#and that’s what it is. my nature. it’s in my nature to be angry and mean and poison to everyone around me

[drunkinyourbenz]

YOU DON'T REALLY NEED A BREAK

☆ SYNOPSIS: in which billie is stressed, so naturally she needs you more than ever. unbenkownst to her, she takes it too far. ☆ PART ONE ☆ RELATIONSHIP: dom!billie eilish x fem!reader ☆ WARNINGS: SMUT, use of safe word, angst, fluff, comfort, mean billie, reader is a little bratty, situationship/fwb, angry sex, crying, strap-on, edging, degradation, petnames, name calling (slut, whore, brat, etc.), choking, hair pulling, humiliation, dumbification, toxic dynamic (except less so because billie's realising things hehe), unedited. ☆ REQUESTED: yes, by a bunch of anons ☆ NOTE: y'all read my mind with these reqeusts i was already thinking of writing a part two abt exactly this and you all had the same idea!! sorry this took so long lmao exams are kicking my ass :/ this is very unedited sorry for any mistakes i read it through once and then posted it lmao read part one first for it to make more sense ☆ WORD COUNT: 3.5k words

billie hadn’t texted you in a little over a week, and you almost thought that she wasn’t ever going to again. the last time you’d seen her had ended like all of the other nights, she’d cleaned you up and then left you alone in the silent hotel room. usually, she’d text afterwards, just to make sure you were feeling okay, but there was nothing. the last text between the two of you was when you’d asked where she was when she was late that night. 

the two of you normally hooked up at least a few times a week, and you’d never actually gone a week without her since you started this four months ago.

you thought the worst: someone else had replaced you as her favourite. you’d always thought it would happen, but you thought you might have a few more times before it was over. but from the looks of it, you weren’t ever going to see her again. 

which was fine, obviously. you didn’t care—or that’s what you kept telling yourself. you had agreed to a no-commitment thing when you two started whatever this was, and she could do whatever she wanted. it stung a little bit that she wasn’t doing you, but ultimately, there was nothing you could do about it. 

so when you got home from a long day, thoroughly exhausted, your plan for the night was to hide in your bed and watch 2000s tv shows until you passed out. you showered, taking your time to wash your hair and feeling your tense and tired muscles relax under the hot stream of water. once out of the shower, you changed into some comfortable clothes, flopping down on your bed in relief. you were ready to finally just cuddle up under the blankets like you’d been wishing you could do all day.

about eleven minutes into the gilmore girls episode you were up to—rewatching for the hundredth time—your phone pinged, and you almost just ignored it, but you picked it up with a groan. 

your eyes widened when you saw it was from billie, the last number you expected to text. your heart almost skipped a beat.

billie: come over?

you paused for a moment, conflicted. you truly were exhausted, and it had been such a long day, and all you wanted to do was sleep, you honestly weren’t in the mood for what you knew billie would want. but… it was billie. 

so, inevitably, you ended up at her door. you were still in the clothes you’d changed into the moment you got home, just some comfortable sweatpants and a top—billie wouldn’t care about what you wore, she wanted you to be comfortable. plus, you knew full well that you wouldn’t be wearing them for long. 

you knocked on the door, and it opened within mere seconds, almost as if billie had been waiting by the door for you to show up. from the look on her face, you wouldn’t be surprised. she looked stressed, angry, and desperate. you looked her up and down, your eyes settling on her face. she was wearing a pretty similar outfit to you, sweatpants that hung low on her hips, the “HIT ME HARD AND SOFT” waistband of her boxers peeking out, and a white tank top that you could see the slight hint of her nipples peeking through. her arms were bare and your eyes seemed to gravitate towards the toned muscles there, which never failed to make your brain short circuit. paired with the noticeable outline of her strap in her pants, it was almost too much for you to take. 

you noticed the way her eyebrows were slightly furrowed and her eyes were narrowed in a firm gaze, the frustration was clear on her face. “rough day?” 

she groaned, and when she spoke, her voice had a slight rasp to it, “you have no idea.” 

the two of you fell into silence, just staring at each other for a few long moments. it wasn’t a comfortable silence, it was one that hung in the air around you, a claustrophobic silence. there were words left unspoken between the two of you that poked their heads around the corner but never truly revealed itself, it left you wondering when it would snap, but it never did. the two of you stared at each other for what felt like lifetimes, you waiting for billie to do something, and billie simply savouring the feeling of having you in front of her again. 

finally, she spoke, her voice still holding that same raspiness—which alone could get you on your knees for her. “it’s pathetic that you’re here so fast, considering i ghosted you for a week. you’re just a desperate slut for me, aren’t you? not that you’d be good for anything else.”

the bluntness of her words sent a chill down your spine, this was exactly what you’d expected. why else would billie text you after a week of not talking, if not to use her favourite girl? 

billie continued talking before you could even get a word in, it was like she’d read your thoughts. she leaned closer, her lips brushing your ear as she spoke, “you know i could just call over any of my girls and they’d be here in a heartbeat, and they’d be exactly the same. pathetic, desperate, and begging.”

you raised an eyebrow at her words. you knew what she was doing, trying to wind you up, get you to act out. you had honestly intended to just be her good girl tonight because you were so tired, but you knew she adored it when you acted up. so you spoke with the bratty tone you knew she loved.

“sure you could. but none of them are here now, are they? you called me.” 

the brattiness, especially when she was in a mood like this, made her eyes light up. your brattiness was her favourite thing, she loved it when you gave her an excuse to be harsher and meaner than she was on a normal day. so, when you talked back to her, she lets out a dark laugh. “don’t fuckin’ test me, mama.” 

you let a soft scoff fall past your lips, “or what?” 

“you know i’ll put you in your place, i’ve done it before.” and then you realised, this was what set you apart. this was why you were her favourite. you weren’t afraid to act up, so she didn’t have to be afraid of taking it too far. she could push you, because you pushed her. “maybe you should. you want to blow off steam, don’t you?”

at your words, her lips twitched upwards into a slight, barely noticeable smirk. you knew she would be taking them as a challenge, “you’re gonna have to drop the bratty attitude eventually, mamas.”

“maybe you should make me.”

that was exactly what she wanted—she wanted you to keep going, keep winding her up. she wanted you to give her a reason to pin you down and tear you apart; and you gave her that reason with that simple suggestion.

she took your wrist in her hand, her grip almost painful as she tugged you behind her to her bedroom. the air felt different than it normally did when you were here, everything felt so tense. her entire body language screamed irritated, dominant. but it wasn’t the normal kind of dominance she normally exuded. billie always had this kind of casual dominance that just hung around her, her presence was just effortlessly assertive. this is different, she had a look in her eyes you hadn’t seen before—she was always mean, but this was her normal level of mean times ten. 

she was clearly in a whole new headspace, not one you were familiar with. this wasn’t just dominant, wasn’t just mean, no, it was something else. she wasn’t just a little stressed, she didn’t just have a little bit of frustration she needed to take out on you, this was worse. it was an almost animalistic kind of energy, one that’s so raw, so intense, you knew you wouldn’t be able to walk by the time she was finished with you.

she took one of the belts from her merch from her dresser, shoving you backwards onto the bed and tying your hands to the headboard. she tugged it slightly, making sure it was firm but not too tight. it sent a rush of excitement through you, and you knew she felt the same. 

“gonna use you, mamas,” you knew from those words that she was going to absolutely ruin you, and you could tell by the look in her eyes.

sure enough, no more than five minutes later, she had her strap deep inside of you and was pounding into you at a bruising pace. the strap was bigger than the one she usually used, and it made you ache with a constant stinging pain. she hadn’t given you any time to adjust, and had started as she meant to go on. you were naked and on her bed, with her on top of you, fucking into you at a brutal pace. your hands were still tied up with her belt and the ache it brought only amplified the pleasure. one of her hands had your hair in a firm grasp, solely to make you feel the sting of pain it brought. she wanted to bring you to tears. her other hand grabbed a handful of your ass, squeezing it before letting her hand fall down on your ass in a harsh slap. 

the intense pleasure of her cock inside you and her finger circling your clit was a perfect contrast to the pain her hands brought you, and a trail of moans fell from your lips. “b-billie-” 

a mean, almost cruel laugh left her lips, “god, you’re such a slut.” another slap landed on your ass, “it’s pathetic, really. i mean, i can ghost you for as long as i want,” another slap. “and you’re still at my door in five minutes as soon as i ask.” slap, “pathetic fuckin’ whore.” 

you whined, which simply made her laugh. in her own sadistic way, she was enjoying this. 

this continued for what felt like hours—maybe it was, you had no idea. every time you got slightly close to your orgasm, she’d pull out, tugging you away from the edge. by now, you had tears rolling down your cheeks, and the fine line between pleasure and pain was slowly but surely being crossed. 

“fuckin’ take it,” she breathed. “god, you look so dumb around my cock. all you’re good for, hm? spreading your legs and taking it like the slut you are?”

you whimpered, and she simply slapped your ass again. 

this continued for much longer, and she wasn’t even mad at you for being bratty, not in the slightest. she just needed an outlet for her bad mood, and that was what you were. merely a way for her to release her frustrations. 

you let out a choked sob, your body trembling, “billie, please, i can’t—” 

you knew she wasn’t doing this because she had anything against you, there had been something deeply wrong with her day. she had never been this downright cruel before, and you knew her well enough to know that she wouldn’t act like this without reason. but it was too much, and you weren’t sure how much more you could take. she hadn’t asked for your colour even once tonight, and that thought alone was putting you on edge. sure, her being rough turned you on, but right now it was scaring you just as much. this was darker than you’d experienced in all four months of your friends with benefits situation with her, and you weren’t sure if you liked it. 

you felt the strap hit your most sensitive spot, and you let out a sound that was a mix of a moan and a sob. “billie–” 

“like being used by me, yeah? taking everything i give you like a slut?”

you weren’t sure when you realised that you actually weren’t enjoying it anymore, but it was obvious all of a sudden. it hurt, and not in a good way. you were exhausted from both your day and the sheer amount of time she’d been edging you for. the way your arms had been tied to the bed for so long was making them ache painfully, and at some point down the line, your tears of pleasure had turned into tears of pain. 

you normally had the safety net of knowing that she was paying attention to your signals, knowing that she didn’t want to hurt you. but it didn’t even feel like she was aware of what she was doing, she was so caught up in herself and drowning out her own frustrations. you hated that lack of awareness, it was like she wouldn’t even notice if she actually hurt you. 

she looked like she was about to speak again, so before she could get out another degrading comment, you gasped out, “red, billie–”

whatever half formed sentence billie had been about to say died on her tongue, your gasped words making her freeze inside of you. her mind suddenly went silent, her frustrated thoughts about her day coming to a halt as she looked down at you with wide, almost scared eyes. you’d never actually used your safeword—obviously it was something that the two of you had communicated, but billie had never expected to actually go too far, to push you to that. she was meant to check in on your colours, and she felt an intense pang of guilt when she realised that she hadn’t done that. 

as she looked at you, noticing the tears and the exhausted expression, as well as the way your wrists were visibly sore from being tied for so long, she felt a sense of dread. she was overcome with shame and she didn’t know what to do about it. her breath caught in her throat as she processed what was going on.

