspiracy (a concerted effort by the state to cover up Covid statistics) creates a strengthening association with the idea that this is also a conspiracy. The thread offers no positive evidence that her son's arrest was a conspiracy, and no positive evidence that his arrest has any connection to her prior experiences.

Jones' allegation that the arrest was retribution for her actions as a whistleblower implicitly identifies her in the reader's mind. A lot could be unpacked about her dispute with the DOH but it doesn't really matter because I don't think most people who circulated this story knew much about it either way. The point is that it anchors her identity in a few key concepts: 'whistleblower', 'covid scientist', 'concerned citizen'. None of these qualities are relevant to the events detailed in the thread (or evidenced in the thread, if we're being really rigorous), but they unconsciously prejudice the reader's assessment of whether to trust or side with her. Simply put, if you are concerned about how covid was handled and/or inclined to support whistleblowers, you are more likely to assume she's credible.

If you dislike and distrust cops, you are primed to accept a narrative in which they are doing something straightforwardly evil. Don't get me wrong, fuck 12, but I say that armed with an enormous preponderance of cases in which we have positive evidence of police acting out of self interest, cruelty, corruption, racism, misogyny, etc. Allowing ourselves to be seduced by the fantasy that they are always always without fail breaking rules and fashing it up in broad daylight only makes us easier to delude and manipulate.

She repeatedly made the point that her son is autistic. Again, if you are autistic or sympathetic to autistic people, you are more likely to be 'warmed up' by this detail and inclined to take her side. I'm not going to say it's irrelevant to the idea that he was being unfairly targeted, but it is overwhelmingly emotionally weighted. And again, it is not evidence that he was unfairly targeted. It's another weight on the scale that tips you to judge the truth value of her story without reality checking.

The example of a meme that she shared is characteristic of a type of online humour that is at least familiar to most of us. If you or your friends make edgy jokes and share tasteless irony memes, or if you've been online for more than like a week, you understand that they're mostly harmless. The idea that this meme could be used as evidence by law enforcement to detain you is ideologically threatening in an immediately relatable way. It evokes a reflex defensive impulse — that's not fair, the cops are wrong, the kid is innocent — bypassing the process of verification. Is this meme the reason he was arrested? Is it the only one he posted? Is it the only reason he was arrested?

All of these factors create a gut-led constellation of information that quickly forms a picture. Because it is being pieced together from multiple subconscious feelings and prejudices, it feels as if it has been evidenced. Because the thread was highly emotional and highly urgent, readers were pressured to jump to rapid conclusions and ask "what can I do to help?" (and the answer, as it almost always is, was 'donate money, quick').

I want to be really clear that I am not saying Jones manufactured any of these effects on purpose. It would be completely within reason that having a young child arrested would send anyone into an emotional tailspin, grasping for reasons this might have happened, leaping to his defense, rallying resources to fight on his behalf. I am not in any way ascribing malice to her actions.

What I'm interested in is the effect that this emotive kneejerk appeal had on people who were unknowingly predisposed to believe that the state of Florida would kidnap a child to punish a scientist for disagreeing with the department of health about covid statistics. That is a baseless conspiracy theory, and a huge number of people in my immediate circles reflexively amplified it.

Personally, I think arrest is a godawful way to respond to a child having a mental health crisis, even if they are seen to pose a violent threat. That still doesn't mean the cops did it at the bidding of a mad dictator in waiting. In the hypothetical parallel universe where it turns out Jones was right and this was all a conspiracy to punish her, it still would not have served the situation to jump to that conclusion on a gut feeling.

Pausing to identify relevant, verifiable facts before sharing a story like this is always warranted, even if you think the person telling it is 'on your side'. The more you worry that questioning the narrative wastes precious time or makes you a bad person, the more you should scrutinise why you are being made to feel that way. Accepting unfounded conspiracies into your worldview is not benign, even if you think the 'targets' deserve it. It erodes your critical perspective and turns you into a vector for the people around you.

tl;dr: you are not immune to baseless conspiratorial thought

#long post #might turn off reblogs on this one I can sense the anons already

[1anxiousbeancrying]

Life series Scott and the watchers.

I absolutely adore the life series and was watching martyns lore streams, but my favorite thing is that the watchers Canonically hate Scott. So I went back through the series to see every time the watchers mentioned Scott or when Scott broke a rule. And theres a lot surprisingly.

3rd life: near enough everyone broke a rule during this one 😭, and apart from Martyn and ren no one else really had lore, apparently you weren't meant to team with reds but most people did and and you weren't meant to kill on green or yellow, but Scott,grian and Martyn did so it doesn't really matter.

Last life: this is were it starts to get interesting. Scott refuses to kill as the boogie man and this pisses the watchers off, in martyns episode 8 they say,

"HE REFUSES TO PARTICIPATE"

"HE MOCKS US"

"THIS WILL NOT STAND"

And so Scott is sent to red at the end of the session. And then he goes on to not only kill Martyn and ren but to win the season. They were really not happy with that.(There's a lot of watcher Stuff in the last episode but I'm just going to talk about the Scott parts).

"oh the irony, to be undone by the one you were tasked to destroy, even giving the tools you couldn't do it ,leaving only the hound standing would have sufficed" (Scott and ren)

"all it took was a simple 3,2,1 and you All obliged, bar one"

"you mean Scott?"

"his will to live was too strong, his flame burned too bright,now look what's happened".

They really didn't like him this season.

Double life: while the watchers kinda took a back seat this time Scott still broke a tone of rules. He refused to pair up with his soulmate and teamed up with Cleo who was martyns soulmate, and when it came to the end instead of fighting like the watchers want he blew himself up and gave pearl the win

Limited life: this is were it gets interesting again. He gets boogie immediately(I love how he yells at watchers saying it's probably because he didn't kill anyone in last life). But he killed so fast that it ruined the anticipation for the watchers and so it was re rolled. He teams with Martyn, and that's were it gets interesting, after Martyn kills him, he gets another message from the watchers.

" a pillar built another test" (the pillar Scott built and jumped from when running from the yellows)

Later they say

" the thrill to kill the fleeting gill" (hinting at both him killing Scott and martyns later betrayal).

Also 90% of Scott deaths in this season are from him letting people kill him for time, once again not fighting properly. In his lore stream Martyn said that the watchers feed of negative emotions and that they don't get much from Scott which also plays a great part into why they hate him.

Secret life: in this season he burns one of the secret keeps books to spite them, when the zombie apocalypse happens him, Cleo and grian are they only survivors making the others fail there task. And every single one of his deaths were voluntary, he let Martyn kill him the first time and gem kill him the other two.

This man is a menace to the watchers and it's so funny.

#scott smajor #last life #third life #limited life #double life #secret life #grian #inthelittlewood #zombiecleo

[matan4il]

Buddie 615 meta

Before we really get into it, I’m just gonna snicker for a second over the fact that the death doula is named Natalia. Why? The name is related to the Latin term for Christmas Day, which is the holiday when Jesus was born. So the word that the name comes from is related to birth, natal. There’s a touch of irony there, that they gave this name to the girl who is not just a death doula, but who looks like she’s actually into death (who thinks dying for a few minutes is cool or amazing. I have to say, it’s not. It’s a good thing to accept death as a part of life, one that heightens life’s meaning, and help others do the same, it’s another to think that the physically and emotionally scarring experience of being dead for a few minutes is “cool”) and I think that’s an interesting tone to choose when introducing Buck’s new Love Interest. (if you’re into it, you can find more name meanings for 911 characters here) ~~

The scene of Eddie and Chris at the cemetery was very touching. It also spoke volumes on how Buck has taken the same role in Christopher’s life as Shannon. We saw in eps 611 as well as this one that Chris is hoping to be heard by the parent that life has taken away from him (Shannon for good, Buck temporarily). What I find interesting is that with the hospital visit, Eddie must understand this on some level. Even with the guardianship reveal, no one has ever explicitly referred to Buck as Chrstopher’s other dad. But he is, and moments like this cement it. We talk about these parallels, but Eddie gets to live them. He witnesses with his own eyes his son talking about Buck in the same way he does about Shannon. Eddie KNOWS what Buck is to their family unit and it’s not just an emergency guardian. ~~

Which connects me to something I touched upon in my 614 meta, Eddie’s journey. He’s supposedly been okay with dating again since 406, but in the last ep we discovered that he’s still held back by past trauma from his failed relationship with Shannon. She’s featured heavily in this ep, too. Her being Christopher’s mom means she’s a presence in Eddie’s life who will always be there. A reminder of how things can go wrong, meaning romantically, but also just in terms of how unexpected death can be.

