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starkey · 18 days

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alternative potion that gives you the teleportation ability your regrettably fernweh-prone person deserves

Honestly a little door that took me to your back garden would suffice :’)

#I should be able to hang around in your back garden on a whim of a summers evening!!!#It is a source of great distress to me that I cannot #Plus a secret door to Europe would solve many of my post-brexit woes

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yousaytomato · 2 years

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The thing with What We Do In The Shadows is that it's actively unpredictable.

We ended season 3 with; Guillermo and Nadja being shipped off to England, Laszlo set to look after baby Colin Robinson, and Nandor with plans to travel the world - left alone after that interaction with Guillermo.

And it was set up like atleast some of the next season's plot would revolve around this - everyone being in distant parts of the world, separated from each other for the first time in a long time.

But, everything was resolved within 5 minutes of season 4. Sure, some plot points continued through - Nadja wants to own a club, Guillermo has a boyfriend, the house is in disrepair.

But nothing actually started happening until they were together again.

The end of S4, Guillermo aside, is the opposite of this. Everything has seemingly gone back to "normal" - back to how it was, everything we witnessed was supposedly for naught.

And I know that some people are disappointed by this, and by the message "vampire's don't change."

But, the show is actively unpredictable - the end of S3 gave fans a lot to theorise about, with very little panning out.

The end of S4 sets itself up as a reset for the vampires - everything is the same as it was, we can't change - we're vampires!

This is the reverse of the end of S3, which was all about new decisions and pushing boundaries, traveling to new places and taking on new roles. But it doesn't matter! Because that didn't go anywhere anyway!

The end of S4, and the season as a whole, is just as likely to lead to character development / plot points, as the the big, sweeping ending of S3 was. Which is to say, maybe it won't go anywhere. But maybe it will 🤷‍♂️ genuinely, with this show, who's to say.

#i lost my train of thought somewhere in this #it's unpredictable and it's a comedy and not designed for big theories #is i guess my overall point #which is not to say you shouldn't make them!! it's fun and interesting and when the show is clever it's very rewarding!#but i just think that wwdits does this less than maybe a typical tumblr-fandom show #and not only incidentally - like it actively rebukes the ability to create theories like this #especially in regards to character. those binches change episode to episode #based on a whim #which is fine. but i think acknowledging the limits of a series is important to being able to talk about it constructively #wwdits #what we do in the shadows #what we do in the shadows spoilers #wwdits spoilers #wwdits s4 #woes of emily #this has been rattling around my brain for a couple of days

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suntails · 9 months

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Hi idk if this is somehow weird to share but I think its kind of funny! I've never properly followed you before now, at least not on Tumblr, but I always love seeing you art, and whenever I see your account your interests always seem to align with mine! I found you through bnha art, then when I checked back during my danganronpa brainrot you were doing ndrv3 art, and now I just got into twst and found you in the tag! All of your art is so lovely to see and I always feel lucky when I come to see what new stuff you're making and it happens to be for something I love too!

AAAAA thats insane omg,,, the coincidences of it all aligning <3 <3 ive gotten very lucky and had a few ppl from prev fandoms wind up meeting again in future ones (examples of rae zipsunz and i both being into bmc, then bnha, then drifting, then DR...sal humbuns and i into HQ then drifting and reconnecting over TWST <3) it's so FUN to wind up in the same place as another despite ur individual paths/timing to get there!!! glad to see u share Good Taste in media, here's to hoping future fandoms treat us well as well! :D

#ask #slowpokecurry #all of these i got into on a whim so maybe our whims are aligned GHVFBJDK #i got into bnha after seeing a few friends do ship bingos on their stories #i got into DR in 2020 when a gg thumbnail came up and i was like 'oh HS friends liked that' and i found another playthru to watch #and twst was bc me and my friend were talking abt manufacturing woes and their store has alot of twst merch GVFHJDK #we shall see if we continue to like the same shit moving forward!! sending u my best <3

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wraith-of-christmas-future · 1 year

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“This is one of those moments where I tell you something isn’t a good idea and you ignore me, isn’t it?“ The teen lifted her eyebrow, head canting slightly as her arms folded against her chest. Her body rested against the Wraith's driver side door, her way of keeping him from escaping this conversation. She knew that he was going to see Vic McQueen again and she hated that he was. McQueen had once more stolen her father's attentions from where they should be: on her and the reconstruction of Christmasland. She honestly didn't think that she could loathe that woman even more than she originally had, but apparently her little black heart was capable of even more than she'd assumed.

There had been a spring in his step that quickly faltered upon her intrusive reprimand collating under the inquisitiveness. It collectively drew him to a complete stale when hues met her, thwarting the amble stride once he had registered her blockade against the driver side panel. An antipathy which brew a smirk to bloom, taught and expressively aligned with disappointment.

" Ignore ? " A partial cant in his gaze, curiously rebuked. " An interesting choice of words. I could never ignore you, Sugar plum. Your demur is simply unwarranted -- all is well , I assure you. " Despite the confidence composing each word an habitual strain manifested within it's undertow. Tearing fragments from the far fetched truth which mitigated cohesion. His frown burrowed though, sloping into a deeper dilute as he took his steps moderately for his daughter. " Victoria McQueen is but a shadow of her former self. Quite the harmless little mouse, you see. Without her, child.. I would not be here. "

A cold reminder to her as it had been to himself. Issued into this false premise of being in full control over this woman in question. That his infatuation over her had not been as strangling, though worse , the denial was a capable chain that Charles Talent Manx often noosed himself with. A digit took adrift below her chin, curled gingerly into yielding her gaze to him whilst it had invoked the touch he needed from her, starving element of reassurance sought from their connection.

" You're a big girl now, you can fathom how important her presence is. The children need her. " He needs her. @daughterchristmas

#Verse : Our Whims and Woes #Sᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ Rᴇsᴜʀʀᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ● Rυιɳʂ σϝ Cԋɾιʂƚɱαʂʅαɳԃ

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unknownorigins-uo · 5 months

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wow you got me. at least you managed to comprehend that

#now ill never know what that post means #woe to me ground to dust by the whims of fate

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catcr4ft · 1 year

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Me being the only person creating content about my ocs can be something so frustrating yet soothing

#there’s no interpreting him wrong because he changes by my whims baby #but also he changes by my whims baby (woe for i have many whims)#the cr4ft

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burnt-tree · 1 year

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i let my hair dry wrong and now it refuses to look decent in its normal parting so i guess it’s gonna be a wonky parting week until i wash my hair again

#guac #it doesnt look Bad but its just not the way it usually is and this thought is disrupting my rhythm #i wasnt feeling brave enough to change my hair on a whim but it just kinda happened so i need to live with it #the woes of autism

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mochidolls · 12 days

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n : the colder seasons make me disgustingly soft so here we are :)

click for palestine / please read (important!!) / how you can help palestine

your girlfriend abby knew you inside and out, down to the tiniest detail. she knew your coffee order like the back of her hand, your favorite foods, the ones you weren't too keen on, and even the ones that left you feeling just 'meh.' she knew which clothes made you feel like yourself and which ones made you squirm.

she was well-versed in your allergies, how to ease your period woes, and how to nurse you back to health when illness had you bedridden. in short, she knew you like the lyrics to her favorite song, especially when it came to comforting you when you were upset.

on one particular quiet thursday evening, you found yourself in a bit of a funk. it wasn't entirely your fault; deadlines were looming, assignments were piling up, and your group for a certain project seemed about as motivated as a sloth on a sunday afternoon.

add to that the part-time babysitting gig you'd taken on a whim (thanks to a bout of baby fever), which now felt like more trouble than it was worth. life felt like a swirling storm of stress, and abby's failure to recognize your frazzled state earlier that morning, dismissing it as 'overdramatic,' only added to your emotional exhaustion. so, when you returned home to find her somewhat dismissive, even her peace offering of your favorite meal and the suggestion of snuggling up to watch old seasons of love island fell short. it was time for some serious groveling.