“shit, i’m so sorry.” after a moment, she shook herself out of her paralysed shock, she would’ve pulled out immediately, but she was aware that that would just hurt you even more. so she leaned over, quickly untying the belt around your wrists and letting it fall to the ground beside the bed. she massaged your wrists gently for a moment, trying to soothe you. 

her hands moved over your tense muscles, trying to ease some of the soreness. she brushed some of your hair out of your eyes, her touch soft and cautious. “i-i’m so sorry, baby. i never wanted to push you that far.”

you knew that. you knew that she would never actually intend to hurt you, you knew that she wasn’t herself. you didn’t need her to over explain herself, you just needed her to hold you. the hand that had been pushing your hair out of your eyes moved to stroke your cheek, and you could see the intense guilt in her eyes. 

“i’m gonna pull out now, okay?” her voice trembled slightly as she spoke, eyes fixed on your face. 

you simply nodded, hissing slightly in pain as she gently pulled the strap out of you. billie felt her stomach twist at your obvious pain, knowing that she had done that. “i know, i’m so sorry.”

once she was out of you, she climbed off you and gently shifted you so you were sitting further up the bed, propped up on the pillows slightly. her mind was clearly racing with what she could do to help, “do you need anything? water, food, whatever?”

you shook your head softly. if your brain hadn’t been so exhausted, you probably would have thought more rationally about this. but you didn’t, and you didn’t once consider the limited affection in your dynamic. “can you just hold me?” 

billie didn’t hesitate, she just nodded instantly. “yeah, of course i can.” she joined you further up the bed, pulling you into her arms. she held you against her chest gently, her fingers soothingly running through your hair while her hand rubbed your back softly. 

you could hear her heartbeat, it was fast and a clear reminder of how stressed she was. you spoke softly, “it’s okay, seriously.”

but it wasn’t okay, not to billie. she had hurt you, she had pushed you too far, even when you were already clearly tired. she should’ve known better, and the guilt was weighing down from her and eating her up from the inside. not to mention she was terrified that this might be your last straw, that you might never want to see her again, that she might have broken your trust. wondering why she cared so much about her casual fling’s feelings was something that would have left her perplexed on any other day, but it was not currently at the forefront of her mind. “but–”

“it’s okay.” you said firmly, “i wouldn’t be asking you to hold me if i was uncomfortable around you.” 

those words seemed to ease billie’s nerves slightly, and she tightened her arms around you, holding you close. after a few minutes of this, she gently pulled you to sit in your lap, and you shifted so that your head was buried in the crook of her neck. you could feel her breathing on your skin, and you could feel her chest rising and falling with each breath. it was incredibly grounding, the feeling of just being close to her. ever so slowly, you felt your breathing calm and your heart rate slow down. 

at least an hour passed as you were just laying there in her arms, your breathing syncing with hers as her fingers ran through your hair. it was a foreign thing, for the two of you to be this close without sex, but it felt so right. it was like you were made to be in her arms, despite the situation that had brought you here. you could sense her guilt, and if you’d been a bit more aware of what was going on, you probably would’ve realised that there was something more behind that guilt—something deeper than just feeling bad for pushing you. but you were unaware, it wasn’t really what took place at the front of your mind. 

the room was filled with only the sound of both of you breathing, and your mind was taken over by the calming feeling of her playing with your hair. after a while, she broke the silence. “d’you wanna borrow something to wear?” 

you couldn’t deny that you liked the feeling of this skin to skin contact, but you also knew that it was a good idea. so you nodded quietly, and she delicately lifted you off her lap and set you down on the bed. she walked over and grabbed you an oversized t-shirt to wear, and she walked into the ensuite to grab a damp cloth. she came back over and gently wiped your thighs with the cloth, at this point you didn’t flinch too much because it had been so long. she held out the t-shirt, which you recognised as one she had worn at some point.

“arms up, darling.” that was a new pet name, but you didn’t comment. instead, you just lifted your arms and allowed her to slip the top over your head. it smelt like her, which somehow just added to the comfort. 

soon enough, she was back on the bed and you were back in her arms. she was laying down and you were laying with her, partly on top of her and partly just cuddled up to her side. this hadn’t happened before between the two of you, but you certainly weren’t complaining. her bed was comfortable, and her arms around you felt like a cocoon you never wanted to grow out of. 

gradually, your breathing started to slow as the exhaustion caught up on you, both from the recent events and your already tiring day. your head slumped onto her shoulder as a yawn fell from your lips, to which billie smiled softly. 

“do you want to stay the night?” 

that was not something you’d ever expected billie to say, but you hummed softly against her shoulder. “if that’s okay, yeah.”

you could’ve sworn you heard a sigh of relief from billie, “of course it’s okay, please stay. i want you to stay.” 

and so you did. you stayed that night, wrapped up in billie’s arms. it was so new, but it felt so right. that night had been an irreversible shift in your relationship, for both obvious reasons and more hidden ones. you knew that the two of you would have to talk about some stuff in the morning, and you knew you’d have to set some more boundaries. but you also felt closer to her than you ever had, somehow. 

little did you know, that night was just as  meaningful for billie as it was for you. she had had a revelation, one that she would likely keep to herself for a while, although there was no doubt you would find out eventually. 

but there was no doubt that billie wanted you to stay, longer than she’d ever thought.

[theminecraftbee]

Cleo sits next to Scott, her head in her hands, and says—

—“I really thought it’d be different this time.” BigB sighs. He kicks his foot. Ren is, at least, a sympathetic ear. He understands these things, or at least he understands that it’s hard to be alone. “I mean, I know you don’t trust those guys…”

“I don’t,” agrees Ren.

“But they reached out, man. And I thought, well,”—

—“I could always bury the hatchet, you know?” Cleo says. “It’s been what, how many games? How many years? And I can recognize when I’m as much of the problem as someone else.”

“You had a reason to be a problem. I love that you’re a problem,” Scott says supportively. Pearl snorts in the corner.

“I’m good at being a problem!” Cleo says

“I know, you are,” Scott agrees.

“But it’s like—I don’t know. Maybe I was ready to be done being angry! Maybe I…”—

—“…just wanted a change.”

BigB is quiet. He lets the thought sit in the air. Ren, normally a man determined to fill silences, at least understands the value of a dramatic pause; he doesn’t say anything yet.

Martyn, however, has grown a bit more impatient over the sessions. "What kind of change? You two have been weird about each other for years."

BigB is quiet a moment more. "Did you know that—Ren, did you know that you were the first and last person to show me trust?"

"Uh, thank you, dude," Ren says.

"But like, the thing is, people, they stabbed us then, man. And it's just..."—

—"...he didn't have to! That's what gets me! He could have like... said anything to me? I don't ask much! I offered him my hand! I said, sure man. I'm gonna forgive you, just this once. We can try again. And he just—he tried to kill you! Why?"

"I mean, Scott is one of the people with the most lives," Impulse says reasonably. "And he didn't betray you."

"That's not how teams work, Impulse," Cleo says. "You can't just get rid of the teammate you don't like. The team is only as strong..."—

—"...as weak as it's component parts."

Ren and Martyn stare.

"Jesus, BigB," Martyn says.

BigB looks away. "Yeah, um, well. I don't think that's that stupid. It's not about you two, really. And this is a death game, right? I didn't attack her. It's just... I wasn't going to, really. I wasn't..."—

—"...he was going to, that's the thing. He's always going to do... this!"

"Maybe that's what you get for reaching out to a traitor," Scott says lightly.

Impulse looks away. Pearl snorts again. Cleo sighs.

"Look, I have a long memory, but if I let that decide everything I do forever it would eat me. And people have their reasons. Impulse, look Scott in the eyes, he's not even the reason you have that reputation. Pearl, you're a part of the team. That's the thing. People can change. People..."—

—"...can't change, really." BigB shrugs. "She should know better by now."

"Uh, dude, should we know better?" Ren asks.

"Nah. I mean, Martyn's worse than I am," BigB says cheerfully.

"Martyn," Ren says, sounding vaguely disappointed. Martyn crosses his arms.

"What? You're the one who said I had evil in me. If you take in a snake, you can't be mad if it bites you. If you take in a scorpion..."—

—"...you can hope it learns not to sting you. I don't know. Maybe it's just in his nature."

Pearl makes a strange noise. "And what's in my nature?"

Cleo sighs. She steps over and throws an arm around Pearl's shoulder.

"As long as you don't bite me? I'm willing to learn." Pearl leans into Cleo's arm slightly. Cleo can't help but wonder, some days, how much of the way she flinches back again is her fault. BigB isn't the only one that Cleo hopes can change his nature. Otherwise...

"I'm not actually a traitor, despite what everyone claims," Impulse says, apropos of nothing.

"You know, you should pick better friends," Scott says.

"Nah," Cleo says. She doesn't elaborate. She just—

—breathes. BigB just breathes.

"It was never going to work, anyway," he says.

"Sometimes I wonder if everyone broke while I wasn't looking," Ren says quietly, sadly. BigB has no answer for that.

[itsmemuffy]

Random Fluffy/Cute Logan Howlett HC's

Original Trilogy!Logan x fem reader, 110% fluff

a/n: I started writing for Logan a couple of months back. Decided it was time to be brave and actually post something. My drafts are a mess of half written drabbles and random ideas, so I am testing the waters with some HC's while I try to figure out how I want to write him.

➼ We all know Logan has almost no sense of pop culture. Kids at the mansion will tease him when a reference goes completely over his head. He hates the feeling of not being in control of a social interaction. One time, he catches you giggling off to the side when he gets called an old man for the third time that day; one of the few instances you've ever seen him blush. His consumption of modern media has mainly consisted of dad rock that plays in dingy bars and the occasional movie he was forced to sit through.

➼ Speaking of... he loves movie nights. At first it was just a guaranteed way to get you alone once a week, adoring how you get all exited over whatever film you had picked out. It's not like Logan had planned to pay attention to what was happening on screen, anyway. More often than not, however, he finds himself getting waaay too into the movie than he originally intended. He's a smartass that likes to call out the inconsistencies and plot holes. When a movie has an ending he isn't satisfied with, it will make him genuinely angry.

➼ Second only to movie nights, Logan's favorite moments spent with you is when you go on walks together. Both of your free time is rare and precious. The second he has the opportunity, he will take you by the hand and lead you off somewhere, anywhere. Wandering around, arms linked, sometimes in silence, sometimes while letting eachother ramble on and on about everything and nothing. He cherishes the simplicity of being hand in hand with the woman he loves, enjoying nature with her. Every time without fail, Logan will ask if you are cold, wrapping you in his jacket. It drives him wild the way your scent will linger on his clothing when you give it back.

➼ So called "actual" dates where he takes you out are far and few between. Sometimes it eats at Logan that he can't treat you the way he feels you deserve. A hectic and unpredictable schedule is just one of the things that come with being part of the X-Men and it's hard for him to plan things ahead of time. Even if it's just a late night drive to a 24-hour diner after he gets back from a mission, he will make time for you any way he can.

➼ Logan needs to initiate some form of touch when you're in his presence. Even if it's just a hand resting gently on the back of your shoulder, he will make sure you are linked to him any way possible. It brings him great comfort just to be near you. Everyone knows that as soon as he walks into a room you're in, he will be glued to your hip. At the end of the day, you're Logan's peace and he wouldn't pass up a single second to be next to you.

[whimsicallywiddershins]

The entire fandom agrees that Percy Jackson has some scary eldritch qualities that humans notice. But I think that all the demigods do, even if most of the effects are more subtle. Powerful demigods are super noticeable, but even the weakest are scary to normal people. But I like to imagine some of my favorites:

Annabeth looks at people like she's dissecting a blueprint, and nothing about them is hidden. She turns her head at odd angles, like an owl. She notices small things and goes completely still, staring, like a bird of prey who just saw a mouse. People feel unsettled by her gaze, like every weakness and vulnerability are no longer hidden.