It pained me to go from Eddie admitting in 614 that he didn’t want to be alone, to him echoing the words of their deceased vic, “We’re all gonna die alone.” That’s something I’ve heard people saying not so much regarding the question of whether there would be someone by your side when you pass away. More like, when death claims us, we all embark on that last journey into the dark unknown on our own. Whether there’s something after death or not, we’ll all discover that completely by ourselves. That’s such a deeply lonely thought, and we see Eddie trying to deal with it in this ep by not postponing seeing his parents. He realizes he was wrong to assume they got time, because death might come for us at any given moment, just like it happened with Shannon. It’s a continuation of his journey, which is obviously not over yet, but to me it’s quite surprising how this week’s ep actually joined Buck and Eddie’s with the common theme of death, but specifically death intertwined with their romantic life. I think each of them is such a fascinating character in its own right, so why the need to connect their journeys like this? I am staring at you, 911. ~~

I was happy that Eddie brought up what a bad idea it is for Buck to be dating someone they helped on a call. This has been a theme with Buck since he meets the snake lady on a call in 101, through Ali in 202, Taylor in 206 and now Natalia. In other words, this has a big, red sign al over it that says it’s doomed to fail, but our Buck is once more failing to notice that. Hopefully the rest of the events in 6b will help him learn and stop making this particular mistake, where he connects his idea of having self-worth only as a firefighter with thinking he can only be romantically desirable to those he helps on calls. ~~

I wrote in this ask reply about the insanity of how Buck and Eddie seem to always start dating again in consecutive eps. As if 911 is not unhinged enough about that, we also have Buck and Eddie being obstructive with the other guy’s dating attempts, first Buck suggesting ghosting to Eddie as a way of blowing off his date with Vanessa in 614, and now Eddie right away pointing out that it’s not a great idea for Buck to be dating Natalia.

We have seen Buddie dating multiple people over the course of almost 5 seasons now, and not a single time have we seen either man on screen approve of their best friend’s romantic partner. Almost like there’s just no one who’s good enough for the man they love so much, right? No one, because on some level, they know what we do, too. That no one else can compete with what the two of them have together. Which is why none of these LIs feel right and acceptable as partners for their best friend. ~~

I love that right off the bat, we got a reminder that Eddie knows Buck better than everyone, on very intimate levels. Just like Eddie knew when Buck was having an emergency session with Dr. Copeland back in 404, while even Bobby as their captain didn’t, we now saw Eddie knows how well Buck handles his taxes. It’s such spouse behavior. Most of us do not have best friends who keep tabs on how we handle governmental bureaucracy, right? But then the end of this ep circles back to this idea and gives us that scene at the cemetery where Eddie proves that this is true not just when it comes to the small things of daily life. He sees Buck, knows him, understands him and Eddie accepts him in every possible way. Which is why he can say that Buck has indeed been different since the lightning strike, an awareness we don’t hear from anyone else, not even from Maddie, Buck’s very close and loving sister.

It reminded me of how Buck said in 309 that Eddie can be honest with him. Then in 511 Buck repeated a variation of that, saying Eddie doesn’t have to pretend with him. In 513 and 514, Eddie got to be indeed fully open with Buck, just as this was paralleled in 612, where Buck was honest with Eddie. This ep continued to expand on this theme, with Eddie reassuring Buck that he doesn’t need to be anything for anyone. And I loved that in an ep where Buck has just started dating someone new, where he thinks she sees him better than anyone, the person who still gets him the most is Eddie, and that’s the person Buck shares himself with the most, too. There is not a single thing Natalia said to him or that he said to her during their date that can rival the intimacy of the cemetery talk. And if Buck still needs a wake up call to see that, well. I do think there’s a good chance he’ll get one, maybe even very soon.

~~ (my weekly meta posts) (my Buddie gifs) (all of my content)

~~ ~~ My tag list will follow in the reblog, please let me know if you wanna be added/removed here.

~~ I'm so thankful to the beautiful @eddiediaaz​ for the meta gifs this week! Not only did she step in when my regular giffer couldn’t do it this week, she also made so much effort to make sure the gifs are made as soon as possible, so the meta can be posted as early as possible as well. She’s just amazing and I hope everyone gives her a big round of applause! Merci, cherie!

~~ Thank you to anyone supporting these meta posts. I could never express enough how grateful I am and that they continue to exist thanks to you!

#buddie #911meta #buddie meta #911 meta #9-1-1 #evan buckley #eddie diaz #buddieedit #buddie gifs #911 spoilers #evanbuckleyedit #eddiediazedit #wm #911 #christopher diaz #911edit #911onabc #911 on abc #911abc #911 abc

[genshin-side-piece]

Never Let Me Go

He didn't leave me alone. Neuvi demanded I finish this story, so here we go.

Sequel to : Love Me Tender, Love Me True, Tell Me You Are Mine

Warnings: Yandere Content, Implied Kidnapping, Implied Captivity, Implied Stalking, Angst, Mentions of death & dying, my bad writing, anything else I missed, 18+, Minors DNI

The sky had an odd look to it, decidedly foreign in comparison to how storms normally looked in Fontaine. Thick bulbous clouds hung heavily in the skies, stifling the air around you as they drifted above rolling across the heavens like waves. Blacks and grays, mixed with a hint of navy and what you swore was ocher swirled above you, mixing together in what you could only describe as a volatile dance. The motion of the colors was the only movement the clouds had. They had come from nowhere, as clouds often liked to do in Fontaine, but these had a lingering quality. Despite the strong winds that raked their way across the steadily diminishing landscape, the clouds above remained fixed to their place in the sky. Holding everything below them fast as the rising water steadily swallowed all of Fontaine.

You stood on your perch near the peak of one of the taller mountains, braving the torrential weather as you tried your best to see anything that looked familiar. Even as the cold rain fell in sheets around you, the wind whipping against your skin, making it icy to the touch, you held firm. You ignored the cold and the weather, pushing yourself even higher as you tried to see more. The only thing that stopped you from going much further were the small hands of your keepers as they attempted to pull you back. They pleaded with you to return to the cabin they had brought you to. They told you that the weather was too much for you. There were mentions of you becoming sick should you stay out in it for too long. They begged and pleaded with you to come back, yet you silently refused. Your eyes remained ever fixed on the dimming lights of what you thought was the opera house, though it was truly impossible to tell from this distance. By now most of the landmarks that had been a part of your daily life were gone. Washed away or engulfed by the turbulent sea. Only black churning water remained. It lapped at the rock cliffs below you, climbing higher with every second. There had been no sign of danger. No warning. Only torrential rain and rapidly rising seas which caught nearly everyone unawares. To the horror of all, the prophecy had finally come. You tried not to dwell on it as best you could. Dwelling would feed the panic that was rising as fast as the water was around you. Panicking, wouldn’t do anyone, least of all you any good. Instead, you attempted to focus your concerns elsewhere. You fixated on the lights in the distance, silently praying, hoping, yearning for even the faintest fleck of blue or white to appear amongst the blacks and grays that surrounded you. You told yourself it would come. It had to come. Despite the uncertainty of your present, there was one thing you knew would always remain true; Neuvillette wouldn’t fail you. He wouldn’t abandon you. Not now, not when you needed him the most. 

It was an odd sensation to want him now. A delicious irony really. After months of silently loathing him to the point that you had wished he would vanish, he was now the only thing you wanted. You would later blame it on a combination of both the situation and your very real fear, but for now, you held firm in your belief that Neuvillette was the only person who could make this better. Surely he could calm the raging skies and the climbing seas like he did the court. A stamp of his cane or a stern word would send the horrors that surrounded you away. Fontaine would come to order again. Then you wouldn’t have to face the horrible fate that was inching ever closer with what felt like every breath. You would be safe. Neuvillette would keep you safe. That had been his one promise to you when he had taken you away. He would do everything in his power to protect you. That was his reasoning for tucking you away from a world that wished you harm. Now, as you found yourself adrift in that same world, you wished for nothing more than to be within the safety of his apartment again. The thought of the cold stone walls that had been the bane of your existence for nearly a year, brought you minimal comfort. They had upheld Neuvillette’s promise to you. They had, like him, kept you from harm. How you silently wished to be within their confines once again. How you yearned for Neuvillette to appear before you. Yet when you called his name into the howling wind, hoping for any kind of sign, only the echo of the rushing air as it whipped past answered. The skies above the opera house remained as dark as when you had first laid eyes on them. Fittingly, your captor was nowhere to be found. 

Neuvillette had been scarce in recent weeks. His work or rather the work he was required to do to keep the nation running, had kept him away. Through the grapevine of the house, you had been able to learn that there had been a crisis he’d been summoned to deal with. A matter so great, so important, that he had been forced to abandon his routine concerning you so that he might focus on it. The afternoons he had spent by your side were replaced with Neuvillette locking himself away in his office for hours, even days at a time. The only time he left was to either attend court or make an odd trip home to rest. Otherwise, you were generally alone. Your only companions were your little wardens. They kept you occupied during the day, nothing really changed in that regard. The nights though, the evenings that had been spent filled with awkward dinners and one sided conversations became hauntingly silent. In the time that was supposed to be yours and Neuvillette’s, your wardens stuck to their well practiced schedule. The clocks in the house would strike 6 and suddenly you found yourself utterly alone. You were never told whether he was coming or not. It had become a waiting game of sorts. One you quickly grew tired of playing. You’d had half a mind to give him an earful for this new tortuous delight. It was a level of cruelty that seemed out of place for him. You had made it a point to raise the issue to him, but when you next laid eyes on him, you thought better of it. His normally kind features held a strange tension to them. His jaw was almost always tightly set, his teeth appearing to grind against one another as his mind held his thoughts far away from you. His distraction was so profound that he didn’t notice you were there. Even after you made what you felt was a ruckus, he didn’t look at you. Not once. His eyes remained pinned to one piece of paper or another, his dark eyebrows furrowed, knitting and fighting against one another as he read page after page of reports. 