"cold?" abby inquired, noticing your arms wrapped around yourself, the blanket now stubbornly tucked on her side of the couch.

“i'm okay," you mumbled in response.

"you're freezing, come here," abby insisted, slipping her arm around you in an attempt to draw you closer. "i said i'm fine," you huffed, scooting away, but abby knew better.

"aabe," abby called, receiving no response.

"baby."

"babeee, my love, my future wife, the mother of our future kids," she tried, and finally, a tiny crack in your stoic facade.

"i love you so much, you know that?" abby began peppering you with kisses, determined to break through your grumpy front.

"stop." you protested weakly, trying to maintain your grumpy exterior, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you.

"prettiest girl in the world, my girl," abby persisted, planting one final kiss on the tip of your nose, melting away any remaining sulkiness and revealing the smile she adored.

"oh, was that a smile?" abby teased, grinning ear to ear.

"i did not smile," you mumbled, attempting to reclaim your grumpiness.

"pretty sure i saw one."

"well, i didn't."

"you sure?" abby teased, before she launched herself at you, tickling you mercilessly, and soon the room was filled with your laughter, a sound that melted abby's heart.

"oh my god, stop!" you pleaded between giggles, swatting at her hands.

"magic word, babe," abby hummed, continuing her assault until you were both collapsed on the couch, giggling uncontrollably.

"please, please stop!" you begged, breathless.

"better," abby replied, finally relenting and placing a few loving kisses on your lips until you calmed down, the both of you grinning like kids.

"am i forgiven?" abby asked, pulling away slightly.

"maybe," you pretended to consider with a shrug, though the smile on your face gives you away.

"mhm," was all abby hummed before lifting you up with a slight yelp from you, her hands under your butt, giving them a pat as your legs wrap around her waist and your arms find their place around her neck. a gentle, affectionate kiss to seal the moment.

"let me make it up to you then?"

#ermmmm #📩#abby tlou #abby anderson #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson x female reader #abby anderson x you #abby anderson fluff #abby fluff #abby the last of us

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whimsyprinx · 1 year

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mooadboard for when all you feel is despair but it’s cats so it’s not as concerning <\3

#whimsy whispers #crystalcore.png #whims woes

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ddarker-dreams · 5 months

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play wrestling — scaramouche.

Occasionally, there are instances in one’s life where regret embeds itself too deep to safely remove.

Standing here, your back against the literal and proverbial wall, you’re reacquainted with this humbling reality. A reminder of your mortality. What a delicate substance it is, easily extinguishable like a candle to some.

Violet eyes piercing enough to sever metal regard you, unamused and faintly malicious. You can’t say you didn’t bring this upon yourself. He pins your wrists above you with one hand. His grip is tight yet falls short of being painful. As much as you want to look away, he won’t permit it, so you maintain unflinching eye contact to prevent ruffling him further.

“Well?” There’s a sardonic lilt to his voice that makes you shiver. “I’m waiting.”

You part and close your lips in the same breath. Asking him for clarification won’t do you much good, he delights in watching you piece together his dubious intentions. The satisfaction he derives from it is a bit worrisome. Nonetheless, he offers you one saving grace he’d extend to no one else — patience.

What led up to this unfortunate development? Ah, yes, you saw fit to poke a slumbering beast with a stick. Scaramouche had been too preoccupied to entertain your whims. So, you being the genius that you are, offhandedly remarked that if he didn’t want to wrestle around with you, Tartaglia would certainly be up for it.

No sooner had his junior Harbinger’s name left your lips did you find yourself pinned against a wall.

He sighs, long and drawn out, as if you’re the source of all his woes.

“You’re the one who proposed this insipid game, the least you can do is see it through.”

One of the best boons from being in Scaramouche’s orbit is how many insults he adds to your vocabulary. His lexicon is vast and impressive.

Now that you understand what he’s getting at, you push back against your restraints, gauging how effective this method would be. He doesn’t cede any ground. His lithe body belies the immense strength he can wield. He restricts your writhing without overexerting himself in the slightest. Realizing a battle of physical prowess won’t end in your favor, you employ a new tactic.

The corners of your eyes crinkle as you smile at him softly.

“Kuni,” you speak the nickname he weakly claims to abhor, “Won’t you go easy on me?”

The tips of the Harbinger’s ears turn red. He scoffs, turning his head to hide how effortlessly you fluster him. “Of course not. If I always indulged you, you’d become more insufferable than you already are.”

“That’s rude.”

“The truth often is.”

While he’s preoccupied with your exchange, you twist your body, placing your best on the element of surprise. He’d need to quickly readjust the angle at which he’s holding your wrist to stop you. For half a second, you think you have him beat, but he leans in, using his torso to block your escape. A wicked grin spreads on his face at your little underhanded tactic.

You swallow thickly.

“Awe, don’t look so defeated! The effort was there,” he snickers. “Maybe next time?”

“Don’t you have things to do? It’s not like you can hold me here all day, right?”

He stares at you blankly.

“... Right?” You repeat, chuckling weakly.

“Hm, I don’t know. I’m starting to see the appeal to this game of yours. Let’s play a while longer.”

#he really would stay in this position for hours if given the opportunity #scaramouche x reader #genshin impact x reader #my stuff #scaramouche brainrot

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pedgito · 4 months

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MILLER'S GIRL ✎ SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter One: Teacher’s Pet

Chapter Summary: First day woes and a difficult semester ahead, you find solace in your caring, attentive creative writing professor who shows you just a little more attention than everyone else, or so you think. [5k]

[student/teacher relationship, age gap, no outbreak, power dynamic]

Chapter Warnings: fem!reader, professor!joel miller (his teacher persona is v different from outside of the classroom, so if he seems slightly ooc....close your eyes), dom!joel, sub!reader, reader is a little obsessed with joel (and delusional), mentions of infidelity (not by joel), sarah doesn't exist here, background tess x joel, inappropriate relationships/actions, talks of literature and lots of random writing topics, dream smut, gratuitous descriptions of mr. miller's body and personality.

note: thanks to @planet-marz1 for the last minute beta.

— AO3 | PLAYLIST | PINTEREST

↝ other fics | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic rec

There’s a deafening silence that surrounds you when you step into the lecture room, not nearly as big as your other main course classes, it’s intimate. Close. If you kicked a foot out from the chair you were sitting in you could touch the professor’s desk.

Part of you wonders if you were the only person taking this class, sitting for a few minutes alone, not another person in sight—until one files in, then another, until there’s about ten of you seated sparsely in the small space. It’s mostly bare aside from the few books shoved away on a nearby shelf, antiquey books that, no doubt, had a thick layer of dust.

The problem with the class was that you weren’t sure if it was ever going to be a real thing—applying you had the expectation of who your teacher would be, what you could expect from the coursework, and just how manageable it would be amongst the rest of your classes. But, there was little known now.