Hazel's hair, skin and eyes seem to shine metallic when the light catches just right. Sometimes her motions are rigid and awkward, like she hadn't used her limbs for a long time, like she isn't used to having a body. Her shadow is a deeper black than it should be, is bigger than it should be, and doesn't always move with the light.

Nico's skin is sometimes almost translucent, like he is more ghost than human. You can almost see the muscle and bones beneath it. His eyes catch and hold people, so dark and deep it feels like they are falling an incredibly long distance into dark water and earth. His shadow is also too dark. Sometimes, people swear they can hear faint screaming from his shadow, like thousands of tormented souls are trapped inside.

Jason has fangs, more wolf than human. His mouth opens wider than it should, and he looks at people like he is thinking of the best way to hunt and catch and rip and tear. His eyes are too blue and he always smells like ozone. People want to bow to him as he walks by. People want to run, but instinctively know that he will chase them, and they wait, frozen, for him to pass.

Thalia, like Jason, is a hunter. Her eyes are too blue, too vivid, and she stares people down like she is already picturing them riddled with arrows. She tracks small sounds with terrifying intensity. Brushing up against her will deliver a horrible static shock, and power lines and lights flicker and buzz when she walks by.

Will's hair is too bright. His skin glows, especially at night. At first, it seems to be a sweet thing, his good nature shining though. But sometimes when people touch him, they burn. Just standing near him is too much, like standing in the direct sun on a hot summer day.

Piper's face seems to change, every time someone turns to look at her. Subtle, but someone's subconscious is screaming that this girl is different, something is wrong. Her voice trills, like a bird, when she in happy. People can't help but to follow her and when she is gone, they feel bereft. She is too beautiful, and it hurts to look, but people can't help themselves and look anyways.

Leo is always hot to the touch. His fingers and limbs feel rough and metallic, his hair curls like wire. His eyes glitter like polished coins and when he walks by, cars and computers and machines start up and move on their own, just for a moment. He runs across a busy street and the cars stop for him with no regard for what the driver is doing.

Frank doesn't move like a human. He glides, slinks, pads softly and so quietly most people don't notice him. He had an aura of command. Frank seems so normal and average, but angry or upset people look at him and know that they can't take him. Sometimes, when he is angry, people get upset and fights start in his wake.

[annebd]

prompt: scotty and max fucking dirt nasty about daniel

My first ask prompt! Thank you for turning my own horny tags against me! I don’t know if I managed to get all the way to dirt nasty, but I feel like we can at least call this “potting soil rude.” ;)

Below the cut and also here at AO3.

Max and Scotty have a tenuous agreement. A custody arrangement, Scotty calls it. When Daniel had first introduced them all those years ago, he’d clearly assumed that since he loved them both, naturally they’d like each other, too. They did not. Instead, they spent the first few months of their acquaintance doing their damnedest to avoid each other’s presence while fighting over who got to spend more time with Daniel. Neither of them wanted to share their time with him with the other, and each felt that they had a more compelling reason to lay claim to Daniel’s attention. Max declared teammate dibs, while Scotty argued for compatriot rights. The arguments escalated- furious text messages interspersed with angry glares and whispered squabbling away from Daniel’s ears until, eventually, they decided that the only viable option was to share custody.

Max gets Daniel on race weekends, from Thursday all the way through to Sunday night (and if they’re celebrating a good race result, well into the wee hours of Monday morning). Scotty has free rein over the rest of the week and any non-race weekends, except for times when Daniel and Max are both in Monaco at the same time, in which case Max gets first dibs on invites to dinners, clubs, or padel dates. Scotty had tried to argue that this rule unfairly favors Max, given that Max and Daniel both live in Monaco, which immediately gives him way more Daniel-time. Max wasted no time in pointing out that Scotty also lives in Monaco, so that’s a dumb argument, and with the amount of travel they all do, there’s very little overlap in their schedules anyway, which was the whole point in the first place.

The most important rule in their agreement, though, is that Daniel remains absolutely unaware that any of this is going on. If he knew the lengths Scotty and Max were going to in order to rearrange their schedules and his, he would make that face at them. The one where his eyes go wide and soft and red rimmed. He would shake his head at them, and he would use words like “childish” and “manipulative” and “disappointed.” No. It’s better that Daniel doesn’t know.

He’s somehow never managed to catch on that Scotty doesn’t ever hang out with him on race weekends, even if he’s at the grand prix and chilling with Chloe in the Aston Martin hospitality. He’ll give Daniel a wave, a pat on the bum if they pass each other in the paddock, but he's never asked for a pass to Daniel’s garage, even though he could easily get one as a Red Bull athlete himself. And Daniel’s also never noticed that Max pretty much disappears after race weekends, only to pop up in the background of one of Martijn’s Instagram stories or on stream with the other Twitch boys, even if Daniel mentions he'd be happy to hang out if Max finds himself in LA whenever he’s there.

Over the years, they’ve reached a tentative truce over their shared time with Daniel, but neither of them has ever gotten what they truly want: Daniel himself. He’ll flirt with them all day long,  but they know he’d just as easily flirt with a brick wall if given the chance. Flirting sometimes leads to more: Daniel will get up close behind Max on the crowded dance floor at a club, brush the tease of a half chub against Max’s ass as he scoots past him, a drink in each hand and a grin on his face. He’ll wrap one arm around Max’s waist from behind, a gesture with a flourish to present him with the G&T he’d ordered for Max, and whisper “just for you, Maxy,” as he hands him the drink and presses his cock against the seam of Max’s ass. And then he’ll flounce off again, shimmying to the pulse of the music and unaware of, or simply uncaring about, the state of Max’s shorts.

Max has seen him with Scotty, knows that he acts just the same way with him. Always standing too close, legs intertwined, sharing jokes murmured under his breath or whispered too loudly in his ear. He’ll tuck himself under Scotty’s chin, fingertips of one hand tugging teasingly at the collar of Scotty's shirt, while the other hand reaches out to take a selfie that he’ll send to Max and caption “wish you were here!”

But Daniel never lets them get any closer than that. He’ll tease, flirt, hint that he wants more, but he never takes the next step- or lets Scotty or Max take it, either. Somewhere along the line, they realized that if they can’t have Daniel himself, they’ll have to settle for the next best option.

That option is this: Scotty has Max face down, ass up on his driver room floor. There’s no space in here for this, but neither of them had cared about the logistics of anything beyond getting the door shut and tearing off enough clothing to get started. Max is still wearing his Red Bull polo- the hem rucked up to his armpits. His jeans are hanging off one foot, caught on the shoe he didn’t bother to take off before he started peeling out of his clothes. Scotty is no better off- his jeans are unzipped far enough for him to have pulled his cock out, but he’s otherwise still fully clothed.

Max watches over his shoulder as Scotty coats his fingers in lube. It’s the shitty kind in a packet that Max swiped from the complimentary amenity kit in the hotel this morning and tossed at Scotty’s head as they stumbled into his driver room and started pulling off their clothes. It’s sticky and a little goopy, but it’ll do in a pinch.

Scotty opens Max up brusquely, stretching him with two and then three fingers in quick succession. Max bristles at the burn, the way he can feel a flame lick up and down his spine, unsure of whether the sensation is pleasure or pain. He breathes through the too quick stretch and the way Scotty intentionally avoids so much as brushing past his prostate. Max knows they don’t have time for gentle. The first free practice session starts in barely more than half an hour, and Max still needs to go through his warm up routine and check in with GP about the set up plan for the run. But even with all the time in the world, Scotty still wouldn’t give him the courtesy. His focus here isn’t on Max’s pleasure.

“Come on already,” Max complains. He’s reaching back with a free hand to pull Scotty in closer, trying to grab at his cock. At least when Scotty is buried in him, Max can fuck himself back onto him, guide the angle exactly where he wants it.

“Shut up,” Scotty hisses, pushing Max’s polo further up and stuffing the hem into Max’s mouth. Max is loud. Always. But here, they don’t have the luxury of being able to hide behind the anonymity of a private hotel room, where the sound of Max’s drawn out groans or high pitched squeals can be passed off as coming from one of the other rooms down the hall; nor can they rely on the ironclad NDAs of the staff on Max’s private plane, who may have overheard him more than once begging for Scotty to stop fucking around and fuck him harder. Checo’s driver room is just next door. He’ll hear if Max starts shouting the way he wants to.

Assured that the makeshift gag will do for now, Scotty grabs a handful of Max’s left ass cheek, pulling him wide, fingers of his other hand moving unceremoniously in and out of his hole. Max can feel the cool metal of Scotty’s wedding ring against him, a twin sensation to the cold slick of the lube dripping down his rim. He wonders if Chloe knows. She’s probably lounging in the Aston Martin hospitality right now, sipping casually on a glass of wine as she chats with Fernando or jokes around with Lance. Does she know that her husband is only a few dozen yards away, wiping the excess lube off his hand and onto his cock and lining it up with Max’s hole? He wonders what she’d say if she knew. He wonders what Daniel would.

He groans as the thought hits him. Imagines Daniel’s face if he walked into Max’s driver room right now, saw him splayed out like this, moaning like a whore as Scotty takes that moment between breaths to push in, his first thrust already a zero to sixty full send that has Max sliding further to the floor. His knees slip wider and his hip flexors stretch beyond the point of a pleasant ache. Rupert is going to kill him if he shows up to his pre-race warm up with a limp. Maybe Daniel would help soothe the ache. He could slide to the floor beneath them, tuck himself under Max’s juddering hips, suck the tip of his cock into his mouth as Scotty keeps pounding into him.

Max gasps and clenches down as he imagines it. Fuck, what he wouldn’t give for Daniel to burst through the door. Through the drool soaked fabric held between his teeth, he moans out a barely coherent “Daniel!”

The room is immediately quiet as Scotty stills inside him and Max inhales sharply at his own outburst. For a long moment, neither of them moves. They breathe in the shared silence for a beat, and then Scotty pulls back to sit on his haunches and grabs Max by the back of his polo shirt to haul him back with him. The change in angle has him sliding, somehow, even further down onto Scotty’s length. Max groans. From his new position on Scotty’s lap, he can feel the bite of zipper teeth against the back of his thigh. That’s going to leave a mark- another thing he’ll have to explain away to Rupert when he hops into the ice bath tomorrow.

Scotty wraps one hand firmly around Max’s chest, brushes the sharp edge of a thumbnail over Max’s nipple, drawing out a hushed squeal. He pulls Max tight against his body, cock buried balls deep inside him. As he starts moving again, stabbing staccato thrusts aimed directly at Max’s prostate, intended to tease but not satisfy, he leans in to whisper directly into Max’s ear. “Come on, Maxy. You’re not trying to get us caught, are you? Not trying to get Daniel in here to see what you look like getting fucked like this.”

Max huffs out an annoyed moan. “Like you don’t want it, too. You would be putting on a show for him. Trying to show him how good you can fuck. Which, of course, isn’t even very good at all.” 

Max knows he’s hit a nerve. It always comes down to this for them. Sometimes they’ll spend the entire time just egging each other on. It usually doesn’t take much more than the mere mention of Daniel from either of them to get things ramped up. Like clockwork, he can feel Scotty’s rhythm start to falter behind him, his thrusts becoming more and more erratic. Before he even has time to reach down for his own cock, he feels Scotty stiffen and then grind hard into him. 