After that, you viewed his lack of presence as a welcome thing. Let him be completely distracted. Let his feelings for you be the furthest thing from his mind. You could sleep soundly knowing those clammy hands of his wouldn’t haunt you in the night. The peace of your morning levee had been restored as he was not there to watch you wash and dress. The need for frills and formality were dropped in a heartbeat. The clothing he preferred that you wear was somewhat simplified to be more comfortable. You dropped the unnecessary layers in favor of things that were easier to get on and off on your own. The dining room he insisted you use, was instantly abandoned. Solo breakfasts out in your garden, weather permitting, became the norm. Luncheon was officially moved to either the conservatory or one of the corner rooms that overlooked the surrounding area so that you could enjoy the view. Dinner, oh the tedious ritual that was dinner, saw the most drastic change of all. The oneness of it was replaced with quiet evenings spent in solitude, the roaring fire in your bedroom filling the silence, while one of your favorite books kept you company. It was the happiest you had been since he had first brought you here. You could almost imagine that Neuvillette didn’t exist at all. The fantasy of being alone in such grande circumstances was a delicious thing. In place of dealing with him, your afternoons were spent flitting from imaginary ball to imaginary ball, conjuring all kinds of suitors and gossip that were left in your wake. A mysterious noble, with an even more mysterious past. How had you come to be in your current position? Was your family secretly well to do? Were you involved in some nefarious affairs? Had you married well only to suffer the loss of your spouse? Even thoughts of a rich benefactor had begun to fill your fantasies. Other days you were a successful adventurer. Blessed with fortune from your extensive travels. The best the adventurer’s guild had. You had conquered all kinds of foes, large and small. Entire nations owed their gratitude and their treasuries to you. Your reward for your efforts were the surroundings of which you were now enjoying.

It was easy to get lost in your fantasies, to indulge in them as time went on. The melusines did little to discourage them. Some of them even played along, enjoying your make believe world almost as much as you did. The only thing that put a dampener on the fun was the infrequent sound of your captor’s shoes echoing off the parquet floors. Neuvillette was a specter in that regard. His heels striking against the wood always pulled you away from your intrigue and adventure. You would sit up just long enough to see his shadow slowly sweep by the drawing room door. Once, it would linger, eventually it would invade the sanctity of your space. You had tried to run from it. His shadow had stalked you through every room in his house. Following you as it passed through hallways and corridors alike. Now, he didn’t even pause. He just kept going, the sound of his shoes fading as his work pulled him further and further away from you. It left you with an odd feeling.

As the days blurred into weeks and the weeks into months you began to feel a certain kind of longing take hold. You didn’t dare admit that you missed him or his attention. Your continued freedom, though limited to the confines of your captor’s home, was a blessing. Short of leaving, you could live how you liked. The regular rules and restrictions had been suspended in the crisis. Once it had been enough to do as you pleased. You had even taken it for granted. Since your rather abrupt capture, the very idea of having your full autonomy returned to you was something that you had striven for. Now that you had it, you found it to be less satisfying than you remembered it to be. The emptiness of your world, the loneliness that came when your wardens left for the night left a bitter taste in your mouth. The time spent alone did not entertain you as it once had. The fantasies you chose to immerse yourself in no longer satisfied you. A weird craving began to form. A desire, a yearning to not only see Neuvillette but to bring him back into your routine. 

In the beginning, you tried to suppress it. You refused to acknowledge that you wanted him in your life. In the war that the two of you had fought against each other, this was the proverbial final battle. Your acceptance of his place in your life would give him all the permission he needed to continue to hold you here. It was the one thing you had sworn never to give. You refused to justify his perverted idea of love by falling for him. You decided your return to the rules and formality was a much needed reminder of why you couldn’t wait to be free. Of why you loathed him so. That was the excuse you told yourself while you dressed for dinner. It was the same one you played through your mind on repeat as you inched ever closer to his office door. He was a beast. A horrible awful man, who had done you wrong. A thief who had stolen you from the world. You tried to remember that as you stopped out his door. You despised him. You hated him. Your general dislike of his need to infantilize you with his rules and restrictions served as the fuel you needed to push against the door of his office. Normally, it was closed or locked. To your surprise, you found it slightly ajar.

“Monsieur?” You pressed further into his gloomy office, finding him hunched over his desk, eyes glued to a stack of papers resting on top of it. You took him in, your previous mantra easily forgotten as your heart sank. The always poised, always perfect, always elegant Chief Justice had been reduced to a haggard shell of his former self. His robes, cravat, and his waist coat had long been abandoned on the sofa. Half laying, half hanging off the furniture’s delicate frame. For the parts that you could see, the only recognizable piece of clothing was the wrinkled dress shirt that served as the base of his ornate attire. It too had been changed. The sleeves of the normally crisp shirt had been rolled up past his elbows, exposing you to something so scandalous as his bare forearms. You stared at the exposed skin of his arms, fixating on it for far too long before you forced your eyes higher. They followed the line of his shirt, coming to a startling halt when they found where the closed portion met the open portion. Without the cravat to hold it in place, the collar of his shirt hung loosely over his collarbones, giving you an ample view of both his exposed neck and upper chest. You couldn’t help but roughly swallow as you blatantly stared. Foolishly, you had never thought of Neuvillette as a man before. For all the time that you had spent as his captive, you had never changed your opinion of him. Like the rest of the population, you considered him more of a thing than a person. The good chief justice. The reliable Iudex. A mainstay, an institution. A long series of titles and responsibilities that helped to support the archon and keep the nation together. Nothing more than that. Things weren’t human. Things didn’t have feelings. Things were inanimate, useful, and disposable. They could be forgotten as quickly as they could be discovered. For many, Neuvillette was easy to forget. He rarely showed himself in public, outside of necessary events and court. He held no close acquaintances or deep personal friendships. He had long remained a mystery to the people he served. So it was perfectly sensible to not relate to him as a person. If nothing else than for your own sanity.

Now as you stood before him, as you realized that he was less a thing and more a person, you felt your sanity rapidly slipping away. Rather blatantly, you allowed yourself the indulgence of tracing your eyes over him, of appreciating his more beautiful features. You admired the way his neck met his shoulders. He had a rather long neck for a man. On anyone else, it would have been a gangly thing. On Neuvillette, it was noble, graceful. Oddly, you wondered what it would feel like to kiss it. To press your lips against the sides, into the hollow of it. He was so pale. Would he flush just from the contact of your lips, or would you have to nip at him to give him a little color?

“Petit” His voice, ever soft, ever gentle, snapped you back to reality. Fuck. You stood there for a moment, wide eyed and blinking as you let your previous thoughts drift away. Based on his curious expression, you had to wonder if you had been caught. Your cheeks flushed at the thought. “Are you alright?” He let out a small laugh. “For a moment, you seemed like you were quite lost in your own thoughts.” Your face only got hotter. How utterly embarrassing. You had half a mind to dash out of his office and never return. “It’s nothing.” He nodded, thankfully letting your gaff go. “I see.” The worn quality of his voice didn’t go unnoticed by you. It lacked the normal polish it tended to possess, hints of fatigue lacing their way into it. Based on the way he sounded, it seemed like Neuvillette could benefit from a good rest. You thought to suggest it, but the work stacked up all around him gave you pause. Neuvillette was nothing if not consistent in his duty. It was why he was so revered by the nation. So long as he was needed, he would continue to serve. The piles upon piles of paper that were neatly laid across his desk were enough to render any idea of an extended rest a futile one. They would weigh as heavily on his mind as they did his desk, easily preventing him from getting the rest he so desperately needed. “I am so pleased you decided to come by.” His gaze softened as he pulled his lips into a tired smile. You imagined it was the first time he had smiled in months. With him facing you, the worry and the woe that had etched its way across his features was all too clear. Dark bags hung beneath his jewel like eyes, dimming down some of their brilliance. It was a hard sight to swallow. While loathsome, Neuvillette was undeniably magnificent when he wanted to be. To see some of that brilliance sacrificed for the sake of his duty was almost too much to bear. “It is good to see you.” The relief in his soft voice made your heart ache. “I-” He swallowed roughly, gently clearing his throat. Water. He needed water. The cracks in his normally smooth voice told you his throat was unusually dry. Your eyes went to the crystal pitcher which sat opposite his desk. You could tell it was dry and empty. An unusual error on his part. It spoke to how distracted he really was. “I have missed you. I do try to remember to say goodnight to you, but you are often asleep once I am able to do so. What a pleasure it is to see you awake.” Slowly one of Neuvillette’s eyebrows crept upwards towards his brow. “You are doing well, I hope.” That hope found its way into his eyes, reflecting in the facets of them.  