All you did know was that they had to find a replacement quick, which they did, and you were sure that a sign of their lacking punctuality was a great start, tucking your chin over the bag placed on your desk as you waited in silence amongst simmered voices, feeling starchly out of place.

You didn’t know this place—it was new, Austin. You moved clear across the country on a whim, wanting a new start in a place you’ve never seen before. You’d plucked a community college out of the bunch, not worried with the semantics of applying to some big, ivy league school. You wanted something manageable, something attainable. This seemed like the easiest option, unsuspecting and unknown, you could slink by and go about your life peacefully.

That is what you wanted, after all.

Until you meet Mr. Miller.

Joel could’ve pursued music, or carpentry, or about a billion other things he was skilled at—yet somehow, teaching seemed to be the easiest option. It gave him the familial feeling of caring and guiding that he did enjoy, molding young minds and helping them bloom. He worked at a local high school in Austin for years—fifteen good, long years.

But, he too needed a change. His life was slowly crumbling in on himself.

He sees the job opening on the last weekend of summer, still teetering with the option of returning to his teaching job at the high school—it isn’t as manageable as it used to be, finding that in his older age that dealing with the behavior and arguments with ill-managed kids was more of a hassle than it needed to be for the pay he was receiving.

So, fuck it. He applies.

He gets a call the following Monday and he’s officially added to the staff by the end of the week—and of course, he’s never stepped foot on the campus until his first day. So, he’s lost. Joel realizes how unprofessional it looks, scrambling with his bag as he throws it over his shoulder and haphazardly adjusts his tie, hoping that his hair wasn’t too askew and wild, despite the wind flying through his hair in the chilly bite of the autumn weather.

Things couldn’t have been off to a better start.

There’s the slightest trickling of a thought that you should leave, give up that this class might be an ultimate failure but then he’s walking through the door. You knew his name, but that was as far as your reach extended. Mr. Miller. J. Miller, to be specific.

James. Justin. Jonathan. It was all a mystery to you.

You find that his appearance is less than prepared, mostly disheveled and he seems breathless as he offers a subtle nod of awkward acknowledgement as he slings his bag onto the desk. Thankfully, he seems to understand that there was a tinge of urgency with him being late and he quickly reaches into his bag and pulls out a stack of papers.

Class syllabuses. He hands them off silently to the person on the farthest side of the room and hoping they would get the idea, pass them off until they reach the final person. It’s crisp, stark white paper covered in a boring black-inked text. Nothing seemed out of the norm—different methods of writing you would try over the course of the semester and specific assignments that would pop-up throughout. You enjoyed the predictability of it. Though, there is a significant surprise when your professor begins to speak, pulling your attention to the front of the room.

He’s gathered himself rather quickly, assuming he’s had his fair share of time in the field.

He writes his name out in clear, dignified letters on the board.

Mr. Miller, the screech of a solid drag as he underlines his name.

“I know I’m not who you all were suspecting.” He begins, placing the chalk down, hand wrapping around a balled fist as he cracked his knuckles, walking slowly until he can lean against the edge of his desk, soles of his shoes squeaking against the floor.

“And I’ll admit, I’m new to this,” He waves vaguely around the room, “I’m used to public school and the shittiness that comes with that—so I hope that if I can take this seriously, you all can extend that gesture too.”

You notice how comfortable he seems in group settings, relaxing his broad shoulders as he crosses his arm, glancing around the room casually, never lingering for too long.

“I won’t pester you too much today, given I already wasted some of your time,” Someone snickers softly toward the back of the room and Mr. Miller cracks a subtle smirk, seemingly embarrassed but not offering anything to pick at. “But, I’m willing to answer any questions you have while we have the time today.”

Questions flow in easily: what the semester would consist of, more elaboration outside of the syllabus, some of Mr. Miller’s favorite pieces of literature—part of you expects him to inject the usual ‘around the room introduction’ scheme, but he doesn’t. Instead, he leans into the more engaging questions asked, answering as freely and as interested as he can.

He loves Robert Frost, which makes sense. You’re not sure why, but it is predictable.

He is predictable. Sipping on a large mug of what you can only assume is coffee, the smell permeating toward you with where he’s resting against his desk, only a foot or so away. You haven’t managed to catch his gaze yet, which you’re partly thankful for. It allows you to study him, examine his expressions—admire…No.

And while he can continue his talk about favorite authors for days—the class draws to a close sooner than you expect, and you move lazily as most of the class disperses at the first opportunity with it being their final class of the day.

You’re throwing your bag over your shoulder when you hear his voice, addressing the only other person in the room.

You.

“Intimidating?” Your face screws up in confusion, head tilting his way as your eyes connect for the first time. “Oh, uh—sorry, I’ve just been doin’ this a while. I can tell when someone is anxious in class.”

And, while it wasn’t necessarily anxiety—it was more the idea of adjusting. This was new, this place wasn’t familiar and you were just trying to settle in. Mr. Miller seemed like the guy to have deep roots planted into these grounds, familiar with this town like he’s been here his entire life.

He has, but that wasn’t the point.

“No,” You answer indifferently, shrugging your shoulders, “I think your radar might be a little off.”

Joel chuckles softly, tapping his fingers against the leather cover of his bag as he leaned the tops of his thighs against the edge of his desk, “You know—you didn’t partake much in class discussion just now.”

You weren’t sure where he was driving his point, gradually stepping toward his desk, fingers wrapped around the straps of your bag, pulling against the tight material of your shirt as it stretched over your breasts, “And you were about—fifteen minutes late, too.”

Touche. He nods, lips pursed together.

“Just, fair warning—class discussion is a good chunk of your grade, participation and all that. I want you to feel comfortable enough to join in so…however I can help with that.”

Your eyebrows knit together, thoroughly thrown off by his forwardness—or well, so you assumed. He quickly realizes his misstep.

“No—not like…I mean, if there’s anything that you like or are interested in that you want covered over the semester, let me know. I don’t want it to be so focused on stuff that only appeases a few people. Alright?”

You think on his words, chewing at your bottom lip quietly.

He doesn’t know why he feels like he’s standing on the edge, waiting impatiently for your response—but when you do, it feels like he can breathe. Joel didn’t want to fuck this job up and he already felt like he’s stepped off on the wrong foot.

“Alright.” You confirm simply, nodding politely. “Thank you, Mr. Miller.”

He nods in response, the smallest twitch of a smile pulling at his lips.

“Have a good day.” He bids kindly, waving at you haphazardly as you left.

And now the day felt even weirder than when it started.

The first few weeks of class are actually…a delight. You find yourself looking forward to them as the weeks grow on and drag out, slowly making your way through the day and finding that Mr. Miller’s was the only class you could successfully relax in, not so pressure to participate because it was as equally engaging on both ends.

Mr. Miller liked to talk and argue just as animatedly as most students who had a point to prove—and you see why he must’ve been hired on a whim, the ability to charm and wit himself in and out of any scenario he wanted. It was…mesmerizing in a way that intoxicated you and infected your body and mind. He had you locked in every time he opened his mouth, finding your eyes dragging along the planes of his face and his well-kept appearance now that he arrived on time, sharp. Never early, never late.

He was as punctual as they come, slowly littering his classroom with more and more personalization. More literature books, smaller books of poems, packets of some of his favorite script writings and a few non-fiction pieces he thought to be intriguing.