Everything immediately feels wetter, the slick combo of lube and come mixing inside him as Scotty starts to pull out. Max whines, tries to clench down and keep Scotty’s dick inside him. “Don’t fucking stop, you fuck!” he whisper-shouts, trying to bounce on the flagging cock already slipping free from his hole. It’s too late. Scotty pulls out completely and shoves Max off of him to flop back to the driver room floor. He’s still fully dressed, just his bare wet cock out, lying limp on the precarious biting edge of his unzipped jeans. 

Furious and still achingly hard, Max clambers on top of him, knees spread on either side of Scotty’s hips. He grabs at Scotty’s hand and forces two fingers together before lifting up and shoving them between his legs. He refuses to look down at Scotty’s face. He knows that if he does, he’ll see that fucking smirk. He closes his eyes and throws his head back instead, so that in his mind’s eye, he can imagine that it’s Daniel beneath him, whose hand he’s riding quickly to climax. Scotty’s doing nothing to help him along, but his fingers are serviceable enough as a makeshift dildo for Max to ride, and quickly enough, he’s approaching orgasm. He comes and chokes back the cry that threatens to spill over. 

He catches his come in one hand to save it from landing directly on Scotty’s shirt. He’d deserve it, the asshole; but Max knows those aren’t risks they’re able to take. Can’t explain away the random stain or have to come up with an excuse as to why Scotty’s wearing a borrowed Red Bull t-shirt and walking away from the Red Bull end of the paddock on a weekend he’s supposed to be hanging out in the Aston Martin garage. So Max catches his come in his hand. But he can’t resist the opportunity to fuck with Scotty at least a little, so he pushes up his shirt- some obnoxious NFT branded thing- and smears his cupped hand across Scotty’s abs, painting his stomach with it before Scotty even realizes it’s happening.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Scotty complains and pushes Max off him for the second time. He grabs randomly for the first thing he can put his hands on to serve as a rag- the balaclava that Max is supposed to be wearing for free practice today- and uses it to wipe himself off. He tosses the balaclava at Max to finish cleaning up and then stands to tuck himself back into his jeans and zip up. 

Once they’re both mostly presentable, Max pokes his head out of the room, checks that there’s no one around to see Scotty exiting. Satisfied that they’re clear, he steps out of the way and jerks his chin at Scotty, a nod towards the door for him to get out.

“Yeah, I’m gone. See ya never, mate,” Scotty throws over his shoulder as he saunters out of Max’s driver room.

“Fuck you, too,” Max throws back at him. He glances at the clock. He’s almost late for his warm up with Rupert. Fuck.

***

The rest of the weekend is mostly business as usual. He has to sit through a lecture from Rupert about having to rush through his warm up (“Where’ve you been? And why are you so stiff in your hips today?” he asks as he takes Max through the exercises. “Do we need to add more stretching to your routine?”), and then another from GP about having to rush the prep for the practice session, but neither is out of the ordinary. He puts it on pole the next day and wins the race the day after. He takes a moment to celebrate with the team and then makes sure to seek Daniel out for the biggest hug, an arm looped around Daniel’s waist and a hand clasped at the back of his neck, holding him close. He’s only got a few more hours of custody time before he’ll have to hand him over to Scotty, and he intends to make the most of them.

After the champagne, the ceremony, the interviews, he follows Daniel to his driver room, chattering all the way about the race and how the car is finally feeling like they’ve got a handle on it this season. Daniel nods at the appropriate moments, points out things he’d noticed on track, too. Max beams. He loves talking about racing with anyone, but most especially with Daniel.

In Daniel’s driver room, Max makes himself as comfortable as he can on the small padded bench and watches as Daniel strips off his race suit and fireproofs and tosses them in a heap on the ground. He wanders around the tiny room in just his boxer briefs, which are molded to his thighs, still sweat-slick from the race. Max’s own briefs start feeling a little tight as he takes in all of the skin on display in front of him.

“What are we doing to celebrate tonight?” he asks. “Carlos told me about this new club that he and Charles have visited. We can go there together, if you want. Few G&Ts to end the weekend?”

Daniel nods while he throws on his regular clothes, and Max sighs as all that golden skin disappears from view. “Sounds good, mate. I’m all in!”

Max smiles back at him. Perfect. He’s riding the high of the win, and as the blood rushes from his brain to locations further south, he decides to press his luck. “And then tomorrow, do you want to fly with me in my plane? You can come with me to Greece for a bit, if you want.”

“Sorry, no can do, Maxy. Got plans for this week already. Besides,” he pauses halfway out the door, gives Max a sharp look over his shoulder, “it’s not your custody week, is it? Scotty wouldn’t approve.”

Max stares after Daniel as he skips down the stairs out of his driver room. Fuck.

[http-shield]

Bucky is high-key appalled by the lack of chivalry and politeness exhibited by the men of the twenty first century. Can't fathom that men ignore women on the train or bus who need seats, that doors aren't being opened for women, seats aren't being pulled out, space isn't made for women as they pass packs of men on the sidewalk. There are many things in this new age world that Bucky can't wrap his head around, but the disregard for women is something he'll never understand, so he opens doors for ladies if they are both going in the same building, vacates seats when there is a woman around in need of space. He can't help it, having grown up in a world entirely different to the one he is now. It is second nature and comes as quickly as breathing, but it stuns you a little the first time you get treated like that. You swoon at the fact Bucky holds the door for you, lets you pass before him, makes sure you walk on the safer side of the pavement, holds your hand when you cross the road, makes sure you get the food and drinks first, offers to drive and pay for date nights, the list is endless. Still, for once in your adult dating life, you don't question the sincerity of his words as they are backed up by actions.

"Did something happen to men while I was gone?" Bucky's confused voice floats down the hall of your apartment as he strides in, kicking his shoes off and placing them neatly on the rack by the bathroom door.

"What do you mean?" You look up from your spot on the couch, laptop sitting on your raised legs. "Like, did they go extinct and come back?"

Bucky reaches the living room and shucks off his jacket and gloves to hang over the chair before coming to the couch and plopping beside you. A soft kiss is pressed to your cheek, stubble grazing your skin as he mumbles a greeting before settling into the plush sofa.

"I mean, did they lose all manners?" he shakes his head in disbelief, hands splaying out in frustrated emphasis. "Do men not open doors for women? Or move out of the way for them on the side walk?"

You close the laptop and stow it away on the small shelf of the coffee table, no longer focusing on the information packets Tony had sent you early this morning.

"What happened?" You ask, reaching up to card your fingers through his hair, enjoying how he melts into your touch.

"I just watched a bucnh'a men in suits practically push a woman out of the way to get through the door." he sighs, clearly exasperated at the lack of respect for other humans. "And then they didn't even hold the door for her! They just let it swing closed. How do they act on dates? I doubt they pay."

You hum, letting his rant continue.

"And I was on the line."

"Online." you correct gently, spiking his hair up with your fingers, the shorter strands finally obeying you.

"I was online," he rectifies. "and I saw this video of a woman talking about a man getting angry that she wasn't gonna go home with him after the first date."

"Please tell me that never happened to you." His attention shifts to you now, genuine distress simmering in his blue eyes, and when you don't answer, he becomes distraught.

"Doll, no," Bucky shakes his head as if you confessed to the murder of his beloved stuffed animal. "Come on, you gotta be joking."

"It was years ago! I was young and stupid and didn't know my worth." You shrug, obviously not as upset as your counterpart. “I've learnt my lesson. I know I am worth at least two dinners now." The joke falls flat as Bucky stares, not amused.

"It's a joke, Buck."

"I know, but I don't like it." He grumbles, folding his arms across his chest like a child. "Don't like that you were treated like that."

"Well, good thing I've got you now, huh?" you abandon his hair, stroking the back of your fingers over his stubbly cheek.

Bucky pouts. "Still don't like it. You deserved better."

You kiss his cheek, feeling his cheeks round as he smiles. "You're too good to me, Mr. Barnes." another kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Even if we did sleep together on the first date."

"Hey! That wasn't the same. We knew each other before that." Bucky protests as you stand from the couch, walking to the kitchen to start on dinner. "At least I paid!"

[mer-acle]

2nd Gen Olympian nicknames

(I know we kinda always use nicknames when we write about the sillies, but these are what I think would actually be used by the characters. Obv just headcanon, sorted by age lol)

Athena

Doesn't like nicknames, which makes her siblings use them all the more, particularly when they're younger.

Ath (on occasion, by Artemis, Apollo, or Hephaestus), Thena (that one kinda sticks after God Games), Attie (by Ares when he was a kid without self-preservation instinct, now sometimes by Hermes who has a deathwish), Thea (by Ody and Fam)

Hephaestus

Doesn't mind, doesn't care.

Heph (by everyone, even Athena surprisingly), Phaestus (rarer but it happens), Hephie (by Hermes, naturally)

Aphrodite

Actually loves nicknames, but loves terms of endearment even more. Ares hasn't used her name to her face in centuries, if he didn't call her my love, my darling, or my little dove, she would literally cry bc she would think he was breaking up with her.

Dite (The casual one most of her siblings use), Aph (Apollo, serious), Dovie (Somebody please contain Hermes)

Ares

His name has two syllables. One might argue for ARES (Athena, annoyed). Otherwise just endearment from Aphrodite, and descriptors like The Angry One. Please be nicer to Ares everyone he deserves better.

Artemis

Doesn't mind nicknames per se, but is particular about which ones.

Artie is out of the question (not even Hermes, Artemis is a ranged fighter), Temi or Ari is fine (Apollo, her girls, and on occasion some of the others)

Apollo

Is genuinely sad that Pollo is the only variant of his name that's halfway reasonable. Yes, people call him "Sunshine" (Okay, Hermes does, and his bf/gf do too), Pollo... honestly most of the siblings have used it but it doesn't really stick.

Hermes

Literally nobody shortens his name, but I guarantee every god and goddess has called him "little shit" at least once.

Dionysus

Honestly if the drugs kick in he answers to no variant of his name lol. It's Dio, by pretty much everyone, always (apart from Athena pre-God Games who stubbornly uses his full name)

[crimsonwolf715]

It's Not Your Fault

Jason’s been sitting in the therapist’s office for a while now, mostly silent as she asks him questions he gives one or two word answers to. 

“Why don’t you tell me about what happened?” the therapist asks, clearly trying to get Jason to interact with her. 

“Why should I?” Jason asks, keeping his eyes on his hands. 

“Because maybe if you talk about it, it will help you process through your grief. If you’re unable to talk about it we can start with something else.” 

Jason sighs. “It started out as a mission, barely a mission. The police needed assistance clearing out a building, so Red and I went. They were clearing out the building because due to some explosion that had happened next door a little earlier in the day, they found that it wasn’t likely the foundation of the building would hold. A bunch of debris fell on Red. He didn’t make it home.” 

“And how does that make you feel?” 

“Angry,” Jason answers. 

“Anything else?” she presses.

Jason shakes his head. “Nope.” 

“It’s natural to feel angry, but do you think there’s something stopping you from feeling anything else?” 

“Yeah, the anger.” Jason looks at his watch. “But would you look at that? Time’s up, so I’m gonna head home.” 

“We’re not done talking about this.” 

“I am. I’ve got other things to do today.” 

Jason gets up and grabs his bag, then heads out of the therapist’s office without another word. 

Jason heads up to the top floor to search for anybody else. When he doesn’t find anybody, he heads down to find Tim. Jason hears a crack, then the floor starts fracturing. 

“What floor are you on?” Jason asks. 

“I don’t know, eighth floor?” Tim answers. 

Dread fills Jason knowing that’s the floor right below him. 

“Get to the stairs, now. The floor above you is going to cave in.” 

“On my way.” 