You didn’t want to tell him you missed him. The capacity to do so died the second the thought had entered your mind. Still, you had. You did. As insane as it sounded, you missed his presence in your life. After all this time with him, you had gotten used to him being nearby. Never in arms reach, but always in ear shot. If the mood suited you, he was all too easy to pull into a conversation. You could ask him about the weather or the latest water samples and his voice would fill your world for hours. You could read while listening to him excitedly telling you about the difference in mineral composition between Liyue and Inazuma without ever having to say a word. Other days, you craved music. A perk of Neuvillette’s position was that singers, orchestras, and all kinds of theatrical troupes would send sample recordings as a way of enticing him into allowing them to perform at the opera. He played no part in the booking or the final decision. The Palais Mermonia merely handled the applications, but the theater manager would never turn down a favorite of the Chief Justice. Not when Neuvillette was positively enthralled with the idea of bringing a Liyuean opera star to entertain the masses. You benefited from this perk by way of Neuvillette bringing the records home for you. He would play them in the afternoons or even in the evenings after dinner as a suitable substitute to the two of you trying to hold an actual conversation. To suddenly not have him there, to have silence when you wanted conversation or music, was devastating. Playing the records alone didn’t hold the same appeal as it did when you were with him. “I-” You stared at him for another moment, trying to decide what best to do. You had missed him, but you couldn’t say so. You wanted to talk to him. You wanted to listen to your favorite Snezhnayan ballet with him again. The words to tell him so, failed you. A small voice in the back of your mind reminded you that to verbally admit you missed him, that you wanted him was to admit that he had finally won you over. The final victory in a series of smaller ones, where he could finally claim you as his. Even if it had sizable cracks in it, the wall you had held between you had to remain. You couldn’t allow it to fall.  To do so was to allow him the excuse to keep you here forever. “Dinner.” You grimaced slightly when you bit the word out as soon as it entered your mind. The quickness of it made you both take a pause before you tried to recover. “It’s time for dinner, Monsieur.” You looked away from him, your eyes sinking to the floor in embarrassment. “We-” You. “Though you might like a change of pace. Eating in your office everyday must be tiring.” You tried to make that last statement sound as gentle as possible, but it was hard to hide the mortification in your voice.

A gentle laugh filled the room, causing you to look up at him. Some of the luster had returned to his eyes. Slowly they drifted away from you and over to a clock that was resting on the mantle. They took in the time, his chin coming to idly rest against the palm of his hand. He had needed a break. You could see it in the way his entire body relaxed at even the most basic of conversations. His mind had been long occupied with work. It needed a breather as much as the rest of him did. “It is, isn’t it?” He sounded almost wistful. As if the concept of dinner with you was more a dream than the reality you had proposed. “You’re all dressed for it too.” You had noticed that he had turned his eyes back to you. That he was drinking your appearance in. You had selected something you could both enjoy; he for its aesthetics and you for its comfort. A suitable compromise in a series of compromises that had happened between you. “How wonderful you look this evening. I have truly missed basking in your radiance.” He tried to sound sincere in his compliment. Despite being exhausted, he tried. You could see he meant it. You could tell he wanted to sound pleased. But given his current condition, the best he could do was mild interest. “I have been neglectful of you, haven’t I? I seem to always be caught up in things lately. You have my most sincere apologies, petit.” The smile fell in favor of a mournful frown. You watched some of the lost tension in his shoulders return, hating it more than you hated the worn quality of his voice. “If we were still on our regular schedule I suppose I would be late, wouldn’t I?” His eyes came back to you for a final time, glistening with despair. “How clumsy of me.” There was a bitterness in his voice. It echoed in your own heart, causing the ache in it to become worse. You had never seen him like this. It went beyond the normal fits of depression and melancholy that he seemed to suffer. The distance between you felt wider than the chasm, despite you only being a few feet from each other. Why was it like this, what was happening? Why was it happening? What could be so great that it could reduce Neuvillette to this?

A cold sensation shot its way up your back as a dark thought crept into your mind. Had you caused this?

Once more, your eyes dropped to the floor while you raced to remember every interaction you’d had with him prior to his withdrawal from your world. Things had been amicable between you. The garden he had given you, along with slightly more autonomy, had gone a long way in improving your relationship. Outside of his less than desirable behavior, you were more prone to tolerating his presence when you weren’t hiding in your sanctuary. The only thing that came to mind was right before he had pulled away, he had gotten a little rough with you. When he came to you at night, Neuvillette was never forceful. The most he had ever done was hold you in place with a firm grip if you tried to roll away. There had been bruising afterwards, but they generally faded after a day or two. The night in question, coincidentally his last night with you, he had been uncharacteristically insistent. His grip on you had been unrelenting from the onset. Neuvillette had wrapped his legs around your lower body, using his strength to hold you in place so he was free to use his hands. It hadn’t taken much to wake you. Living in his house had taught you to be a light sleeper. The way he had pulled you against him, his nails puncturing the delicate flesh of your hips had instantly pulled you back to reality. On instinct, you had retaliated. But that wasn’t it, was it? You looked back up at him, his eyes still firmly fixed on you, full of all the love and affection you thought he could muster. Surely that wasn’t it. After all you had done, after all you had said, one kick couldn’t be the proverbial straw that broke him. That couldn’t be the reason why he had abandoned you. “My apologies mon trésor.” That came as little more than a whisper. “I am bereft to do so, but I must decline spending the evening with you.” He hesitated, his eyes falling back to the desk. “Duty calls.” There was an ebbing silence that passed between you, one that not even the fire in the fireplace could fill. At that moment, the world fell completely silent. All you swore you could hear was the sound of your own heart breaking. 

It showed on your face. It must have. The crack of thunder and the rustle of the trees matched the distress Neuvillette showed when he looked back at you. Outside, rain began to pelt against the panes of glass, hiding the weak sob that had managed to slip past your lips. The tears that fell onto your cheeks burned. The news that he couldn’t join you should have been a joyous thing to you. A confirmation that his lack of interest could be the first indication that his mania for you was passing. If he no longer believed he loved you, if there was no need to protect you, then surely that meant you could go home, didn’t it? You could return to your life. You could begin again. You should be overjoyed at the very possibility of it. No more restrictions or special diets. No more eyes following you everywhere. No more lack of privacy. You could control who or what entered your space simply by telling them to stay or go. You would never have to fear the roving hands that had haunted you in the night again. You could lock them out of your life as easily as you could the melusines. Everything you could want, everything you had wanted was all pinned on the concept of finally ridding yourself of your captor. Yet instead of being thrilled, instead of asking to the point of begging to be released, you could only begin to cry. Not out of happiness, but at the horrific realization that perhaps freedom wasn’t what you wanted anymore. Your life here, your life with him was a comfortable one. Aside from him and the ebbing loneliness without him, Neuvillette made your captivity an easy thing to bear. If you left the safety of Neuvillette’s arms or if you were forced to leave it, then you would have nowhere to go. Your apartment, along with your job and any mora you might have possessed were long gone. They had been lost the day you had disappeared. There was no promise that Neuvillette had saved them for you, nor was there any promise he would compensate you once you left. Everything you had, from your clothes to the roof over your head came because of Neuvillette’s love for you. Part of his need to keep you was so that he might protect and provide for you. To lose that affection meant the loss of his generosity. He could abandon you to the mercy of the streets and not think twice about it. You didn’t realize it, but you nearly collapsed just at the thought of it.

Neuvillette was at your side before your knees could fully give out. Strong arms wound their way around you, supporting your weight with ease. You made no effort to fight him. You had no more fight in you to give. All you had left were your tears and the very real possibility of begging for your next meal. “Forgive me, I beg it of you.” Neuvillette guided your head so he could gently press his lips against your damp cheek, causing you to cry even harder. “I wish I did not have to refuse you.” His arms came around your shoulders pulling you into a more tender embrace than before. “I have missed our time together. I loathe that it has been taken from us.” A beat passed before he continued. “I wish I could delay this for all of eternity, so that I might spend all my time with you.” You sucked in a deep breath, the terror of being abandoned easing just long enough to allow you to hear what he was saying. He still loved you. He still wanted you. Your actions hadn’t driven him away, at least not yet. That knowledge helped to calm you slightly, but it didn’t solve the overarching mystery. It didn’t explain Neuvillette’s current state nor the need for his extended absence. “Wh-” You hiccuped, trying to control your tears. “What is it?” You swallowed roughly, bring your hand up to weakly rest it against his arm. The warmth of your hand against his cool skin caused him to shiver. He responded to the consensual contact by pulling you even closer, fingers twisting their way into your hair so he might cradle the back of your head with his hand. 

“I am afraid mon coeur, it is the end.”

There was no elaboration that followed that statement. Just his arms growing tighter as you continued to spill your tears into the soft fabric of his shirt. You never did make it to dinner that night. Instead, you were content to let Neuvillette hold you until you were well past the point of exhaustion. You barely remembered the clock striking three before Neuvillette scooped you up in his arms and carried you to bed. Through the haze of your mental fatigue, you remembered him helping you undress. You had gently protested, but he had merely cooed at you, silencing your weak pleas as he undid the clasps and ribbons of your outfit. He was only satisfied when you were in a shift and little else. You stood before him, waiting for him to do more. You vaguely recalled your expectation for him to put his hands back on you. For him to pull you back in and take advantage of both your tired state and your state of undress; but to your shock, he did not. Instead, Neuvillette pulled back the covers of your bed, gently ushering you under them. Only once you were settled did he touch you again. You faintly recalled his soft lips pressing against your forehead before sleep claimed you. It was the last time you saw him. The next day, the melusines took you away.