But, the most interesting thing you notice is the small tan line around his ring finger. The advantage of the small classroom allowed for such details to be revealed, alongside knowing when he had taken a certain morning to do a fresh shave of his facial hair or spill a small spattering of coffee against his shirt, dull brown staining the white, crisp button-up he usually dawned alongside the occasional navy blue or black.

So, he was married—you assumed. He just didn’t wear his ring.

The more you indulged in him, the more complex he seemed. The ever mysterious J-something Miller, finding that no matter how hard you looked you couldn’t seem to find any information on him or an inkling of what his first name might be.

He must be a private person—no socials, no good deeds leading to news articles about him, or anything of tangible evidence to allow such information to seep out to the public. He was good at hiding, integrating himself in places he might not belong. He was a natural chameleon, much like yourself.

And you’d like to think you were good at writing considering you were attempting to pursue a career in it, mostly focusing on the aspect of screenwriting and film, not entirely sure what you were after but knowing that was where you wanted to go. You were great at convoluting things and empowering your far too creative imagination—often dangerous. You were never lacking in ideas, but your first assignment is a struggle.

It was something pertaining to non-fiction, a boring topic that Mr. Miller wanted to be intrigued by—he wanted something so mundane to be eye-catching and page-turning. Hanging on the edge of his seat, as he’d said so menacingly.

So, here you were, writing about the monogamous lives of certain breeds of penguins and they’re mates—whatever the fuck that was all about. It’s like he picked obscure topics for this very reason, the difficulty and the need for assistance. He wanted to help and you learned that quickly.

You could’ve been stuck with global warming, so it wasn’t all that bad.

Mr. Miller is leaning against an empty desk as he’s talking to a student a few desks away—yeah, the unlucky one who snagged the global warming topic. His expression is sour, tapping his pencil against the desk rapidly as Mr. Miller talks quietly, nothing that you can make out. He travels around the room gradually, eventually landing on you with a raised eyebrow, seeing that you had some, if not very little outlined.

He looks amused, knowing how you were pulling an absolute fat nothing over this topic. You could sit there and lay out the facts, but that’s not what he wanted. He wanted it to be explained in a way that held you close and dragged you along. It all came down to wording, at the end of the day, and as much as you wanted to prove you were a decent writer, you still had a lot to learn.

“This is so stupid,” You gripe, looking up at him briefly before you continue to stare daggers into the notebook you were scribbling in, “—pardon my language, but what the fuck is this topic?”

Mr. Miller chuckles deeply at that, tongue poking at the inside of his cheek.

“I’ll let that slide but try not to make it a habit,” He comments, acknowledging your foul language and understanding the frustration, “—it’s meant to challenge you. The obscurity of it. It’s not complicated, but you don’t want to just write a research paper.”

“Isn’t that…exactly how non-fiction works?” You ask curiously.

“You’ve read biographies, right? Auto-biograhpies and all that?”

You nod quietly.

“And I’m sure some of that caught your intention, right?” He asks and you respond with another nod, though meeker than before. “Non-fiction work is just as important as story-telling. Do some more research, explain why monogamy is sacred to them, explain their mating patterns, the behaviors—are you following?”

“Yeah—because some penguins mate for life, right?” You ask, feeling ridiculous asking him such an obscure question. “At least, I thought they did.”

“Most do.” Mr. Miller nods, “If you find yourself learning enough about the topic and actually finding some interest it won’t come out so…bland. Just look into it and write something you’d find intriguing to read, don’t stress over it that much. It’s just one assignment.”

It eases your worries slightly, but still, the frustration stuck.

“Okay,” You mumble, “Thank you.”

Mr. Miller offers a soft pat to your forearm as he nods silently in acknowledgment.

You were determined to make that assignment your bitch. Plain and simple.

Class discussion days are much easier. You switch between a certain selection of poems to snippets of scripts that Mr. Miller has pulled apart for the class to dissect and mince the words, learning how to write screenplays in a way that was both descriptive but directive and still managed to somehow keep the flow. Poems always seemed a little silly, but it was nice to debate the meanings and nuances of it all, always finding that you preferred to sit back and hear the thoughts of others until Mr. Miller decides he’s had enough one day—two months into the semester when he finally calls on you directly.

It was something he didn’t do often, but you find yourself going wide-eyed. He was always so polite to you, even when he’d catch you staring or lingering on his form for a moment too long, like he knew what you were thinking.

He was tall and—as was glaringly obvious, broad. His shoulders were immense and large as he extended his hands out and talked animatedly, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, slacks stretching over taut, tight muscle as he planted a foot in a nearby chair or stretched his stance out slightly as he stood—often finding it hard to stay still the longer class drew on.

You pull your attention to him, an innocent gaze glazing over your features.

“Why don’t you read the next poem?” He asks curiously.

“Oh—um,” Your eyes flick toward the poem book held tight in your grip, flitting to find the the place where the class last left off, so distracted you find yourself scrambling, but Mr. Miller is quick to lean over without much show or way of embarrassing you, pointing out the spot where the class last left of, blunt nail scratching against the paper as you follow the trail of his finger, you clear your throat and start:

“How should we like it were stars to burn

With a passion for us we could not return?

If equal affection cannot be,

Let the more loving one be me.”

The point was to interpret the words and form an explanation for why they were used, what they were trying to explain, but you lose any sense of thought when your eyes drag up to meet Mr. Miller and he’s staring right back, allowing you all the attention in the world.

Like no one else in the room existed. It was all a delusion in your own head, something you weren’t privy to then, but you believed whole-heartedly in the moment. He was just allowing you the floor and sharing you the same attention he had with everyone else.

At least, that’s what he tried to do.

Mr. Miller clears his throat to subtly bring you back down to earth when he notices your mind fleeing from your body, asking an easy, “So, what do we think about this one?”

No one answered, staunchly disinterested as they stared at you, waiting for a response as you were the only one who had avoided participating all day.

“Uh, it—it sounds like the love isn’t being returned,” You start slow, dissecting the words in your brain as Mr. Miller nods, “but that person is willing to show up and offer more to make up for it, maybe even to their own…undoing, I guess.”

“There’s really no right or wrong,” He addresses the class as a whole but pointedly acknowledges your observation, “and that’s the best thing—you’re allowed to think as individuals and come up with your own conclusions. Good job.”

The final part is directed at you. It makes you feel warm, gooey—like you were being given a star for good behavior or gentle praise under the guise of friendly language.

You despise how hard it is to stay focused some days with how often Mr. Miller likes to pick on you and point you out—but he sees potential there. Real potential. Not to say that it isn’t within the rest of the class, he just sees…more. And it intrigues him in a way that feels dangerous, but he wants to ensure that you are given the proper support needed, even if that means a little extra attention.

It was harmless, after all.

Your first big assignment comes three months into the semester.

It’s a simple writing assignment but tactful and heavy, given a week to complete it before you were due to turn it in for a final grade. A collection of self-written poems, the outline for a possible script idea for a scene, and a small creative writing assignment that must include some kind of supernatural element. You appreciate the Mr. Miller never allowed things to lay stagnant with his work, always giving you something to think about.

And everyone loved him, that much was blatantly obvious. He was, easily, one of the hottest professors at the college for someone his age—you could only assume he was somewhere in his late 40s. But, there remained the unknown of if he was married, something people debated often, but you examined in the privacy of your own mind.

There was no indication of another—no pictures lingering on his desk as his classroom continued to collect belongings, no screensaver on his phone or laptop (because yes, you were observant) that gave you any idea of what his partner looked like. And he never mentioned anything outside of his own interest in literature. The curiosity with no discovery was only slightly disappointing, because despite that, Mr. Miller showed his attention toward you like you were the only person in the room.