Jason races down the stairs and he hears the floor give out on his way down. He gets to the next floor and doesn’t see Tim at the stairs. He runs onto the floor and Tim’s buried under debris. 

“Tim,” he breathes, then runs over. 

Jason removes debris and Tim’s not moving. Once enough debris is moved, Jason pulls Tim over to the stable side of the building. Tim’s eyes are half-open and he coughs up blood onto himself and Jason. 

“Hey, it’s gonna be fine.” 

He gently picks Tim up and gets him out of the building. Once they’re out of the building, Jason gently puts Tim down to check for injuries. Tim’s wheezing. 

“Medical’s on their way,” Jason says. “Just a little longer.” 

“I can’t,” Tim says. 

The words feel like a bucket of ice water being dumped on Jason’s head. 

“That’s okay, it’s not your fault.” 

“I’m sorry,” Tim says, his voice breaking. 

“It’s okay, don’t be sorry. You’ve done such a good job. You can rest now.” 

Tim gives Jason a small smile, then closes his eyes. Jason holds his brother close until he stops breathing. 

Jason gets home and heads straight for his room. 

“Jason!” 

It’s Dick, and Jason can hear footsteps behind him meaning that Dick’s following him. 

“Can you leave me alone?” Jason asks. 

“That’s all I’ve been doing for a month. I’ve tried being accommodating but you keep pushing me away.” 

“Maybe that’s because I don’t want anyone’s attention.” 

Jason slams his door shut behind him and he can almost hear Dick’s thoughts of knocking on Jason’s door. He doesn’t end up doing it and Jason can hear him head towards Damian’s room down the hall. Jason spends the rest of the day locked in his room reading the books Tim wrote in his little amount of free time before taking over WE or laying on his bed, occasionally throwing darts. 

It’s well after ten o’clock when he takes stock of the time and decides he should probably get something to drink. Jason walks downstairs and finds nobody. He sighs and heads to the kitchen. Not that he exactly wanted to run into anybody, but he was hoping that maybe he’d wanna talk if he did. He contemplates breaking into the liquor cabinet, but decides to just drown his sorrows in orange juice instead. He walks into the living room and Bruce is standing there. He must have just come up from the Batcave. 

Jason turns to leave when Bruce’s voice stops him. “Jason.” 

“Dickie tattle on me?” 

“No, what happened with you and Dick?” 

Jason turns back towards Bruce. “Nothing.” 

“Can we talk for a minute?” Bruce asks. 

“Why not? I don’t have anything better to do,” Jason answers. 

Jason stands behind the couch while Bruce stays standing over by the bookshelf. 

“Everyone’s worried,” Bruce says. 

“Of course everyone’s worried,” Jason replies, cutting Bruce off. “Nobody knows how to mind their own business in this family aside from Damian.” 

“Everyone’s worried because this isn’t healthy,” Bruce continues, clearly ignoring Jason’s jab at him. “Nobody wants you to keep living like this.” 

“How am I supposed to live with the fact that he’s dead?” Jason shouts. “All I feel is rage! The sadness was gone within a day and all I can feel is this rage that makes me want to go out and start killing every psychotic or psychopathic person in this city!” 

“I understand that,” Bruce starts, but Jason cuts him off. 

“How could you? You didn’t kill anyone!” Jason shouts, throwing the book that was on the table at Bruce. 

Bruce moves just enough that he doesn’t get hit by the book, but he keeps his eyes on Jason. Jason’s breathing heavily, trying not to cry, his temper starting to evaporate. Bruce walks over and wraps his arms around Jason. 

“I’m sorry you had to go through this,” Bruce says quietly. “It’s okay to be upset and angry, but it isn’t your fault that this happened. And I promise I’ll be here for you.” 

Jason starts crying and buries his head in Bruce’s shoulder, sadness replacing the anger in an instant. Bruce rubs his back while he cries, the two of them staying in that position until Jason runs out of tears. 

“Come on, let’s get you some water and then head to bed. It’s late and you obviously haven’t slept much lately. If you can’t sleep, we can talk.” 

Jason nods. “I’m sorry I threw that book at you, Dad.” 

“There’s no need to be sorry. I know you didn’t mean it.” 

They head upstairs and Jason asks, “Can you come sit with me for a bit?” 

Bruce nods, so they go sit on Jason’s bed. Jason talks about Tim for a bit, trying not to cry again, then falls asleep leaning against Bruce.

[redvexillum]

I wanna scream because I love this story so much, HOLY SHI-

Alastor’s protective nature is so on display, especially when he’s looking out for you and doing all these thoughtful things, like helping with laundry, cleaning the house, and just generally being a stand-in for the man who should be taking care of you. Ugh, my heart just squeezes when he sees the bloodstains and gets all angry but quiet. He knows what’s going on, and his care is so raw and intense. It’s like he wants to tear down the walls surrounding you, but he’s so gentle about it, which makes it even more heart-wrenching.

And can we talk about the way he casually drops these hints about how he could take care of you better? Like, when he talks about buying a mechanical washer for you if you were his, I’m just bawling because he’s giving you this glimpse of what could be, all while being careful not to step too far in. Alastor wants you, but he’s also trying so hard to respect the space you’re in, and it makes my heart want to explode. 😭

His little moments, like when he presses a kiss to your temple and helps you with the laundry, make me melt into a puddle on the floor. They’re so domestic and tender and just make me so emotional because he doesn’t even need to ask for anything in return, he just gives. He’s doing everything for you because he wants to, and that’s the kind of guy you need, even though it’s all happening under the shadow of a dark, possessive tension.

Honestly, when Alastor says, “If he treated you well I could walk away,” I’m just sitting here, clutching my chest, because my guy would never just let you be with anyone else if they didn’t deserve you. He sees you. He sees everything—your pain, your struggles—and he’s like, “I’m here, I’ll help you, I’ll do anything for you,” even though he’s keeping it all tucked under the surface like a perfect gentleman. But we all know what’s bubbling beneath, and I am ready for that to boil over!

A Misdemeanor Of The Heart: Chapter 20 (Human Alastor x Married Reader)

Chapter Trigger Warnings: Angst, feels, abuse, Dead Dove: housework (ugh, housework!)

Prev Masterlist AO3 KoFi

Alastor drove through the dirty streets, rain puddles splashing under his tires as the towering iron gates grew closer by the second. It had been a while since he had been out here. Too long, really, but she would understand. Life got busy. Life moved on. Still, it was on days like this that he couldn’t help but think of her. 

She had always loved days like this, heavy dark skies that gave way to pockets of sunshine, the scent of rain thick in the air. She loved the sound of rain and water dripping off the roof after as the world shimmered in the patches of sunlight. She loved the mist it left behind. 

Alastor parked, stepping out of the car into the abandoned lot. Weather like this kept what few visitors there may have been away, but that was alright. He preferred to visit in solitude. It was only when the area was empty he could really connect with her. Alastor straightened his coat before slowly walking through the once neatly manicured paths. Weeds and grass had overgrown in places, encroaching on crumbling stone pathways, but it wasn’t unexpected. 

Time marched on, after all, and left these residents where they lay. 

He hummed her favorite song as he walked down the winding path, listening to the click of his shoes against the stone walkways. There was no reason to look around or ask for directions. He knew exactly where he was going. Alastor paid the other residents no mind as he made his way to his destination.

He slowed to a stop in front of her and knelt, brushing the dirt and leaves from where she lay with gentle hands. 

“Hello, Ma.” Alastor whispered, voice naked as he slipped his coat off, spreading it along the ground. “It’s been a while. How have you been?” 

Alastor waited for the answer that would never come as he sat with his back leaning against the raised surface of her tomb. Birds chirped in the trees, singing their song to celebrate the end of the rain, greeting the bright patches of sunlight. 

This plot had cost him a small fortune when he purchased it and the tomb she rested in now, but it had been worth every penny. It had nearly bankrupt him, but it was worth it. It was worth it because she deserved it. 

She would have yelled at him at the time, if she could have. She would have pulled his ear and waved her finger in his face as if he wasn’t a head taller than her. Him growing into a man never stopped her from mothering him. It all worked out, in the end though.

“I’ve been good,” Alastor said as he leaned against the cold stone, water seeping into his shirt. “I got that evening time slot. Can you believe it? Everyone but you said I never would, but it happened. People want to hear me, Ma. They want to listen to me, enough of them that I’m making it.” 

He waited again, eyes on the clouds floating high above as he imagined her praise and the look of pride on her face. Just one barrier between him and her he could never cross. 

Could she see him now? 

How much did she know, now that she was up there? 

He hoped she couldn’t see him when he wasn’t visiting her, that she couldn’t hear him. It was better if she knew and saw what he had told her. Let her have hope for as long as he lived. Let her hope he would join her up there. 

“Ma?” He whispered, voice thick with emotion and accent, sounding so much like the boy he had once been. “Remember when you said I’d find someone?” 

Alastor’s head thumped against the cold hard stone as light rain softly sprinkled down, clouds choking off the rays of sunlight once again. It was a mistake to leave the umbrella in the car, but he couldn’t be bothered to get up and walk all the way back to get it. Hopefully, the rain would stay light. If it didn’t, oh well. 

“I laughed at you for saying it.” Alastor’s accent was as thick as his voice as he spoke, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed the lump he swore was in his throat. Anyone walking by wouldn’t recognize it as the same chipper smoothe voice that graced the airwaves five nights a week. “Turns out you were right. There really is someone for everyone. I found her, Ma. I found her.” 

The rain picked up, drops gathering on his glasses. Alastor pulled them from his face and tucked them into the jacket pocket, reminding himself to be mindful of them lest be break them. Cold rain peppered his face as he leaned his head back again, letting his eyes take in the unfocused mounds of the clouds. 

“I think you’d like her. She’s kind, Ma. She sees me and dosen’t care. She’s so warm and open. Her laugh is like music, better than that jazz you could never understand why I loved so much.”

Alastor closed his eyes as the rain grew steadier. Drops rolled down his cheek and temple as he let them was away the day. His chest felt tight. It was a tightness he hadn’t felt in a long time. 

“Ma, she’s married already. Big fancy house, but she’s not happy. He’s running around on her. You can forgive me for…” He hesitated. There was no one around to hear him say it. Saying it wouldn’t change anything. Not saying it wouldn’t make it any less real, either. “You can forgive me for falling in love with a married woman?”

Water ran down his face as he closed his eyes. His chest was so tight and his head swam. Rain soaked into his shirt and pants, a cooling contrast to the fire in his stomach that he didn’t know what to do with. 

“She’s not happy,” he whispered. “He hurts her like Pa used to hurt you and I- I’m not sure how to fix it. What do I do, Ma?” 

Alastor waited again for an answer that would never come, listening to the gust of wind that picked up, whistling through the tombs and headstones. Rain splashed off the top of the tomb behind him. 

“Tell me what to do, Ma,” he pleaded into the silent cemetery. He waited for an answer he knew would never come. Never again would his ma stand over him and tell him what to do. All there ever would be to answer him was the echo of her voice in his head, the ghostly memory of her words. 

“You’re right,” he said after a while, “I should introduce you.” Alastor stood, folding his coat over his arm as he stepped back onto the path. Looking back over his shoulder at the tomb, he smiled. “I love you, Ma.” 

Your ears rang loudly in your ears as your head smacked against the faucet, pain cutting through the fog. It radiated through your back as you lay crumpled in the bathtub, blindly looking up at the man you married as blood trickled down the back of your neck. 

Laurence’s face was red as he screamed at you. The words themselves floated away from you, lost, stolen away by the ringing in your head. Everything was both far too loud and not nearly loud enough for you to hear it clearly. 