Two melusines collected you from Neuvillette’s apartment in the morning. They escorted you across the strait and into the mountains above the Opera Epliclese that afternoon. Had you been in a better mood, you would have enjoyed it. The excursion was the first time you had been allowed outside the confines of Neuvillette’s residence in nearly a year. The fresh air and the exercise should have been a welcome change to the sedentary lifestyle you had been living. Instead, your mind had focused on the night before. On the fact that Neuvillette hadn’t come to bid you adieu as you had left. When questioned, your escorts informed you that he was busy with other matters. There was a major trial set to happen over the course of the next few days. They refused to tell you the details of it, you doubted you would have really cared anyway. The only thing that really mattered was that Neuvillette’s preparation for it outweighed his need to see you off. But you supposed that’s what the night before had been for. He had abandoned his work in favor of spending one last evening with you. Despite your despair, you supposed that was something.

Early in the afternoon, you had arrived at the little cabin you now occupied. It was a far cry from the grandeur of Neuvillette’s home in the Court, but it beat being left in the wilderness to die. The sweeping corridors and vast rooms had been replaced with a house barely large enough for one, let alone three. The words the end echoed continuously through your mind as you took it in. You briefly wondered if he had meant it was the end of you and him. Even with his reassurance that he loved you, it would be fitting that after all this time that even Neuvillette’s patience would run dry. The amiability that you had recently shared didn’t erase the fact that you had still been a nightmare for him prior. Perhaps the wounds you had inflicted had finally festered to the point of being intolerable. Your recent forbearance wasn’t enough to ease the pain they caused him and at long last he had chosen to simplify the arrangement you and he shared. He loved you enough to continue to protect and provide for you, but he would see you no more. In the span of a night, you had been transformed into a number on a balance sheet. Another piece of paper on his desk, that only received his attention when the bill was due. Beyond that, you were something he could set aside and ignore. You could almost understand it. After all, this was what you had fought so hard for. The mission had always been to make Neuvillette tire of you. That’s why you had done nothing but fight him at every turn. It had been your hope that if he realized you weren’t worth the trouble, that he would simply let you go. In retrospect, what a silly notion that had been. Freedom, at least complete freedom, would never be in your grasp again. You learned that when you found a third melusine, Sedene you thought she was called, waiting for you in the house. She informed you that per Neuvillette’s wishes, you were to remain here for the foreseeable future. There had been a spiel about your safety and how you needed to stay close to both the house and your new keepers at all times. That it would be beneficial for you to avoid the shore. She implored that you heed Neuvillette’s wishes this one time. If you didn’t, then there was no guarantee that anyone would be able to help you.

You had found that odd. It joined the near constant playback in your mind as you laid awake on the lumpy mattress at night. He loved you. The end. Stay close or else. Avoid the shore and the water. It hadn’t made sense to you a few days ago. None of it had. Your watchers had tried to assure you everything was fine. Even when you directly questioned them about Neuvillette’s motive for sending you here, they promised you it wasn’t what you were thinking. In their words, the honorable Iudex was doing all he could to keep you safe. When you pressed further, one of them let it slip that the lower areas along the shore, specifically the city and the area around the Opera were not safe. Once the proverbial cat was out of the bag, you were told that Neuvillette had been spending all of his time on a plan to stop a catastrophe that was ready to strike at any moment. Part of that plan included protecting you. Despite his own reservations on the matter, sending you to one of the highest points in Fontaine was one of the only ways Neuvillette could alleviate the constant worry he had for you. Up until he had sent you away, he had held that option as a last resort. His preference had always been and would always be to keep you close. According to your new friends, once the crisis had passed, he would send for you. 

Now, as the world was swallowed whole by the murky depths, you saw the full picture in its full horrifying detail. The End was exactly that. It was the prophecy, the end of Fontaine as a people and as a nation. The insolvable crisis that had drawn Neuvillette’s attention for these last few months was the destruction of all and how to stop it; or at this stage minimize it. As your eyes passed over the rising waters, you were all too aware that there was no stopping this. You could only wonder how much higher the water could truly climb before it finally yielded. It was getting close now. The hands that had held you back, yielded so that you might climb higher. After doing so, your eyes focused back on the horizon. They continued to search for any sign that Neuvillette may still come. You waited and waited and waited. Silently pleading with Neuvillette to appear. Yet all you continued to see were the calamitous skies that covered the land and the waters below. No lights, no signs, no miracles; all that remained were catastrophe and death.

Death. Gods what if he hadn’t made it? What if part of the plan to save Fontaine was that Neuvillette would have to sacrifice himself for the greater good? What if the last time you saw him was truly the last time? What if your current circumstances were his final gift to you? Your felt as if your very soul splintered at the thought. With all he had to worry over, with the weight of the nation resting on his shoulders, the one thing he had been sure to save was you. Not the city or the people or the papers that plagued him or even himself; just you. Your knees gave out as you openly sobbed. Your keepers were quick to help you. They released your hands, rushing under you so they could catch you as you fell. Gently, they lowered you to the ground, urging you to come back to the small house you were all sharing. In their minds, the storm had proven to be too much for you. They worried after how cold you were, how drenched you were. One was concerned over the fever she swore you were developing, while the other mentioned something about your present state being the furthest thing from what Monsieur Neuvillette wanted. The mere mention of him only made you cry harder. Their focus was back on you in an instant, trying their best to calm you. Platitudes of everything will be fine and you’re safe did little to help ease the suffering that was ebbing up from your very soul. How were they to know that your actual burden wasn’t the storm at all, but the fact that thanks to Neuvillette, if the rest of Fontaine was lost, you would survive?

It was some time before your companions could coax you back inside. The realization that the three of you may be the only survivors zapped away any strength you had left. After your emotional distress had drained you to the point of exhaustion, the cold nearly finished you. You knelt there on the frozen ground, the wind freezing what few tears you had left to your face. The cold air cut through you with each blast. Everything from your neck to your toes was stiff. Your body could do little more than shiver as each moment passed. In the end, your keepers had to help you back to both the house and to your bed. They were in a panic once you were safely inside. You could do little more than watch as they frantically scurried about, fretting over the task of getting you warm and dry before there were any worse consequences than shivering. Getting you warm wasn’t too difficult to do. Dry clothes and blankets went a long way to stop your shivering. Your hair was a different matter altogether. The duo end up seating you near the small stove that sat in the corner of the kitchen. It was their hope that the heat would dry your hair faster. The activity, along with the exhaustion were a nice distraction. Your companions' efforts forced you to miss both the cessation of the storm and the flood alike. By the time they had you tucked into bed, the crisis was nearly at an end. A fact that you were woefully unaware of. Without the news that the storm had passed, your mind churned over the idea that both Fontaine and Neuvillette might be gone. You tried to come to grips with those facts, but your tired mind had neither the desire nor the inclination to try. Sleep kept calling to it. Numbing your senses to everything around you, including the sound of heels striking against the stone walk that led to the house. 

Later, you often wondered if it was all a dream. If like your imaginary suitors and your fictional adventures, you had made the situation with Neuvillette up. Your captivity was in fact a reality. There was no denying that the Iudex of Fontaine held you firmly in his grasp. The months spent apart though. Your pseudo freedom while he toiled away. Even the climax of all of Fontaine being in peril due to the realization of the prophecy. The sky, the water, the ebbing cold followed by a scorching heat. Had they all been real or were they little more than delusions conjured by the fever that had taken hold after your exposure to the elements? It was hard for you to say. What was real though, was waking up in the safety of Neuvillette’s home. That prayer was answered. You knew it was his home, because you could hear the pitter patter of melusine feet scuffing against the parquet floors. The sheer number of them indicated that the only place you could be was Neuvillette’s home. Melusines liked to congregate near him. He allowed them to do so wherever they wished, but especially so within the confines of either the Palais Mermonia or his own personal residence. The room though, was not your own. The heavy brocades that lined the walls were unfamiliar to you. The bed with its ornate carvings, gilded ceiling, and velvet drapes that hung from the four corners of the canopy was entirely foreign to your world. It, like the rest of the furniture in this room, possessed an age and a weight that the rest of the furnishings in the house did not. As your own mental fog began to lift, you realized you had never been in this room before. Strangely though, you still felt you knew it. Maybe it was the rich teals and blues of the decor, or maybe it was the lingering scent of the sea breeze that wafted throughout the room. There was something entirely familiar about it that put you at ease. “Ma moitié” Neuvillette. You sucked in a sharp breath, your head weakly turning from side to side as you sought him out using the dim light of the space. Neuvillette was here. He was with you. Celestia above he was with you. The prophecy hadn’t claimed him as you had feared. He, like you, was safe. 