And maybe it was like that for everyone, but it felt special to you. There was always a little extra to give to you that he didn’t offer to everyone else.

You turn in your assignment a few minutes before it is due, well into the late hours of the night.

Mr. Miller, unbeknownst to you, smiles when he sees the notification on his computer as he sits in his office at home, scrolling down the deep troves of porn in the darkened space, quickly clicking away to another browser as he hears the door creak, his wife poking her head through the crack with a smile.

“Hey, it’s late—you comin’ to bed soon?” Tess asks, eyes ringed with a deep exhaustion.

Joel nods, scratching at the side of his face, blinking tiredly.

“Yeah. In a bit,” He excuses, “Just tryin’ to catch up on these assignments and then I’ll be done.”

It’s a lie, but she doesn’t need to know that.

Things had been rough since the affair—finding that Tess had been sleeping with her boss at her law firm for a few months, something she swore meant nothing, despite how long it dragged on in secret. Joel forgave her, mostly. They were managing, attempting the idea of marriage counseling, but he still couldn’t bring himself to put his wedding band back on, despite how proudly she wore hers still.

He had his own reservations on the matter and while he was trying to work things out, he wasn’t sure they could ever resume the same rhythm they had before, thinking that this was something he had for life, slowly crumbling and falling between his fingertips.

This was why he needed a change of pace, something different.

And maybe he was stupid for entertaining the obvious affection you showed toward him—he definitely was, but he does it anyways. It was playful, so meaningless and harmless that he didn’t even think twice about it. He could see you craved the attention and while he couldn’t be bothered to save that energy for Tess anymore, he could try to offer it to you.

Because you—you had so much potential. It was refreshing, seeing so much of his younger self in you, drive and dedication. The willingness to question stuff without fear.

He clicks on the email notification with your assignment, opening in a separate browser as he rises to lock his office door quietly, before returning to his other browser as he sat and unbuckled the thick leather belt around his waistband, a dignified zip that echoes throughout the confines of the office, reverberates and reminds him of his own loneliness.

And he shouldn’t picture your face as he finds himself aching and fucking deseprate into his fist, soft gunts muffled behind clenched teeth. But, he does. And he loves it.

He’s so fucked.

The comments on your assignment come a few days later, curled up in your bed in the small apartment you rented out, scrolling desperately to find out any further information on Mr. Miller but coming up with absolutely nothing. What a fucking ghost he was.

You’re curious, though—so you quickly switch to your emails to check his response and what your grade ended up being after how hard you worked to make sure it turned out perfect. Better than perfect actually. You hoped that with his obvious relationship woes he would appreciate the angst and underlying meanings in your poems, a bunch of bullshit you couldn’t relate to but hoped, on a whim, that he might.

‘Way to press on the idea of heartbreak, well done. Very expressive and real. Thank you for pouring those feelings into your work, though I hope no one has ever broken your heart that bad. Wonderful job.’

And he scores you a 90/100.

Which—whatever. You could accept it. Still, you wondered if those lingering ten points lied with him and his own bitter dealings. You’re fingers are curled around the laptop, ready to close when you get another notification blaring through your speakers.

You lift the laptop to stare at the screen, seeing an email come in from an unknown sender—though, the name grabs your attention immediately. First name, last name, followed by a series of number you can only assume is a birth year—not the school email Mr. Miller had previously sent you a response from.

You perk up, legs crossing over each other as you take a peek at the contents of the glaring email, seeing that it had links to a few books, followed by:

‘I hope you don’t mind my emailing you like this. But, I have a few pieces I think you may enjoy and would help with some of what you’re trying to convey in your writing. You have a beautiful way of expressing feeling and you should harness that. Let me know what you think. :)’

In hindsight, Joel should’ve never sent it. But, there was an urge there he couldn’t fight.

Maybe it was out of spite for his life and his wife betraying him, his urge to try and do some real good for someone, seeing that potential in you no matter how inappropriate it may be to go around school ruling and message you from his private email.

But, now you had a sliver of information. A peek into who Mr. Miller—Joel Miller, was.

It sends you down a spiral, searching and scouring for any information available online.

You find out that he’s 48…or 49, not entirely sure of his actual birthday. Only going off the year designated in his email. And that he’s a published author, but nothing of significance. He used to be a high school teacher and he was…or is, married. It’s all vague and unassuming, but it has your mind stirring. Wondering what was so interesting about him, what part of him had crawled into your mind and refused to get out.

And him messaging you on a private email—complimenting you with unnecessary eagerness, even when it wasn’t needed. You can’t be this delusional. There’s something there, even if neither of you have spoken on it explicitly.

The faint touches and smiles traded, the hard-gazed looks and glances over his shoulder as he does a sweep of the room, always spending just a smidgen of extra time over your desk when you ask for help.

It makes you feel special. And that’s exactly what you need.

You fall asleep that night with a wild idea in your head, wondering just how brave you could be in this situation. It burrows into your mind and seeps into your dreams:

You’re pressed against the edge of a desk in a dark office, the solid wood pressed flat against your cunt as you lean forward and capture the lips of the person in front of you, a shaky breath coming from their mouth.

“Want that pretty mouth ‘round my cock.” He says—your heart skips, nearly stops.

You don’t know why you’re surprised to hear Joel’s voice, but it clears your mind and his hazy face finally comes into view in all of it’s intricate detail, right down to the soft crinkle of skin around his eyes, eyebrows furrowed as he pulls away to look at you, lips puffed from the kissing and seeming so innocent as he spoke in such a depraved manner.

Delicate fingers drag along the shape of your lips, stopping at your cupid’s bow before he’s pressing two fingers inside, grabbing the hand relaxed at your side and pressing it over the front of his slacks, the hard line of his cock pressing against the zipper.

There’s no other word to offer than intimidating, his size morphing any idea that you might’ve had–which, you did. His slacks are well-tailored, form fitting, and if he stretched just the right way in class you could see the head or outline of his cock press against the fabric for a split second….and you observed. A lot.

“Wanna stuff your mouth, huh?” He asks, eyes rolling back as his fingers press down on your tongue, quickly pulling out as he grips your face, spit spreading across your cheek, gasping at the suddenness of his movement. “Think it’ll fit?”

He sounds so condescending, eyeline over you but downcast on your figure from where your perched against his desk, idle hand exploring the soft, plush skin of your thighs as he drags his fingers along the full expanse of your cunt and it sets your whole body on fire, like you’re feeling everything dialed to an impossible level, every nerve in your body coming to life.

You shake your head meekly, gasping when he yanks you forward suddenly.

“Guess we’ll have to train that filthy mouth then, won’t we?” His eyebrow quirks up salaciously, earning a less than subtle grin as he presses his fingers into the wet spot of your underwear, not breaking the barrier but allowing you to feel the pressure.

And just as you feel yourself grabbing onto something tangible, hands gripped in the lapel of his suit jacket, pulling him impossibly closer, you’re startling awake with a gasp.

You could feel your imagination mixing with reality, falling lazily back against your bed as your chest heaved hurried breaths, palms pressed over your chest in an effort to calm down, covered in a thin sheen of sweat. The room was hot, too hot to feel comfortable anymore.

Your lip pulls between your teeth, chewing thoughtfully at a bad idea.