He’d been so easy to live with the last few weeks. What set him off today? Swimming through the fog, you tried to remember. Eyes rolled in their sockets, struggling to focus as your head lulled to the side. 

Your eyes landed on the splatter on the mirror. Only a few drops, but a few days old. 

Oh, that’s right. You had fallen behind on your housekeeping. 

“I’m sorry.” You didn’t hear the words as you spoke them, but you tasted the blood on your lips as they formed them. “I’ll do better.” 

“Fucking right you will.” Those words reached your ears as he wiped the blood off his hand onto a white towel. You hoped it wouldn’t stain. If it did, he would beat you for that, too. 

“I’ll do better. Please, Laurence, don’t hurt me anymore.” 

He grabbed your arm and pulled you out of the tub, not caring for how your legs banged against the hard surface. You struggled to get your feet under you as he shook you, blood from your freshly split lip running down your chin. 

“You’re lucky I’ve got a meeting.” Laurence threw you against the wall. Blood smeared against the soft blue wall, your hair spreading it like a paintbrush. He loomed over you, large body pinning you in place as he groped your breast. Did he know he was smearing the drops of blood into your chest? The nightgown strap hung limply off your shoulder, letting half your nightie hang low on your chest, threatening to expose your breast to his eyes.

“Please,” you whimpered, “I’ll do it all. I swear.” 

Laurence squeezed you with a bruising group, fingers digging into flesh and fat, nails scraping against the bones just under the skin. He yanked you up off the wall and dragged you out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. Hands that promised nothing but pain pulled at your nightgown, pulling, ripping, exposing as he threw you on the bed. 

“I was promised a fucking wife, but this is all you’re good for, huh? Just a whore in bed? Can’t even keep the fucking house clean?”

You struggled as he pulled you to your feet, only to slap you with the flat of his palm, sending you to crumple again. Laurence did something then that he had never done before. He spat on you. Saliva splattered against your still healing ribs as you waited to see if he would strike you again, breaking their delicate healing or if he would force himself into your body. 

“Please,” you whimpered, eyes clenched closed as you curled in on yourself. “I’ll do it all. I won’t let it slip again. I promise. Please.” 

Alastor watched as Laurence turned down the alley known for seedy deals. He hadn’t expected to see your husband while he was following another target, learning their routine and what makes them tick, but he wouldn’t complain. Two birds, one stone, if Alastor wanted to double his hunt, that was.

He considered it for a moment, eyes cutting between the blond man who he’d love nothing more than to spill the blood of and the original target. Possibilities ran through his mind, calculations and evaluations of risk. Then he put it all away. 

If Laurence was out and about so early, that meant you were likely already starting your day as well. Alastor abandoned his hunt with a hum, instead electing to hit the markets. You likely had enough on your plate as it was. He certainly wouldn’t add lunch to that list. 

Alastor checked, making sure the basket hadn’t spilled in the trunk. The blanket was tucked over the tarp, keeping the tools of his hobby hidden from view. He didn’t really think you’d look in the trunk while he unloaded it but it was better to be safe than sorry. 

The blanket was thick, hopefully thick enough to keep any residual moisture from the day prior’s rain from seeping through the fabric. One last deep breath and Alastor closed the trunk, taking a moment to straighten his coat and run his hand through his hair. 

He took a quick look around before meandering through the park, watching for anyone watching him. It was, as it always was, deserted, but he couldn’t be too careful. The last thing he needed was to be sloppy. If he was, that would cause trouble for you. 

Alastor made his way through the thin strip of forest, taking his time to pick out a different path. It wouldn’t do to wear a noticeable path through the woods, even if it would make it easier for you to walk. He had to be careful, be mindful. 

Standing in the shadows, he watched as you sat out back, working laundry through a washtub. Your movements were stiff as you worked the bunch of white fabric in your hands over the washboard again and again. 

Something was wrong. You were moving wrong. Your shoulders slumped and your hair fell around your face. The dress you wore looked old, ratty. It was a cleaning dress if he had ever seen one. 

You were so absorbed in what you were doing that you didn’t notice him step from the treeline. He watched you wring out the water from a white shirt, surely one of your husband’s, before setting it in the basket, moving onto another shirt. 

He hated the fact that it wasn’t his shirts you washed or that it wasn’t his home sitting behind you. Modest though his home was, he would invest in a mechanical clothes washer for you if you were his. If you were his, you wouldn’t be sitting alone doing the washing. 

You startled, flinching back as Alastor stepped into your line of sight and crouched down. The witty remark he had on his lips died as he caught sight of the red on your face and tearstains on your cheeks. Tears glittered in your eyes as he reached out for you, hand resting softly on the cheek, still angry from the force of the slaps of the man who got to call you his wife. 

“I can’t today,” you whispered, eyes cast away from him, though you still leaned into the comforting touch. 

“What happened?” Alastor’s voice was soft as his thumb ran carefully over the deep split in your lip. 

“It’s nothing.” You looked everywhere but at him. “I let the housework fall behind. I deserved it. I- I should have been a better wi-”

Alastor’s fingers curled under your chin as he softly made you face him. “Look at me,” he asked as your eyes fluttered everywhere else still. He continued when your eyes stilled on him, “You never deserve how he treats you.”

You sat in silence, eyes trapped by his warm brown gaze, fresh tears spilling down your cheeks. It wasn’t fair. It was a cruel joke played by some God you didn’t know if you believed in at that moment that he wasn’t your husband. 

“Does it matter?” you finally asked. “How he treats me?” 

“Yes,” Alastor said softly, “If he treated you well I could walk away. I would walk away and let you be happy.” 

“What do you mean?” You asked, fear gripping your heart at the thought of Alastor leaving you. It was wrong how deeply you cared for him, but he had taken up residence in your heart. 

He shook his head, soft brown hair once again fluffy but straight shifting with the movement. “If he’s angry that you’re behind on the cleaning, let me help you.” 

“I couldn’t possibly-” Alastor took the basket of washed shirts and small bin of line pins and walked over to the clothesline as you protested. With the humidity in the air and the overcast skies, the sooner the clothes hung the better chance there was of them drying. 

You sighed and dumped more clothes into the bucket and set to work scrubbing while you watched Alastor pin shirts on the line. It was wrong how you wished you were scrubbing his shirts. It was wrong how you wished it was his wooded log where you sat behind. Was the fact that you wished it was his small, warm home sitting behind you going to sentence you to hell? 

Were sins committed in your heart and head enough to damn you?

“Scoot over?” Alastor asked as he tossed his coat to the ground behind you. You scooted over and watched as he unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them up, tucking the cuffs under the arm garters that wrapped around his biceps. 

“What are you-”

“If we both scrub the clothes, they’ll get done faster.” Alastor knelt, hands slipping into the sudsy water along with yours. He glanced at your wide eyes and laughed, “Come now, I know how to wash laundry. Believe it or not- I even clean my own home.” 

“Why?” The word was little more than a whisper, carried to his ears by the slight breeze. 

“Well, if I paid for a cleaner than I’d have to let them into my space. They’d probably be a woman and that would open up to rumors, even if I didn’t have a distaste for having people in my home. Ma ensured I knew how to keep house and I simply don’t need to spend the money on those services.” Alastor spoke, knowing full well that’s not what you meant. It was an easier question to answer, though.

“Why are you helping me?” You clarified as he wrung water out of a hand towel. Every move you made was slow, measured, and you kept your voice low.

“Well,” Alastor said as he set the towel into the basket and began scrubbing one of your nighties without a thought to the indecency of him even seeing the item, let alone touching it. “If we both do the cleaning, we might get it done by lunch. Unless you’re expecting him back before dinner, we can whip a cold dinner for you to have on the tabel for him and then we can still spend some time together during lunch.” 

“What makes you think we can clean the house that fast?” You asked as you worked the water out of the last dress. 

“I’m an unattached man who doesn’t hire help and works much of the afternoons and evenings. If I wasn’t efficient at it, I’d spend all my time not working doing housework instead. How would I ever have time to spend with you if I wasn’t?” 

He was right, though you struggled to wrap your head around it. He was as efficient in his housework as promised. The man made quick work of wiping dust off of surfaces on the main floor while you tackled the same task upstairs, moving at a careful, slower pace as you went. 

As you finished wiping down the bathroom, you heard Alastor climbing the stairs.  “I’m in here,” You called. 

“I brought the broom up.” Alastor held it out as if there was a chance of confusion. “Wiped down the kitchen too. The floors still need doing, but I figured that would be last.” 

“You’re doing too much,” you protested, drying your hands on the skirt of your dress as you joined him in the hall. Pain throbbed in the back of your head, but you ignored it. It was nothing compared to injuries of the past. 

“I’m doing what I want to do,” Alastor said, leaning into your space and placing his lips against your temple in something you struggled to tell yourself was anything less than a chaste kiss. “Nothing more and nothing less.” 

Your brain stopped working as you watched him lean the broom against the hall, just before your bedroom doorway. He opened your linin closet as if it was his own and pulled out a set of sheets. Everything except the pain in your head felt so perfectly right.

“I’m grabbing a fresh quilt, too.” Alastor called, carrying the stack of linin into your bedroom without a care for propriety. 

“Why?” You asked as you followed behind. 

“There’s blood on this one.” Alastor said simply said. He didn’t need to say more. The way his jaw clenched, and the muscle jumped, said plenty. 

“It must be from when I-” you hesitated as he pulled the quilt from the bed, “tripped.” 

“And split your lip on the soft bed, I’m sure.” Alastor balled it and the sheet up, letting the pillows scatter as he stripped the mattress of linin, revealing bloodstains you never could quite clean. “You know, I know he hurts you. Why lie?” 

Alastor’s fingers lingered over bloodstains. Usually he found the color of dried blood to be lovely, but knowing it was yours turned his stomach. The bed should be a place of rest, of refuge and comfort for you, not a place of terror and pain.

“I- I’m not sure.” You looked down, ashamed. “It’s easier if I don’t think about it. If I don’t admit it, maybe it won’t be real?” 

Alastor hummed in response, “Do you want to make up the bed or start this wash?” 

You were thankful he let the topic die. “I’ll make the bed.” 

“Wonderful,” Alastor said, bundling up the bedding he’d rather set ablaze than scrub. “I’ve got pasta on the stove. While I was in the kitchen, I prepped for a pasta salad.” 

He did not wait for forgiveness nor ask for it as he walked out of the room, letting you scowl at his back. It didn’t matter to him that you thought he was doing too much. What mattered to him was the sandwiches waiting for them in the trunk of his car. The sooner the domestic chores were done, the sooner they could be off. 

On his way out the back, he paused for a moment to stir the pasta. While he loathed the idea of investing in a new stove, he had to admit the control over cooking provided by a gas stove was a wonderful improvement to his woodstove. If you wanted it, he supposed he could justify the investment for his kitchen. 

He made quick work of scrubbing the bedding and hanging them to dry. With the last of the washing done, he upturned the bucket and let the water run across the ground. 

On his way inside, he paused for a moment to drain the pasta and toss the simple meal together. Would it be enough to keep Laurence off your back? He didn’t know, but he hoped it would at least be a start. 

He poured hot water from the kettle he had set on the stove into a bucket and grabbed the mop. By now, you were likely finishing up sweeping upstairs, judging from the sound of your footfalls above him. 

On his way up, he met you in the stairwell. The thought of how beautiful you looked again struck him as he turned at the foot of of the stairs. The domestic beauty of a wife was never something Alastor understood but seeing you, sweat damped hair at the nape of your neck and flushed from the work you’d seen to, he understood it. You made a beautiful wife. 