Obligingly, Neuvillette briefly came into your field of view before he disappeared to press kiss after kiss into your hair, cheeks and sternum. “My darling one, you’ve returned to me at long last.” The relief in his soft voice was evident. It was too great to reflect the breaking of a fever or even the passing of an illness. You would have had to have been on death’s door to justify his reaction to you waking up. You couldn’t stop your mind as it briefly wandered back to your dream; to the icy winds and rising waters. Placing you on the side of a mountain while the nation flooded wasn’t exactly an elegant solution. You could, even in your muddled state, imagine the stress that fact had put on him. To find you safe, but far from well, had almost assuredly not helped him in the least. His body shifting distracted you from your thoughts. Though you couldn’t see him do it, you felt Neuvillette as he pulled himself even closer to you. A heavy arm came across your hips, his weight dipping into the mattress so he might press your body into his. The feeling of him, the warmth ebbing off of him was a welcomed thing. All you remembered was being cold. For weeks, maybe even months, all you had felt was the chill of Neuvillette’s absence. He paused above you, long enough to give you a tender smile. Though fuzzy, he was as you remembered him. His appearance was as tidy as it had ever been. There were no signs of fatigue anywhere on his person. He was, much to your own concern, perfect. It made you doubt that the crisis wasn’t a fever dream. Maybe you really had imagined it after all.  “Mon-” You grimaced, your throat exploding in pain from just the attempt of speaking. Your vocal chords refused to respond as a burning sensation shot its way from the top of your throat all the way to the base. It felt as if your throat was being split in two with a hot blade. Gods it was terrible. The sensation was only made worse due to how dry your throat and your mouth both felt. Your tongue felt like sandpaper against your rough lips as it tried to add moisture to them. Neuvillette, seemed unconcerned. You felt him nudge your cheek with his nose, pulling a small whimper from you. “Shhh darling.” He kissed your nose, finally pausing long enough to rest his forehead against yours. “Do not push yourself.” He lifted his face so that he might look into your eyes again. “The fever has been taxing for you.” His other hand came up to rest against the crown of your head. “It has broken now. I have been told you have come through the worst of it.” Another gentle smile spread across his lips. “All you need do now is rest.” You felt his hand come to rest against the top of your head. Faintly, you detected the sensation of his fingers working their way into your hair, looping and stroking the individual strands, before settling on rubbing your scalp. The feeling you got from it was a nice one. It allowed the haze that had held your mind the chance to slowly take hold once again.

The remainder of your reunion with him was a quiet one. There were no parties or streamers. No shouts of joy. Just the occasional interruption of the melusines. In between food being brought and the bedding being changed, Neuvillette persisted in his soft words as he whispered endless promises to you between kisses. Words of adoration, promises of contentment. In your present state none of them really mattered. They were washed away by your own relief. Fontaine had not been lost to the black waters of the prophecy. Neuvillette had not perished. He was as safe as he had ever been. The hands that you had hated so could still be enticed to hold you close. It was just as the melusines had said. They nor he had not abandoned you. You were loved. You were cherished. The peace that came with that knowledge was overwhelming. You could do little more than lay back against the pillows as the stress drained away. You tried to focus on him, on his words, but after everything you were too tired. The softness of his voice, along with his continued rubbing of your scalp with his fingers worked better than any lullaby could. Gradually his words became indiscernible. They blended into a beautiful symphony of sounds that pulled you closer and closer to the sweet oblivion that was sleep. Before you fell, one last promise came from his lips, cutting straight through the fog that had all but enveloped your mind. A solemn vow from Neuvillette to you; on his life, you and he would never be separated like that again. He would be as he wished to be, by your side for all eternity.

To your own contentment, you certainly hoped so.

#yandere genshin x you #yandere!genshin #yandere genshin #yan genshin x reader #yandere genshin impact #yandere neuvillette #neuvillette #genshin neuvillette #genshin impact neuvillette

[guizika]

Disoriented

Gojo Satoru x Male reader

Cw- Male reader, you/yours pronouns, established relationship, pet names (Beautiful, Babe, Sweetheart), a little bit of angst, fluff, maybe it's a bit ooc.

Synopsis - You and Gojo are in a relationship, you fight, argue, disagree but you still love each other.

Word count - 905

This fanfic was inspired by the song "Pras Damas" by the band Oriente.

Gojo Satoru is the strongest jujutsu sorcerer and also your beloved. You've been married for two years, your relationship is good, but like any other, it still has difficulties and challenges.

- You fight, but none of the fights are very serious, sometimes over very important things and sometimes over silly things. Most of the time you don't even really fight. However, the most important thing is that you always find a way to resolve it.

"Gojo Satoru!" Your voice comes out in a harsh tone, making Gojo start thinking about the things he's done - or failed to do - over the last few days. He swallows dryly and walks over to you, a worried expression on his face.

"Did you call me, beautiful?" He enters the room and flashes you a gentle smile, only to be greeted by a look capable of silencing anyone. "What have I done?" Satoru asks, looking at you, trying to figure out if you're too angry.

A sigh leaves your lips and then you cross your arms, your gaze momentarily softening. "I've told you more than ten times about the same thing." You direct your gaze to the kitchen sink, full of thrown cutlery and plates. "If you've made a mess, clean it up."

At this, Gojo immediately frowns and looks at the dishes in the sink. "I didn't do it." Satoru's voice comes out in a defensive tone, making you snort and crack a sarcastic smile.

"No, it was my grandmother." You say, irony evident in your voice. "Why don't you just admit it?" Hearing your words, he softens, realizing that there's no point in fighting about it.

"Sorry, I'll try to do what you said." He says smiling softly, walking over to you and giving you a kiss on the cheek. "Right, I'll take your word for it then." You voice comes out in a playful tone.

- You argue rarely, but when you do it's usually heated, causing you to remain silent for a while after all the fuss. But in the end you always understand each other.

The worst argument you ever had was at the beginning of your relationship. You see, Gojo isn't a jealous guy and he's not insecure about his relationship either. However, he got angry after seeing someone flirting with you non-stop during a Jujutsu School party.

"Why don't you just go and be with him?" He says, entering the house and heading towards your shared room while you follow. "What do you mean?" You say in an indignant tone, wanting an answer.

"You know very well what I'm talking about." He says as he takes off his tie and throws it on the bed. "Is this all about that guy who kept flirting with me?" Gojo lets out a snort and then looks at you with a serious expression. "Really?" You ask once more, only to receive silence in response.

"Say something, Satoru!" Your voice comes out in a frustrated tone by the silence. "What do you want me to say, huh?" he says, his tone almost dry. "He was hitting on you, for God's sake!" You massage your temples, knowing that this discussion shouldn't be taken any further.

"I know that and that's exactly why I wasn't paying attention to him." Gojo cuts you off before you can finish speaking. "But you were talking down to him, is he any better than me?"

Your expression twitches, showing how much what he said offended you. "I wasn't 'talking down', I was being polite." Your voice comes out harsher than expected. "By the way, if I remember correctly, there was a woman hitting on you too, wasn't there, Gojo?" Ouch, that made him fall silent, leaving him speechless.

"Exactly, that's what I imagined." Before you speak again, you take a deep breath to calm yourself down. "Babe, you know I only have eyes for you, I'm your boyfriend and not that guy's boyfriend." Hearing your words, Gojo pulls you into an embrace and burrows his head into your neck.

"I know that, but sometimes I still get insecure, I'm sorry about that." You just nod, knowing that tomorrow morning you'll have a talk about it.

- You often disagree, having different opinions and tastes, but you always find a way to mediate and please both of you.

"I don't like this one, it looks awful." Gojo says, referring to the movie you chose, making you snort. "Okay then, which one do you want?" He lights up after hearing your question and then picks up another movie, making you grimace.

"No way, look at that cover." Satoru puts his hand over his heart in a dramatic gesture after hearing your words. "Then pick one yourself, Sweetheart."

Gojo laughs and his face says it all: he hated the movie you chose. The two of you start showing each other movies, always disagreeing. When Satoru finally gets tired, he proposes a solution. "Let's take two movies, one of my choice and one of yours, so we don't waste time."

"Wow, it's a good thing my husband is so smart." You say jokingly, giving him a kiss on the cheek, receiving an amused snort in return.

- In short, you face difficulties but you still love each other. You don't always share the same opinions, but you find a way to solve problems together. Sometimes you get a bit disoriented when this happens, but together you find a way.

Please don't translate my work and don't repost on other social networks, if there are any grammatical errors I ask you to excuse me!

#ftm reader #male reader insert #male reader #ftm!reader #male!reader #anime x male reader #gojo satoru #jjk x male reader #gojo x male reader #gojo x ftm reader #jjk x ftm reader

[amygdalae]

watched the first ep of the fallout show. its not good but like i had a lot of fun being a hater and talking abt fallout lore n shit with my friend while watching it, so it has that in its favor. my biggest takeaways after the first episode are thus:

shamefully failed to suppress the urge to pog when they namedropped Grognak the barbarian like 15 seconds into the show. whole thing was peppered with references designed to invoke peoples fallout nostalgia. i wont lie it got me a few times

kyle maclachlan babygirl what are you doing here

needs to be so so much grimier

they wanted me to cream my jeans at the power armor sooo bad but they made it look kind of stupid. (and also not grimy enough). im so tired of the brotherhood of steel

i like the ghoul guy, I can live with him being too conventionally attractive i guess, but his voice is just straight up a normal guy's voice and that made me the angriest. he should at least sound like hes gargling marbles

the girl character's 'fiance' looked like if Jerma was a skarsgard brother

soundtrack was good (mostly just because it was just songs that were in the games already, but still). instrumental scoring was actually not too bad imo, seemed fitting enough

very very predictable plot beats

made me just wanna go play a fallout game tbh

I'm 100% going to keep watching it because im a disgusting bethesda shill who loves to shovel hot garbage into my mouth like a filthy hog (and because my friend's mom has an amazon subscription)

i am genuinely curious to see where it goes. goes without saying i resent the irony of a fallout series being made by amazon and dont think its something that needs to exist, but reviewing it as a show i think it has some potential to get interesting. gonna see how i feel after watching more

#fallout show spoilers #i mean for the first episode but still idk

[bonefall]

May i ask why do you think that Brambleclaw wasn't a good father? not saying i disagree if that is what you think, but why do you? just wondering because i like what you say

Again I hope to have time sometime soon to make a big thing like I did with Breeze, but what gets me about Bramble is that incredibly self-concerned. Like, regularly unable to see past his own feelings to the point where he can't consider his effect on other people.