You reach blindly for your laptop laid out near the end of your bed, opening the device with a swiftness, squinting at the blinding screen that burned at this time of night.

Nearly two in the morning—this was pointless.

But, you hit reply on his email anyways and slowly type out a response.

‘Thank you for noticing, Mr. Miller. It’s greatly appreciated and I will definitely look into those sources and give you a full, detailed review. :) I appreciate you thinking of me as someone so esteemed. I would love to talk more about literature, if that feels appropriate.’

The lines were already blurred. He’d blurred them. You were just smudging them a little more.

You never said that starting fresh meant you had to stay on your best behavior. Because really, there was nothing innocent about what game was developing between you both.

It was a game of chess and you felt a million moves ahead, nearing a checkmate—and you would do anything to have Joel Miller in the way you craved. Anything.

#joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fanfic #tlou fanfic #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #pedrostories #professor!joel miller #miller's girl #my writing

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cobaltperun · 1 month

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Woe out the Storm (15 - S1 - finale) - Eye of the Storm

Wednesday Addams x female Reader

Summary: It took some time, but eventually you came to realize only Wednesday Addams could look at the raging storm of chaos and destruction and make a home out of it. Only she could listen to the cacophony of the roaring thunder and hear a melody.

Story warnings: Wednesday Addams, violence, slow burn

Story Masterlist / First part / Previous part

Word count: 3.3k

-Storm clouds storming, this is your final warning (woah, ah), I (I) am the eye of the storm-

The sight in front of Wednesday was more frightening than anything she saw in her life, you were losing it, lightning raging around you, hitting the school and breaking stones. A stray blast of lightning hit the tree in the fountain, shattering it completely, and you just stood there, in the middle of it. You weren’t human, or a raiju, you were a force of nature, gone out of control.

“Calm down, raiju,” Bianca tried to use her siren song and it seemed to be working, until you roared so loudly Wednesday thought she was going to lose her hearing. It took you mere seconds to break free from Bianca’s siren song, driven by instinct, there was no way you’d just listen to a command.

Worse than that, you set your eyes on Bianca, and it was almost like staring death in the eyes, nothing Bianca could do could stop you as you were now. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, she tried to control you, and you wouldn’t let that go unpunished.

So, to protect you from the guilt, Wednesday stepped forward. “Y/N!” she called your name, as loud as she could so you’d hear her over lightning around you. She approached you, fully aware that one swipe of your paw would mean she’d die, torn into two or more pieces. That would be even worse for you, and she didn’t want you to carry that guilt, but she had to risk it, she had to believe in you. “Y/N,” she repeated your name, hoping it would make you regain control of yourself.

It didn’t.

You roared again, baring your teeth at Wednesday and rushing at her.

And she accepted it, she stood still, waiting for you to bring down lightning or strike her in another way, but you didn’t. You froze right in front of her, your lightning moving around her body, avoiding her.

Wednesday’s eyes widened at that, at the familiar sensation of your lightning moving to her whims, much like it did during Rave’N. This wasn’t because of the bond between her family and raiju, this was your own bond. She couldn’t see recognition in your eyes just yet, but she saw curiosity, she saw your eyes scanning her for whatever you were looking for.

And she reached up, lightning moving aside to let her touch your fur. It was warm, not quite soft, but still softer than she thought it would be. Wednesday lightly scratched you near your jaw, fully aware one move from you would cost her an arm. But you just stayed there, accepting her touch. So, Wednesday moved up, reaching as far up as she could and scratching you close to your ear, prompting you to lean down a bit so she could reach behind it.

“Y/N,” she said your name again, and this time you chuffed, despite the lightning that still surrounded your body, indicating complete lack of control, you still accepted her touch. You were driven by instinct, your own instinct mixed with something more primal, and you’d never harm her. And though it puzzled her, Wednesday accepted it, choosing to tug at your mane, to tell you she wanted you to lean your head down. You did it, and she leaned her forehead against your head. Only now, that you were completely calm did she allow herself to relax and accept that you were alive, that you were right there and safe and that you didn’t die for her.

“Thank you,” she said just for you to hear.

You chuffed in return and a few moments later you were back in your human form, unconscious, but in control.

~X~

You were aching and a bit colder than you were used to feeling. Well, you supposed that made sense, you completely depleted your lightning last night, or however long ago the last thing you remembered happened, and you were just now recharging a bit of it. You weren’t sure you could even zap right now.

“Maybe we should plug her in? You know, recharge her?” you heard Enid’s suggestion and just figured you should go back to sleep.

“Ooh! Or put a battery in her! Wait, where would we even fit one? Feed it to her?” now that was just uncalled for.

“I’ll make an electric chair,” Wednesday saying that made you jump to your feet.

No way were you about to let her strap you to an electric chair, even if it wouldn’t do anything to you. “I’m awake!”

Enid began laughing so hard there were tears coming from her eyes and even Wednesday was smirking. “I hate you both,” you deadpanned and went to grab a bottle of water. “Ridiculous,” you mumbled, causing Enid to laugh even harder.

“So? What did I miss?” you asked and downed half of the bottle.

Enid grinned widely. “Wednesday hugged me!” she exclaimed and you nearly choked on water.

You coughed a bit and sat down on your bed as Wednesday moved to sit at your desk and Enid joined you on the bed. Thing was happily resting on your pillow. It was actually endearing how close they remained to you while you were recovering.

You reached up and touched Enid’s face. “You look badass,” you grinned a bit, though you felt bad for not getting to her in time.

Enid nodded, appreciating the sentiment.

“Tyler was Laurel and dealt with, Crackstone is dead for good, raijin didn’t show up, and some of the school needs to be repaired,” Wednesday caught you up to speed.

You leaned back a bit, resting your weight on the palms of your hands. “Geez, Weems must be busy,” you commented, only to be met with complete, stunned silence. The sudden silence made you tilt your head to the side. “What happened to Weems?” you asked, and your confusion skyrocketed when you saw Wednesday’s eyes widening as if this was the last thing she expected you to say.

“Y-You don’t remember?” Wednesday actually stuttered.

You shook your head, not sure why that was so important. Wednesday abruptly stood up and walked out of the room, slamming the doors shut behind her. You just… sat there, confused, worried, and all you could do was run after her. Or you would have if Thing didn’t get in your way.

“What do you mean give her space? Thing, what happened?!” you demanded, Wednesday didn’t leave like that, she just didn’t.

Thing signed that you woke up last night, that you and Wednesday talked, and that she told you Weems died.

You stumbled back into your chair, shocked that Weems was dead, shocked that you forgot, shocked that you even woke up last night. Weems was dead? You looked at Enid, hoping she would say otherwise, but she just shook her head.

“It’s true, Thornhill killed her with nightshade poison, just before she took Wednesday,” Enid told you.

You just sat there, processing the information, apparently for the second time. And given the fact you were somehow getting this feeling of déjà vu; you figured you really did hear about it last night. Weems was dead. Gone. Sure, you and her didn’t see eye to eye all the time, and she did obstruct Wednesday’s investigation, and she did cover up Rowan’s murder, but she didn’t deserve to die.

She accepted you into Nevermore, even if she dreaded the longer storms. You felt like she understood your circumstances better than most of the staff, better than most people did. And true, you weren’t close, but you knew her for years, and she died too soon. You caught yourself asking if you could have prevented it, if there was any decision that would have allowed you to save her life.