“I’ll mop real fast and then we’re done up here.” Alastor brushed by you, being more mindful of not spilling the mop water than keeping any sense of proper distance between you. He froze when he felt you against his body, looking down at you as you looked up at him, cheeks flushed. 

It would be so easy, so natural to just lean down and…

He shook his head, pushing the odd urge away. Perhaps he would indulge in it sometime soon. Resisting the strange desire was getting harder, but it wouldn’t happen here. 

Pulling you away from your home so much was causing you problems. You were in pain. The dried scab of blood at the back of your head told the story of a struggle you hadn’t spoken of, even though you had tried to hide it with your hair. He knew he had to swallow the disgust and spend time with you in Laurence’s space if he wanted to not cause you more problems.

Laurence’s home would taint no firsts, though. Alastor was determined not to allow that to be the case. 

Join us at VoxTek for a Vox themed Hazbin Discord where we talk Vox, Hazbin, writing, reading, art and who knows what else. You may even catch some exclusive sneak peeks at upcoming fics from some of your favorite writers including the first page of the next chapter of MisD a day early!

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[naamahdarling]

hi, i just wanted to let you know that what you said about "They're saying they don't believe they can cause harm." in your response about the sex ed comic and medical trauma helped me start putting into words some thoughts i'd really been struggling with. it's a hard thought for me to sit with, that believing myself to be harmless is actually a high risk vector for me committing harm, but being able to pinpoint the problem means i can work on de-internalizing the idea and hopefully make me less likely to do harm in the long run. thank you for writing and sharing your experiences, it means a lot to me.

Thank you! I'm very angry about the entire thing and was concerned I probably should not have gone off. Again.

But yes, I actually think this is a thing everyone should sit with. That meaning well doesn't mean you can't hurt someone. In our daily jobs, in our relationships, in our activism.

Of course we can mean well and still hurt people. No, it doesn't mean we should drive ourselves into an anxious spiral trying to analyze every single thing we do from all angles to achieve the perfectly ideal state of doing no harm, but it does mean we need to be very aware of the vulnerability (sometimes by nature, sometimes temporarily) of those around us. Especially when we are in a position of power.

I think that medical professionals especially tend to forget that they are in a position of disproportionate power and that very small and simple things they consider normal may well be objectionable or even harmful to a patient.

I have a good team, mostly. It is very obvious they're just humans doing their best at their jobs and I like them. But they have a LOT more control over my life than they realize, or than I would prefer to give. Or if they realize, they don't know how threatening it feels. My GP is just a little guy with college debt. He could still fuck up my life in about fifteen seconds by refusing to refill a scrip or refer me to a specialist.

And I think all of us have the potential to be that person sometimes. Bears thinking about.

[sherry-cleo-salvadore]

Well having slept on (kind of) this break up as a viewer and the aftermath of it - I found it in myself to finally word my feelings in a more positive/non-angry/non-petulant way, I wanted to share that message on this account for a sense of closure:

Thank you so much, Lou, for giving us such a complex and layered character even in such a short span. As someone who loves to read and watch movies/shows and one day wants to work in the entertainment industry as a writer, sometimes I get frustrated with how characters get written for only marketing purposes - 911 for me became one of those shows where the characters are not really boxed as black and white - they are human layered characters with positive and negative attributes with space for growth through experiences making them realistic and authentic. Tommy was one of those characters and to be able to see such a depth and potential in a character that at first was only in two flashback episodes and was then brought back as a love interest years later - some people find it abrupt but honestly the way it was written and the way it was portrayed by you on screen it felt just natural for the story not just as a love interest for Buck but as a character of his own, so much so that I was hoping to see writers dwell into a Tommy Begins kind of episode maybe. I am not even mad about break up, I understand getting anxiety and fear from relationships when one has been hurt in past relationships trust me I do, I have been that person who has broken up with people because my mind would jump into future conclusions of relationship failing and while I am not proud of that behaviour I felt so seen when on television even as a heterosexual woman and was really hoping for a light at the end of the tunnel for such character dynamic. So yes, seeing a complex and layered character say goodbye like Tommy say goodbye like that in fiction really stings as a human who uses fiction to believe in a happy ending. That being said - thank you so much for giving us Tommy, it really can be seen you put your heart and soul into the character and I really appreciate your approach to this character with such authenticity and sensitivity. I am not sure what the canon story's future is - hopefully we get to see Tommy return but until then, in my head Tommy has found someone with whom he can let down his guard and even when anxieties about the future strikes he is with a partner (Buck or someone else/romantic or platonic) who assures him that a relationship is worth fighting for and gives him space to heal at his own pace without giving up on him - someone who makes him believe that he is not alone and worth fighting for.

Thank you so much once again for Thomas Kinard, he is a character that matters to a lot of people and will never be forgotten 💕

(I have not edited it grammatically because I just needed to purge it out like it was my therapy exercise)

[anotherhumaninthisworld]

Who are Camille's siblings? Do we know their names or anything about them?

In total, Camille’s parents Jean Benoît Nicolas Desmoulins and Marie Madeleine Godard had nine children, four of which died during childhood:

Lucie Simplice Camille Benoît (March 2 1760 — April 5 1794)

Henriette Aimery Angélique (21 February 1761 — 17 June 1770)

Marie Élisabeth Émilie Toussaint (November 1 1762 — December 20 1839)

Stillborn girl, buried at the day of her birth (January 15 1764)

Armand ”Dubocquoi” Jean Louis Domitille (May 5 1765 — 1793)

Anne Clotilde Pélagie Marie (June 20 1767 — ?)

Lazare ”Sémery” Nicolas Norbert Félicité (June 6 1769 — January 1811)

Clement Louis Nicolas (November 23 1770 — April 16 1778)

Charles Maximilien Yves Nicolas Reignier (June 17 1772, probably didn’t reach adult age)

We know Camille was the only one of the siblings that was given a higher education in Paris. Something we might find an explanation for in a letter to him dated January 23 1791 (cited in Hervé Leuwers’ Camille et Lucile Desmoulins: un rêve de république (2018)), where the father places his oldest son on a higher level than the rest of his children:

Your brother Dubocquoi has always had a rather limited peak, he has just acknowledged it to you; but it is not his fault. In the portion of nature and in the lot of the spirit, why have you exercised your birthright so copiously and taken such a great precipitate, to leave your siblings’ afferent share so small?

Camille expressed himself in similar terms in a letter to his father dated October 8 1789. I’m just gonna let this part of this hilarious comic by @theorahsart illustrate the passage:

Camille spending the majority of his time away from his family seems to have ended up in him not knowing his siblings all that well, as we in 1792 find a letter where his father has to tell him the name of his brothers as well as their occupations (cited in Camille Desmoulins, a biography (1909) by Violet Methley):

You ask me, my son, for the name of your brother, Du Bucquoy, as well as for that of Semery. The former is called Armand Jean Louis Domitille, who was born on May 5th, 1765. For the past seven years he has served in the late Royal Roussillon cavalry regiment, or the 11th Regiment of the Army of the Midi, and which I believe is either in the interior at Saumur or at Saint-Jean-d'Angely, for I have had no news of him for the last twelve months. The latter is named Lazare Nicolas Norbert Félicité, born on June 6th, 1769, and for the past two years in the loth Battalion of Chasseurs, late Gevaudan, with the Army of the North, in which he shows much zeal. He tells me in his last letter that he is a forlorn sentinel in a wood, and congratulates you on the birth of a son. As for me, I also am married. My wife is a musket, and I take greater care of her than of myself.

On February 8 1793 Lucile has written in her diary: ”C(amille’s) brother came. We had dinner at Madame Brune’s.” In a letter dated July 9 1793 Camille shares more details on his brothers, who by now are both serving in the revolutionary army. These parts got censored when the letter was published for the first time in 1836, and restored in Hervé Leuwers’ biography:

I have received unfortunate news of my brother, who has been lost to drunkenness and expelled from his regiment. I don't know if he wrote to you about his mishap. He has not dared to write to me about it, and he is right in not to. It is most unworthy that I should take an interest in him, and I am really angry that he has taken my name, which he has sullied in the army. Nevertheless, I had advised him to pour water into his wine. I don't know what has become of him since he was forced to resign as an officer. His conduct might have caused you grief under the old regime, but it is a duty that a family of republicans and good men consists of nothing but those who are republicans and good men. […] I am very sorry that Sémery was killed. I would have had no reason to be ashamed of him, and I would have procured for him a speedy promotion of which he proved himself worthy, for things are going well and will be better.

Soon thereafter, Camille does however find out the information regarding his youngest brother’s death is false, whereupon he writes a new letter to his father:

I am very sorry to have written to you that my brother Sémery would have died fighting for his homeland. I had no other certainty of a loss so grievous to you than the indication of his long silence, and I eagerly laid hold of your doubts of his death to fix my hopes upon them. May he be returned to you by the enemies into whose hands he may have fallen captive. I feel even more now, when I see my son, how sensitive this blow must have been to your heart.

Sémery had indeed not died in battle, but been captured at the siege of Maestricht. According to La jeunesse de Camille Desmoulins (1908) he was released after three years. In 1802 he was admitted to the 27th legion of gendarmerie on foot, and was serving in Piémont à la Chiesa as gendarme of the Stura company when he died by an accident in January 1811. The other brother, Dubucquoi, did however die in Vendée in 1793, I’ve not discovered on which date.

As for the two surviving sisters, we seemingly only know that they got married. According to geneanet, the eldest sister Marie Élisabeth Émilie Toussaint married one Théodore Morey in Guise, December 25 1793, while Anne Clotilde Pélagie Marie married Simon Isidore Lemoine in the same town on June 5 1794. Leuwers cites a document showing the two couples were still together by March 4 1797. He adds that both husbands were gendarmes and their wives left Guise to be with them at their posts. Somewhere after 1797 Marie Élisabeth Émilie Toussaint got remarried to one Théodore Lagrange before dying in Paris on December 20 1839, with one Antoine Nicolas Desmoulins as witness. When and where Anne Clotilde Pélagie Marie died I’ve not been able to discover.

[sturionic]

hey, you said your inbox is open and I was curious if you have any ideas for someone who can't get involved irl in things like protests and local antifa groups (physically disabled and incapacitatingly severe anxiety), and who can't get involved in online activism beyond reblogging stuff (personal reasons, difficult to explain)?

I've been considering trying to put together care packages for local unhoused people, but I'm poor and I'd have to convince someone to help me put everything together so idk how well that will go.

I don't want to sit around doing nothing.

Hey anon! I am very glad you reached out, and this is a question I get asked a lot by people IRL, so you are very much not alone here.

I think the first order of business is expanding your definition of activism. We have been done a great disservice by having activism framed for us as protests, charity, & singular heroes making speeches and changing hearts through celebrity. In reality, the smaller actions in your community have a much greater impact; and most of all, the things you personally have to offer make the greatest impact.

This diagram is specifically geared towards climate action, but really applies to all activism:

For you to be an effective activist/volunteer/community member, it's crucial to find the centre of that diagram, or else you're on a one-way ticket to burnout. Don't get caught up in trying to judge which is the most "important" activism, because that answer will be different for everyone. The most important thing you can do for the world is the thing you can do.