And Po3 in particular is ALSO trying to frame him like the perfect, most amazing dad in the world. It's for the dramatic irony of the reveal, and to make it EXTRA sad that he's going to abandon his children when he finds out they're adopted... but in the process, they just ignore anything crummy he does. Like he can Do No Wrong.

Particular instances I plan to get into;

When he's angry or disappointed, he's NASTY. He isn't this "super supportive papa" that the Three keep saying he is; he's most supportive when they're making him proud.

He fails to notice that Lionpaw's behavior is getting increasingly violent as a result of his mentor physically abusing him. Is that "Great Dad" material? To not notice your son is struggling?

We eventually learn that Ashfur approached him after one of these savage beatings to butter up to Brambleclaw, insisting that this sort of physical abuse is neccesary because it will give him a strong son.

Stress that again; Ashfur appealed to Brambleclaw's ego so he could keep beating his teenage child. In what world is that "Great Dad" material??

When Hollypaw then tries to tell her dad about how uncomfortable seeing her brother being savaged made her, Bramble tells her... ohh she's So smart, and So so responsible, and he relies on her to keep her brothers in line, and what Ashfur is doing is neccesary.

In any other book series, this would have been a MASSIVE condemnation of Brambleclaw. To be manipulated into allowing his son to get beat, and then turning around to tell his daughter he trusts her to understand it because she's so mature.

But because the Erins like Bramble so very much, it's not acknowledged. Then Ashfur tries to murder these kids later.

And like... again, they want him to be seen as so wonderful and amazing so that it's extra painful when he disowns these kids, but AGAIN, Brambleclaw is supposed to be this incredibly loving, unconditionally loyal, amazingly responsible father...

So how exactly is THAT consistent with abandoning his kids during the most upsetting time of their lives?

Does a wonderful father get consumed by his own pain and humiliation and cut off his kids, one of whom is in the middle of a breakdown? Does he take out his divorce on the children? Is being a "wonderful father" seeing the son you let get abused looking at you, DESPERATELY missing you as his dad, and just turning away?

Or, maybe, being a parent is about being mature. Putting aside your own personal anger or pain or ego to be there for your kids. Something like that???

And yet, he continues to act like that for an entire year. Not improving or self-reflecting at ALL the entire time. When it's miraculously revealed that Hollyleaf isn't DEAD, he's STILL wallowing. The kid he raised came back from the dead but FUCK that, who cares, "what about MY feelings?? Why is no one thinking about whats really important. Meeee."

(Mind you, he was willing to help this same person get away with murder in the last arc. But back then, she was his daughter. Now he doesn't care.)

Eventually SQUIRRELFLIGHT has to tell him that he shouldn't throw away his entire family because he's mad at her. Someone ELSE had to shout it down his thick skull that his bitterness is consuming him and he's ruining his life. Even after a year of punishment, she holds his hand like a big baby and guides him away from his OWN destructive behaviors.

But this isn't about Squilf. This is about Brambleclaw.

He enabled his son's child abuse. The abuser went on to attempt murder of his victim. He IMMEDIATELY turned on the kids he raised when he found out they were secretly adopted, because he was angry at his ex-wife. He only changed because the EX-WIFE told him to cut it out.

That's why I think he's not a great dad. I think talk of his Greatly Dadness are narration wank, and when you look closer, you see a FASCINATINGLY flawed character that the Erins hold back out of WEIRD writer favoritism.

#Warrior cats analysis #And again this is FASCINATING #I want to dissect him #He is my eternal rival. My white whale #My detested comrade with whom I am dying in the trenches #I wake up from cryosleep 100000 years in the future and the computer simulation picks the one man i hate the most in the world #Because through my seething fixation. He is somehow the only one who can keep me sane #As we float through the cold and uncaring vacuum of space.

[ieatstarsforaliving]

Denial (1)

Summary: Hazel and (Y/N) are the tributes from District 12 for the 74th Hunger Games. Hazel doesn't want to see (Y/N) die. And (Y/N) just wants to live.

Pairing: Tribute!Hazel Callahan x Tribute!Reader

Warnings: Mature language, use of (Y/N), (Y/N) is kind of a bitch but aren't we all when facing death, I swear she gets better, mentions of death and suicide, lots of mentions of violence with pretty graphic descriptions but it’s just depressive hunger game shit

Word Count: 2614

Note: I KNOW I said I’d write part 3 of Spiderwoman!Hazel Callahan BUT I suddenly craved angst and had to write this. I had to. Just let me post this today and I’ll give you Spiderwoman soon– I SWEAR. Also this is lowkey bad cause I have not written angst in a while. Idk. It's not gut-wrenching enough. I'll make it work somehow.  - Bia <3

No.

Not you. 

Anyone but you.

Hazel knows what the Hunger Games look like. 

Violent. Callous. Sadistic. 

None of those words resemble you. 

Hazel watches as you walk towards the stage, each step weaker than the other. She thinks you’ll fall over, but you manage to stand beside the extravagantly dressed escort, who claps cheerily in your honor with a guiltless smile. As he chatters about his appreciation for the games, you are expressionless. Your fists are clenched, your eyes fixed on the crowd, blankly staring at the faces of the people who know you. 

Hazel has never seen you so scared. 

“Well, then, shake hands!” The escort chirps, pushing Hazel towards you. 

There’s a pause before Hazel takes your hand, giving it a tight squeeze.  

Please, please look at me, she thinks. It’s going to be okay– 

-But when you do look at her, it's automatic. Empty. Involuntary, as if meaningless to share eyes with a future corpse. Hazel recognizes the shift of the dynamic between the two of you. She is no longer your neighbor, your classmate— no longer the girl you once kissed in the grounds of the forest.

-She is your rival. 

Her eyes flick away from you. It feels like you can read what’s in her head, both the shock and the anguish. Hazel is not ready to deal with either. 

So she drops your hand and looks away, staring at the camera zooming in on her face. 

But in the second of eye contact, Hazel does notice this; 

Grief has already struck your eyes. 

The train ride is silent. The District 12’s assigned escort, who introduces himself as Meyers, continuously attempts to make conversation with either one of you, talking about what a privilege it is to be traveling to the Capitol. 

You choose to be speechless, sitting on the plump green velvet chair with your legs pulled close to your chest. Hazel sits opposite to you, persistently peering while contemplating on how to start up a conversation— or maybe, not to start one at all.

You’ve been subtly ignoring her gaze, trying not to look deliberate in your avoidance. Staring at the passing trees out the window, you’re forced to picture the forest back at home— A hug of browns, shelter of extended limbs, sunlight filtered through the overlapping leaves above.  

Along with the images of forest, you’re forced to remember. 

It was a particularly cold morning when Hazel first found you in the heart of the woods, the chilling air hanging heavy with the scent of pine and coal. In your hands was a bleeding bird, fragile body betrayed by your well-aimed rock. 

It turned out to be a mockingjay, and as the crimson stain spread across its black and white feathers, the satisfaction of your hunt waned. Your hunger persisted, but found yourself frozen. The irony of the prey was a slap in your face. A mockingjay– Why did it have to be a mockingjay? The failed muttation, the insult to the dystopia— the only thing in the world that seemed to be resisting the Capitol— and here you were, unwittingly taking its life. 

Hazel approached you, and you flinched– but you didn’t run. You couldn’t, not when her eyes had such softness within them, as if forgiving your savage hand in place of the bird. Without uttering a word, she knelt beside you on the forest floor. 

Her fingers dug through the dirt, prodding into her nails until a hole was made. Her hands were soiled but warm as she took the mockingjay from your hands, placing it in the makeshift resting place amidst the roots of a towering tree. You watched as she covered the bird with earth. She then took your hand and guided you back to the fence, back to the meadow, to the bakery, where she bought a small piece of bread in exchange for the shabby jewelry off her neck. You learned later the necklace was a gift from her absent father. 

That was the Hazel you became used to. She was strong. Stronger than anyone you ever grew to know– as if to acknowledge that she could one day be standing in the arena. Yet you found her kindness to be her weakness. She never harmed anyone. Anything. She was a refuge from the harsh reality of the televised Hunger Games. And you kept coming back to her, mistaking the comfort for a shield against the brutality of the world. As if being close with her could protect you from any fucking thing. Perhaps that had prompted you to kiss her on that day, the day before the reaping, and all you could think about was how she didn’t push you away.

You snap out of your memories, the weight of the past and the jarring truth of the present boring down on you. You can’t handle either of those. You can’t handle looking at her. You can’t handle being in the same room as her. But the intensity of her gaze has burned into the side of your head, and you feel demanded to meet her eyes once more. 

When you finally look at Hazel, her eyes widen. 