Could you have gone with Wednesday to the train station, so she wouldn’t go to confront Laurel with just Weems? What would have happened if you went there? Would Crackstone even be revived if you were there to stop Laurel from taking Wednesday.

You swallowed the lump in your throat. Then there was the rest of the things you didn’t remember. Why would Wednesday storm out like that? You not remembering Weems was dead wasn’t good enough of a reason for Wednesday to react like that. You did something, and you didn’t know what you did. You didn’t even have any clue, aside from Thing telling you Wednesday needed space.

Wednesday Addams needed space because you couldn’t remember something!

You needed to find her! You needed to fix what you did immediately. You got up and went toward the doors. You could have jumped from the balcony, but given you were still recovering, you were worried you might be unable to slow down your fall.

“Don’t, Y/N, Thing told me what else happened last night, and it’s better if you don’t go after her,” Enid told you and now you were really worried.

“Yeah, no, let me fix whatever I did,” you ignored Enid calling your name and ran after Wednesday. You ran like you were preparing for a race, too bee hives, to the Poe statue, and the Nightshades library, to the forest, and you couldn’t find her.

And when she finally came back to the room later that night you could faintly sense static on her clothes. She went to one place she knew you wouldn’t think about, to your shed. She come back as if nothing happened, and even a week later you had no idea what you did. You just knew Wednesday wasn’t acting any differently, she just wouldn’t tell you what you did.

~X~

So, given the circumstances, the school year was cut short, and given your circumstances, the one that came to pick you up was your dad. That’s how you ended up in the back of his car, on your way to get better control over your beast form.

You never arrived at the location of your training.

It happened before you even had a chance to fully realize what was going on. One moment you were in the backseat of your dad’s car, the next he was hitting the brakes and grabbing you, blasting through the back of the car and jumping.

“Dad?!” you yelled but he was already shifting and running with you on his back. “Hey! What are y-“ your breath hitched as you heard an explosion coming from behind you. You dared to turn around and saw the remains of the car falling back down as someone emerged from smoke and flames. Even from this far you recognized who it was by the feeling alone, and even if you couldn’t see them, you knew his eyes were completely blue.

The raijin, the thunder god…

~X~

Not even the realization that someone was stalking her was enough to get her mind off what happened after the fight with Crackstone. It was impossible to get rid of the thoughts she had after what you did to her and so, Wednesday closed her eyes and replayed the memory in her mind. The phantom sensations from that night plagued her once again, even stronger now that she knew she’d spend some time away from you.

~X~

The number of nights Wednesday spent either lying on your bed or sitting on it was starting to get ridiculous. Well, at least you survived, you didn’t die for her. She covered you with your and her two blankets, but you were still trembling, your skin was cold and Wednesday hated how much she missed the warmth she was so used to, especially since you picked up a habit of taking her hand.

Enid was in the infirmary, having been more injured than you, you just got patched up and Wednesday made Xavier and Ajax carry you upstairs. And now Wednesday was sitting next to you, holding your hand under the covers to try and warm you up a bit because somehow you were even colder than she was.

“Wed-“ you tried to speak, but your throat was dry. It didn’t matter, you were awake, you were opening your eyes and Wednesday felt as if a heavy weight was removed from her back. You cleared your throat and smiled at her. “Hey,” you even squeezed her hand. “I’m fine, just tired,” you assured her and slowly sat up.

Wednesday nodded, she knew you were fine, or that you’d be fine. You and Enid would be fine, everything would be fine.

“Shit, it’s cold,” you were still trembling. “Since when are you warmer than me?” there was a bit of annoyance in your voice.

Thing came up to you, telling you to calm down and rest, but you just laughed.

“Don’t worry, buddy. I’m just completely out of lightning, it can happen, it’s just annoying,” you explained, and it made sense, your body was constantly warm due to lightning, without it your temperature dropped severely. Thing did tell her you shifted against Tyler as well, so it all made sense to her.

“You seem to be doing fine, go back to sleep,” Wednesday got up, perhaps she could spend some time writing, it was certainly more productive than watching over you when you would clearly be fine. She could feel your eyes on her, and she didn’t need to turn around to know you were smiling. Just as she sat down and took a paper to place in her typewriter you got up and walked over to her table. You were shivering, but it wasn’t as bad as it was before. “I told you to go to sleep,” she reminded you as you leaned back on her table, right next to her.

“It’s annoying, but it’s rare. I can be normal, you know, I can drink regular water, I could stand in the rain, and nothing would happen. So, I try to cherish it while it lasts,” you explained. “Though, there’s no telling how long I’ll be able to stay awake,” your voice was already getting a bit sleepy, so not for long.

“You were reckless, you shouldn’t have come back to school in that condition,” she chastised you, trying her best to hide how she really felt. How she felt dreadfully happy that you came for her, at the crypt and at the school.

You reached down, gently taking hold of her right hand and she allowed you to turn it so you could look at her palm. “I wish I got there sooner, I wish I went with you to the train station, that way Laurel wouldn’t have even captured you. What was Weems doing anyway?”

“Weems died,” Wednesday chose to focus on that, and not on the way her heart threatened to rip through her chest at the way you caressed the back of her hand, you didn’t want to touch her palm, afraid you’d hurt her probably, so the back of her hand was the next best thing. She refused to acknowledge that she didn’t want you to let go.

Your eyes widened at that and you lowered your head. “Damn it,” you gritted your teeth and covered your eyes with your free hand. Wednesday gave you time, she let you process the information.

“People die,” she eventually said, prompting you to nod.

“Right,” you sighed, collecting yourself and blinking a few times. “People die,” what were you thinking about? Would Weems dying affect you? Wednesday didn’t know, as far as she could tell you weren’t close to her, but you’d probably feel like you should have been there to stop it.

“It was nightshade poisoning. If you were there Laurel would have used it on you,” because you were a much bigger threat than Weems, and for that Wednesday was thankful you weren’t there.

“Probably,” you said eventually.

“Definitely,” but there was no doubt in Wednesday’s mind. She got up, standing in front of you and watching your eyes closely. She raised her left hand, placed it on your shoulder, despite everything she was used to being the very opposite of that want, she still wanted you to be close to her, she wanted to, at least somewhat, touch you.

“Wednesday,” you breathed out, her name falling from your lips like a vow you knew nothing about. And she shivered as you looked down, just for a few moments looking at her lips before looking back at her eyes. She could read you like a book, she could almost see the thoughts in your head, that her surviving was more important to you.

It was slow, as if you were asking for a permission, and she gave it to you by stepping closer, by allowing you to wrap your arms around her waist and pull her closer. She allowed you to hug her, to hold her, and she allowed herself to lean into your touch. She pressed her body against yours, closer, more intimate than her hug with Enid, despite Wednesday not hugging you back. You were cold, yet Wednesday felt like you were burning through her clothes with your touch. And all the while she was looking at your lips, so close to her, she just needed to…

Not yet. She looked you in the eyes instead.

Her eyes widened, the stoic, emotionless expression on her face breaking apart when she saw the way you looked at her and she couldn’t help it. She just smiled, her cold heart beating faster than ever before. “Mi Rayo,” the words slipped past her mouth before she could stop them, and at that moment, as the tips of her fingers reached up and caressed your jaw, she was split between wanting you to know what she said and dreading that possibility. ‘My Lightning’, that’s what she called you, because that’s what you were, you were a lightning, a lightning beast that was capable of great destruction. More importantly, and much to her dismay, you were her lightning beast, and that realization made her feel like she was stuck in an electric chair. The hand she kept on your shoulder slid down, and she firmly pressed it just above your chest as she raised her head.