I've done lots of volunteering and volunteer management in multiple fields, and there really is lots of choice out there for things that suit you; anything from sorting files quietly in a back room to using computer knowledge (often VERY absent in community groups lol) to help with maintaining websites & promoting community events. One of my personal favourite volunteer shifts was acting as a helper to the organizers of a queer electronic music festival, running a "build your own synthesizer" workshop. Literally I was just ticking off names on a registration sheet and doing setup and fetching things, but it was one of the coolest things I've had the joy to be involved in.

The other plus here is that activists in a given city all usually have some social overlap. If you email, say, your local community centre, explain your interests & circumstances & skills, and ask what you could do - they might not have anything right that moment, but likely someone there will know a different group that needs something similar, or they'll have ideas for who you could try next. Even if you're not finding a lot online right away, have faith in the (slightly haphazard) offline community org social scene. Same deal if you get involved with something and realize it's not your thing after all - just be honest, and ask for help in finding something more suited to you. It's so, so common, and no one's going to get angry with you for wanting to help in ways you're better suited for.

Don't mistake me when I nudge you towards volunteering - there's a certain way that well-meaning (usually) liberals treat volunteering, like they're 'donating' their time as charity, and I am not advocating for that. I'm just saying that you really don't have to reinvent the wheel. There are structures in place run by people who know well how to do it. Part of the importance is the work itself; the file-sorting, the computer help, whatever. But another part is building connections with the people around you, and also letting those people benefit from the privilege of knowing you. And that will happen naturally over time. The muscle will grow as you use it more, even if you need to start with something that feels to you like it might not be enormously significant in the grand scheme of things. Maybe you move on to 'bigger' things, or maybe you gain new perspective and realize just how significant your contributions are after all.

[davrinassan]

what is your onion of the taash questline if you are comfortable sharing?

ok so ive found out i actually havent finished the ENTIRE questline. just the main part of it, i think ? i finished up to taash's mother dying .

so... i

i rate it poorly. i need like more time.. to digest it . i also.. have a very hard time with this because while i am nonbinary i am just a white british person . i dont have a mixed heritage or culture . i am just white british and not even a cool british like gaelic i am English ...... as plain boring white bread as u can get.

so commentin on the heritage vs culture choice u are given is hard for me beyond that it makes me feel uncomfortable to have to pick for someone. that is not my place. it feels very wrong of me to have this power over someone . when i first was given a choice i said embrace being multicultural. cuz like that feels.. obvious. its beautiful to come from multiple cultures and being pieces of them . thats so cool and awesome to me. and then being forced to pick was so not cool and very not awesome.

in terms of the nonbinary stuff ... the more it got mentioned and brought up the more i disliked it. i don't know how much people will agree with me here so bare with me. it felt very on the nose, unnatural, even the word nonbinary didnt seem like it fit. i feel like they were lazy. i feel like they should have made a new word , maybe even a new concept , to work within the dragon age setting. that maybe was specific to rivaini culture that taash heard from another lord of fortune and it felt right . idk. they could have integrated it better to the world of thedas. i felt.. pandered to . i felt like they were saying hey look, hey. hey thats you right. doesnt this make u feel seen and happy . please ignore the weird racism and focus on this

i could have loved taash i think. but i don't. i barely like taash. i feel like taash is a scapegoat. a mouthpiece. that sometimes taash says and does things that don't feel natural to the character cuz taash isnt talking, bioware is. this gets even worse when you take into account lord of fortune things like selling back cultural artifacts to the people they belong to and bioware going "dw its ethical and ok! trust us!" but they have taash say it and it feels wrong, off and weird. like.. out of character? idk it's strange.

taash is a strange character. i dont think bioware actually respected them as much ... i think they used bioware to push this weird anti qunari narrative and to pander to queer people while being weird and racist and idk. idkdidkdikdksoldfgjzsdlff

i need someone who isnt white and who is smarter than me and better at articulating than me to write a think piece on this. while i am the right person for the nonbinary stuff. theres pieces here i am not the right person for. and i dont wanna speak over anyone. or be the voice for anyone when i shouldnt be. but i will say ...

if i can see how gross this shit comes across , how on earth are the people of colour who are actually effected by this bullshit feeling? they shouldnt be exposed to this bullshit . bioware should do better. hire some diverse writers man . get ur shit checked and looked over by poc before u push it out. ur game shouldnt be hurting minorities . they deserve better than this shit STILL happening . ive got too many friends and mutuals pained over taashs story and angry about it. that aint right. it just aint right man

and yeah like i said i havent 100% finished it, it seems, but i dont see the majority of this changing or any of it . i am uhh "burnt" as it were, i do not think bioware can fix this feeling inside of me

this got rambly i hope it makes sense

[dichotomy-of-your-girlfriend]

I can't tell what here is snarky/sarcastic and what is an actual point so sorry if I accidentally misinterpret.

1. The person I was taking shots at for kinning him was a whole ass 25 y/o. I think we should be able to understand why that's wrong and off putting. A kid might not understand the weight and importance of not separating rape from his character, and say it because he's grumpy, and deadpan, and struggles with responsibility, poor self esteem, tends to pedestal, feels like they have to do everything (crazy he did 5 things over several months tho hmm.)

2. Jimmy is not a reminder of my own capability for evil. He's a reminder of the time I got SAd awesome!! People aren't scared he's a reflection of themselves. Actually, people just tend to hate rapists. Just because there isn't nuance doesn't mean there's not depth to his character. I have picked him apart and listened to other people pick him apart and there are things I also relate too In there! He is amazingly written, and the gameplay makes you uncover all of this over time and you start to shift your opinion and idea of what's happening and it's great and super cool and really well done which is why I hate him. Bc he sucks. And the did an awesome job writing a guy who sucks.

Complexity ≠ redeemability

3. "And this fear gives birth to the vehement denial of anything human in jimmy. Because If you gave him some thought, you may discover something deeply unpleasant about yourself."

Whar that we're all secret rapists?? Or something?? People don't hate him bc they look at him in a 2 dimensional way. The point is you can look at him as deep as you fucking want and he's still awful. He is human and complex and also he sucks really bad and I hate him. Again I could give you the list of things I relate to, and honestly he might be the character that resonated most with me. But my bar for likability is rape but you do you. I am so past the point in my life where I'm anything other than angry and unmoving about this as a victim. You can pull the fictional character card which has weight for sure. I think it's the REASON we get to pick him apart and talk about him as an individual because there's no real Anya. She'd take priority in that case and we wouldn't do anythjng but try to send jimmy to prison. But we don't have too because real people aren't in danger of fictional grease man jimmy. but real people feel this story really close to their heart and it's dangerous to get comfortable In the rhetoric that it's simple minded and unfair to hate him without fully examining him. Especially in fandom spaces that could influence how young people form their perception of sexual assault and criminals and if they're victims that could really fuck em up honestly. And it's not fair to police victims out of the fandom either because thjs is ultimately a story that we resonate with. And it's comforting. And it's an outlet to use jimmy as a punching bag too it's nice to see unapologetic bullying of this not real guy as somebody who never got justice.

I unapologetically hate him. And I do am off put when people like him. But not ljme we should never talk abt him or male funny videos with him or fanart where hes in it hate him like. Im not that dumb.

But it's weird to me that you had to make this entire thing about how you don't hate jimmy because you can read into all the details and fully understand his character and we're all just too simple and dumb do have done that bc WE fEAr oUr HUmaNjTy and the morally grey nature of life blah blah.

Maybe the rest of us also enjoy character analysis and looking into every nook and cranny of his being... and maybe for the rest of us the bar is rape. You're not intrinsically evil for liking him no. But I will probably go ew what and feel really nasty about it.

Appreciating his character ≠ liking him. I was talking aboht people who made jimmy their little blorbo or whatever. If tbst wasn't clear sorry bc that was the intent so I just basically read your thing as in defense of jimmy simps. Pls don't blorbo the rapist lol.

I've seen some "I low key like Jimmy like I hate what he did but I like his character" posts already and.

If that's you, this game is a commentary on people like you, and you don't even realise it. It's about how he and his actions can't be separated. If you really think he's well written or whatever the hell, appreciate the amazing job the devs did by hating him.

[sagesongbird]

@heroicfaithful

{I understood Nathan was mad at me. He had every right to be. If I could take back what I did, I would in a heartbeat. Don’t get me wrong, I loved getting to tour… To explore my passion for music hands on, but not as much as I would have if Nathan had been there with me. Sure, I knew Nathan never would have come on tour with me. For one, he had basketball and a life in Tree Hill. One I couldn’t ask him to uproot. Not to forget he hated Chris Keller, so the odds were high that Nathan would have beat Chris Keller up on that tour every chance he got. In the end, I gave up the chance to tour and I came home instead. Fully intending to get Nathan back… Only to be met by a door being shut in my face. I deserved it though. I just wish it didn’t take me getting hit by a car, after pushing Nathan out of the way of it, for us to finally sit down to talk things out} I know, Nathan… And you have every right to be angry with me. What I did was wrong, and if I could take it back, trust me, I would. {I stated the obvious. Ultimately giving a nod of understanding though when I heard Nathan say we didn’t need to make decisions about our future now. Further recommending that we should focus on me healing first. He was right. Deep down I knew he was. Still, I couldn’t help but to worry that we might not be able to fix us, or even if we could, Nathan would still decide that he would go to Duke, but didn’t want me to go there too. I didn’t want to be apart from Nathan anymore. In my heart, he was my husband, so naturally I wanted to be wherever he was} You’re right. I’m just a little worried, Nathan… {I started to say then I paused; wondering if me being honest would make Nathan angry. At this point in time, I was afraid to say anything since lately I felt like any little thing would give Nathan another reason to be mad at me} I’m a little worried that once I do heal, you won’t want me around anymore… I know you’re mad at me, and you have every right to be. I messed up. Big time. I love you though, and I don’t want to lose you, Nathan. 

Continued.. We'll find a way

@sagesongbird

It was complicated. That was the only way Nathan could find the words to explain his marriage. For a while it felt gloomy, it felt like our love had fallen apart. And he didn’t want to say an accident is what brought him here but it was. He was so stubborn, he was bent on hurting Haley the same way she had hurt him. He was playing close to the vest because he didn’t want to let his guard down again with her. But he also knew the second he watched her lifeless body get placed in the ambulance that he was still crazy in love. No heartache, no time of her being gone on the tour could replace the love he knew he had for her. He did blame himself; if he had given her the talk she craved, if he had been more willing to hang out to repair our damage we wouldn’t of been tricked, we wouldn’t have been on that street the moment that zooming car came in our direction. 

I was guilty; because Haley jumped in front of a car to save me, to protect me from getting injured, probably to protect my future as a basketball star, but I hated how we got here. Over pride, over the stubborn acts. Nathan told himself he had to communicate, he had to be willing to meet halfway; in order for us to survive. He stayed; he was the one who sat at her bedroom as the brunette was in and out of sleep. He reassured her he was here; he was the one that held her hand. 

His palm never left her own; as he held her touch, His head leaned onto his shoulder; which is why his neck felt stiff when he felt his eyelids lift open. He saw her face; bruised up, her eyes were closed at first until he heard her voice, he held onto her voice as it was a sense of hope for him. “ Hales.. I’m fine, I’m more worry about you. How’re you feeling?” 

It was a stupid question she was hurt; the bruises on her face, on her arm said it all. But Haley was there asking if I was okay; I came out of this unstretched, I was fine. I was walking, I was breathing without injury, I had taken care of myself for years; I could handle a slight fall when she pushed me out of the way, Bringing her palm up to my lips; I pressed a tender kiss to her skin as I mumbled the words. “ I’m not going anywhere.” 

We’d figure out the past, how we overcome it all because we said always and forever.