She starts to open her mouth, on a pathway to a ramble, but the compartment door swings open, revealing a rough man with scruffy braids holding an explicit magazine. 

Hazel recognizes him– the only winner left alive from the Hunger Games from District 12. He’s notably muscular, with tattoos that circulate his stocky arms along with a rugged beard to match his image. 

He is Hunger Games winner material, Hazel thinks, and feels considerably feeble in comparison. 

The man looks around the room.   

“Man, I got stuck with two girls this time?” 

Hazel starts, “G–” 

“-Mr. G to you. I may look like this, but I’m still your mentor.” 

You stare at the man as he disappointingly analyzes his two mentees. He decides you’re not promising enough, not giving more than two seconds to consider you two before plopping on the green velvet seat and flipping through his magazine featuring a barely-clothed capitol woman. 

“You’re supposed to give us advice,” Hazel mutters. 

He scoffs in response, “I’ll give you advice; don’t die too quickly.” 

“So you think we have a chance?” 

“Hell no,” Mr. G laughs. “Look at you two.” 

You and Hazel stare at him. He notices the angry silence. 

“Alright. I’ll help y’all.” He shrugs, not looking up from the magazine. “When you arrive, you’re going to be grabbed by the most annoying sons-of-bitches who're gonna get y’all cleaned up and pretty to parade around the Capitol. It’s gonna suck. But you deal with it. No complaining. No resisting. You deal with it. Then you get in the arena, let them throw you around for a bit, and then find something visibly mild to kill yourselves with.” 

Hazel stiffens at the line. 

“What is wrong with you?” You shout, your voice laced with anger. “My life is on the line.” 

Mr. G glances at you with a raised eyebrow, indifferent. “Welcome to the Hunger Games, darlin’. You think having a different mindset is gonna keep you alive?”

“You’re supposed to be our mentor,” Hazel says, her voice trembling. “You’re supposed to help us survive.” 

“Survive? You kids from District 12 don’t survive. You endure. You endure and you die. There’s a difference.” He emphasizes on the words ‘die’ and Hazel wants to throw up. “It’s just like the year before this and the year before that.”

“So you’re just giving up?” You push yourself to your feet and step towards him. There’s resentment in your words, clawing at the lifeline that is supposed to be your mentor. “You’re pathetic.”

Mr. G gets up from his seat, looming over your frame. Unwavering, you glare at him. He lets out a chuckle, a brief moment of consideration flickering across his features. Then he pulls back his fist. 

In an instant, Hazel rushes in front of you, her body bracing for impact. His fist swings towards you, but it doesn’t land on your face. Instead, it meets Hazel’s, sending her backwards to the floor. The collision makes Mr. G stumble back a step, surprise evident in his eyes.

Hazel groans, rubbing her cheekbone but gets up again, standing in front of you with a defensive stance.

“Ah, I understand now.” Mr. G gawks at Hazel, amused. “The fighter and her protector.” 

Then he starts laughing, slowly staggering away from the two of you, walking out of the compartment with his dirty magazine still in his hand. Meyers quickly trails behind him, muttering something about tributes being barbarians and forcefully shuts the door with a resounding bang. 

Hazel turns to you, hoping her face isn't red. “Are you okay?” 

“Don’t.” 

Hazel blinks, taken aback. You’ve pulled away from her, creating a perceptible distance, your face flushed in an unknown emotion. 

“I–”

“-Don’t do that.” 

Hazel recognizes the barrier you’re attempting to draw between the two of you. She refuses to accept it and steps closer. 

“Don’t,” you insist. “Don’t come closer. Don’t look at me. Don’t talk to me. We’re nothing.” 

“We’re friends,” Hazel protests.

“No,” you correct her, your voice cracking. “We stopped being friends when we were picked to kill each other. If we hadn’t—” 

If we hadn’t kissed, killing you would be easier. 

You stop. 

Hazel shakes her head, her expression in disbelief. “You’re the one who kissed me.”

She steps closer. You retreat. 

“Hazel, stop, please–”

She watches as your body begins to shake. A whimper escapes your lips, which is quickly covered by your hand. Then you’re sobbing uncontrollably, covering your reddened face as a means to hide yourself, but the tears manage to escape from the gaps between your fingers, soaking the condemned dress that you only wear on reaping days. 

“I- I don’t–” 

Hazel steps closer. “I know.” 

“I don’t want to die,” You croak. “I want don't want to die. I don’t want to kill. I don’t–” 

-I don’t want to kill you. 

The unsaid words ring around the room as Hazel pulls you into her arms. You don’t hesitate to hide your face into her neck, crying earnestly, body burning and painful, teeth clenched as the tears drip off your jaw and you refuse to let your lip quiver like a child. Hazel holds you tighter and presses her hand against the back of your head.

Hazel wants to say something. She opens her mouth.

Then she starts to cry.

As much as she hates Mr. G, he is right about the clean-up process before officially entering the capitol; it sucks. 

After arrival, the two of you were separated to different rooms with different stylists. Hazel’s stylist has been going about Hazel for two hours, scrubbing down her body with soaps of intense fragrance, trimming the nails into a smooth oval shape, rubbing makeup over her fresh bruise, painting on her eyelids, and primarily, getting rid of her body hair. She lays on the cold metal bed, barely clothed, as the hairs on her arms, underarms, eyebrows, nose– even places that shouldn’t matter being robbed of its hair. Hazel ignores the soreness of fabric being stripped from her leg, tearing out the hairs beneath it. 

Instead, Hazel thinks about killing. 

She thinks about the physicality of it. The impact of the blow, the act of stabbing, the struggle of choking someone. She assumes there would be weapons in the arena, there always is. But even back at home, she’s never crossed the line of killing even the smallest of creatures, not even when she was desperately hungry. But laying on the cold metal bed of the stylist’s office, she almost regrets the lack of practice. The visceral brutality, the raw and primal surge that accompanies violence— she’s unsure of it all. 

Then she thinks about you. 

She pictures a hand wrapped around your neck, slitting the flesh, warm liquid seeping through the fingernails— and the victim writhing, clawing, screaming— then finally falling limp. 

Hazel pales at the image. At the same time, she feels a particular jerk at her leg once again, and the stylist squeals the words, “Perfection! You’re beautiful!” 

She is ushered to sit up as the stylist grabs a cart filled with combs, bottles, and other products that Hazel doesn’t recognize. A mirror is passed, and Hazel blinks harshly at her reflection. She can see that she looks so… Capitol. Everything about her is enhanced; from hermetically coiffed eyebrows to her skin, perfectly shaped and painted, devoid of blemishes. The bruise from her mentor is gone, too. There's light bits of glitter on above her eyes, amplifying her blue eyes while giving her a much softened look. 

She looks like a tribute. 

“I really do wish you hadn’t cut your hair like this,” the stylist whines as she ruffles Hazel’s messy head with a sigh. A hairstyle she fearlessly trimmed with a pocket knife, now being sprayed by a sour, citrus themed liquid. “You are such a pretty girl. Perhaps we should glue a wig to your head.” 

“Don’t.” 

Hazel turns towards the voice. 

It’s you. You’re peering through the doorway, your entire form stripped and peeled away just as she is. Hazel does a visible double-take when she sees you, swallowing hard while staring at your half-naked body. She gazes at you, taking in the transformation that the Capitol has imposed on your appearance. 

If she thought you were beautiful before, she thinks you’re breathtaking now. 

“I like her hair,” You murmur, walking towards the bed. Hazel instinctively reaches up to touch her trimmed mullet, as if to confirm that it’s still there. 

“I suppose I can work with a tomboy image. Oh, I see a vision! I’ll be back,” The stylist sings to herself, running out of the room with a sudden enthusiasm.  

Hazel is still staring at you.

You shrug. “How do I look?” 

Like a lamb to slaughter.

“You… look different,” She says. “I don’t mean it’s bad. It’s good. But it’s also…” 

“I know,” you sigh, sitting beside Hazel’s bed. “A true depiction of Capitol beauty.”

“It could be worse,” Hazel starts. “We could be naked and covered in soot for the opening ceremony.” 

You laugh, knowing that the only thing District 12 is known for are coals. And there’s not many costumes you can be inspired by coals. Hazel smiles at your laughter, feeling instantly better. It’s a sound she hasn’t heard since the forest, as if a piece of home has been brought back to life. Although the room is cold and metallic, there’s warmth in between the two of you. 

Her gaze lingers on your transformed appearance. With the grime and dirt from the District rubbed off, you seem so fragile, so innocent, so out of place in the cruelty of the Capitol. None of you belong in that arena. And all of a sudden anger rises in Hazel. She wants the Capitol to burn. She wants the Capitol to burn for what it does to innocent lives like yours. 

Your laughter eases and you’re left staring back at Hazel. The forest and the Capitol are vastly different places. Even the silence is different. Back there, it was a pleasure to be silent. Here, silence is almost sickening. Still, your warmth persists.

“I’m serious about winning," You say.  

Hazel holds your gaze. 

“I know.” 

She offers her hand. You take it. And for a long time, neither of you speak. You just breathe and cling to each other, lost in a moment that's become heavier with your words.

There is a brief pause before the full effect of everything comes barreling towards Hazel. She ignores it.

Instead, Hazel thinks about dying.

Next Chapter: Anger

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