“What did you say?” you were frowning, your eyes suddenly unfocused and the grip on her waist loose. You did say you weren’t sure how long you’d stay awake.

Her parted lips closed, and she pulled back, removing herself from your hold. “Nothing, go back to sleep,” she said, her voice betraying the annoyance she felt as she realized the ghost of your touch still lingered, taunting her. She ignored it at that time, not even considering the possibility of you forgetting what happened.

Now, knowing that you didn’t remember it over a week later, that ghost came back to haunt her. You’d never remember the first time she allowed you to hold her, would you? You forgot it as if it meant nothing that she gave you the permission to touch her so familiarly. You forgot as if she didn’t bare her throat for you to claw through it if you just so pleased. You forgot as if her staking her claim on you was just a spur-of-the-moment declaration. You forgot as if your eyes didn’t tell her she was the only bottle that could capture your lightning. As if the way you looked at her in that moment didn’t shatter everything the two of you were and put it back together in a way Wednesday couldn’t recognize or control. And she wasn’t sure if she even wanted to control it.

You forgot and she was stuck remembering how she was fractions of an inch away from kissing you.

A/N: See you all when Season 2 comes out!

#wednesday addams x female reader #wednesday addams x you #wednesday addams x reader #wednesday netflix #wednesday addams #enid sinclair #jenna ortega x reader

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elaci · 2 months

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──────── I think loving Ellie Williams is very much comparable to having blind faith in an unproven religion. Some will torment, try and expedite your loss of faith by unravelling the contradictions in your theology: 'she isn't one to love', 'she's not a forever type of girl', 'she's too broken', 'too shadowed', 'too lost'.

And though they may not be wrong, Ellies woes are a sediment that erodes her bones down and feed voraciously off her heart and soul. She is difficult to love; harsh in her ways and seemingly unable to open up in any capacity. She'd rather lose your devotion entirely than expose the gory mess of her open chest cavity; sins and sorrows alike a wrathful parasite inside of her.

She is not all-loving. She is not tolerant. She does not forgive. Ellie is the figurehead that strikes you when you're down on your knees begging for the warm embrace scripture has promised you. She is the quiet cold of an empty chapel that evokes tears often misinterpreted as religious experience. Yet, they are only tears.

Your adoration falls on deaf ears, even in the most intimate of nights; she is immune to your worship. She does not hear your prayers for connection, for love- she's lost herself, how could she bear to guide you? She is anything but holy, scarred from years of personal conviction and loss- she does not feel worthy of your praise. She is not righteous, not without sin- she is the temptation that seeks out the most lost of souls and devours them whole.

The sceptics may be right in their agnosticism: maybe your theology is baseless. It thrives under the gaze of doubt, it's the tendrils of something uneasy you feel constrict your soul when your back is turned. It's learning to accept her past as an ugly thing than try to give it meaning she disproves: its learning to love the grey of lead rather than whim it gold.

And though those without faith may not see: there is a religious love plaguing Ellie's most tender wounds. It manifests in her eyes, in the guarded moments you see the most vulnerable parts of her. It manifests in late nights spent watching you sleep, hoping with everything she has that there isn't a god to take you from her. It manifests in the fact that she now, after years of feating the bitter end, has reason to fear death.

It's your faith that breaks Ellie. Your blind devotion, that ache in your soul that says 'this is real'. Your love, which must be persistent and unwavering, is both salvation for her soul and a harbinger of change that she can't ignore. You learn how to embrace her jagged edges rather than file them down and she, in turn, comes to terms with the steady, holy, undeniable faith that is you.

#ellie williams #ellie williams x reader #ellie x reader #ellie williams x you #tlou2 x reader #the last of us #ellie x you #ellie x fem reader #ellie williams tlou #the last of us 2 #writeblr #writers on tumblr

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see-arcane · 1 year

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Lucy and Jonathan

“We met some time ago a man that would just do for you, if you were not already engaged to Jonathan.”

I’ll admit, while it probably wasn’t anything more than an airy throw-in without any real barbs behind it, the inflection on Lucy’s comment followed by the idle advertisement of upcoming character, Dr. John ‘Jack’ Seward, as a higher-up-the-ladder ‘what-if’ prospect, still kind of stung to hear. I know it’ll get sanded back in later chapters because—minor spoilers—context clues will show that Mina, Lucy, and Jonathan have known/been friendly with each other since they were kids, and comments from future letters will show a more mutual regard. So it makes me wonder what the reason for the implied derision was.*

*(Beyond her possibly trying to push Jack in a way that says ‘Nope, No, I Choose Not to See the Crush, No Thank You, Hot Potato.’)

My guess? It’s a bit.

Specifically, a holdover from hers, Mina’s, and Jonathan’s earlier days when all of them had grown into adolescence, social mores started getting hammered in in earnest, and Mina and Jonathan were just starting on their official courtship.

Suddenly, they’re no longer a trio of kids enjoying each other’s company. Now it’s two young ladies—one rich, one poor—and a charming young man—also from a lower class. Considering the period, it would be only too easy for whispers to start flying behind fans and cigars that the young Mr. Harker might consider leveling up his prospects, or that the lovely Miss Westenra, a veritable Victorian Helen of Troy, might idly snatch her low-born friend’s man out from under her nose on a whim. And aren’t they such a pretty picture? Quoting their Shakespeare at each other, so intriguingly close compared to most men and their ladies’ friends…unless there are certain extra friendly circumstances involved, ha ha.

A ribald comment too many from coworkers at Hawkins’ firm and a backhanded compliment or three at the latest spring ball probably shocked Jonathan and Lucy respectively into action. Bonus points if one of the inciting remarks came from some tittering debutante, “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. You two are so alike! Such sweet bonny things, parroting the Bard at each other, prattling merrily about the latest little outing without stopping for breath. Really, Lucy, he would just do for you.”**

**(Some have wondered if Lucy was nudging Jack toward Mina due to certain similar traits they shared. Some morose aspects, intensely focused, interests in modern technology. You’ll see when you meet him. Either way, it’s another parallel to ponder here.)

Cue Mina having to endure her loved ones defending her honor from being dubbed a victim of romantic betrayal in the most vaudeville manner possible. Though she should expect no less from Theatre Nerds 1 and 2.

When they go out, Mina is permanently sandwiched between them as if they’re ducking behind a red-faced shield. Lucy brandishes a parasol to ensure they’re at least the shaft’s length apart; sometimes she’ll even open it to make sure they’re not swayed by looking upon each other, may Heaven forbid such scandalous temptation! Jonathan sits on the bench with them with his hat pulled down over his eyes for safety’s sake. At least a quarter of an hour at the start of each outing is dedicated to a back-and-forth of:

Lucy, nose up so high she’s looking more at the ceiling than him: Mr. Harker.

Jonathan, checking his pocket watch to see how long he must endure this most arduous company: Miss Westenra.

Mina, head in her hands: It’s been months.

Lucy, scoffing: Months of torment in his presence.

Jonathan, scoffing harder: Agony in hers.

Lucy, on a fainting couch: However can you stand him, Mina?

Mina, about to pull her hair out of its pins: You helped him pick out the ring, Lucy.

Jonathan, picture of woe: Tormentedly, of course.

Lucy, nodding: Agonizingly.

In short, Jonathan 🤝 Lucy: