#quote from what life taught me

[fromevertonow]

Suzanne Collins is one of the few contemporary writers who realizes the importance of names in her stories and the significance they bear. They add so many layers to the story, additional meanings that otherwise would not have existed.

The original trilogy:

Katniss: named after a plant of which you can eat the roots. Her father taught her where to find it and told her that “as long as you can find yourself, you’ll survive” (quote may be a little bit off, but it’s from one of the early chapters in THG). Additionally, the leaves are in the shape of an arrowhead, referencing her skills with the bow which her father also taught her how to use.

Peeta: literally bread lmao. But bread is one of the basic nutritions humans need, a little bit goes a long way to keep you alive. Peeta’s presence in Katniss’s life also kept her alive, literally and figuratively—the burned bread he threw her in the flashback and their complicated relationship.

Primrose: a plant with medicinal purposes, even more significant in light of her work as a medic in Mockingjay.

Gale: literally means “strong wind” and considering that in every encounter with Katniss he’s caused some reaction, he pulls her into directions she maybe initially doesn’t want to go in. Additionally, his name also represents his determination and steadfastness in his beliefs.

TBOSAS

Lucy Gray: named after William Wordsworth’s poem “Lucy Gray” which is about the titular character of the poem who got lost during a blizzard. She literally got lost in snow. Rachel Zegler sang this poem in two parts on the original soundtrack of the movie. When Snow asked who the girl in the song is, Lucy answers that she’s a mystery, just like her.

Snow: aside from the obvious snow references, I think his name is most significant in relation to Lucy and the poem. The only one who knows what caused her disappearance is Snow. He is the reason that Lucy is gone. But her traces in the snow are still visible. He will always remember her because the memory of Lucy has manifested itself in every part of his life.

Coriolanus: named after the Roman general (and also the titular character of Shakespeare’s play), Coriolanus wanted to attack Rome and become its ruler. He was scorned and celebrated by the people, only to be later exiled from the city by them. In TBOSAS, Coriolanus is the star pupil at the Capitol’s academy but sent into exile to the districts after he won the Games with Lucy through cheating.

Volumnia: Coriolanus mother who played a part in his ascent to power. In TBOSAS, she almost serves like a mentor to Coriolanus, teaching him how to think in terms of power.

(Edit) Sejanus: a roman soldier who was betrayed by the roman emperor Tiberius, just like the future president betrayed him.

(Edit) Plinth: got this info from here, but it was too good not to include here. A plinth is a base for a statue or vase to stand on. After Sejanus’s death, all of the Plinth fortune was given to Snow for being such a good to friend him. It was this money that skyrocketed the Snow family from poverty to filthy rich. The Plinth money was the foundation upon which Snow built his power.

There are so many other names that have historical (mostly Roman and Greek) connotations—Plutarch, Seneca, Cinna—but also regular names like Trinket and Beetee bear meanings that represent the character beautifully.

Names are important. For any lover of literature or (aspiring) writers, please look closely at them. They can shape your story into something unique.

Feel free to correct me if I’ve said something wrong. I know there are many names missing, but I can only add so many examples ✊🏻😔

[teaboot]

Got any tips for taking standardized tests? I would like to follow the patterns like a trained rat

Read the entire test before you start. This will give you an idea of what you’re in for, but in reading tests or literature exams, a lot of questions are answered by later questions. For example, “what is the setting of the story?” may later be followed by, “what may we infer from the protagonist’s description of 1880’s urban Westminster?”.

Strategize. If you’re a slow worker, maybe do the questions worth the most points first. If you’re not confident in your knowledge, maybe answer all the easier questions first, then leave the hardest for last.

In multiple choice questions, read the options before the question. Let them inform your assessment of the question itself.

In math, if none of the multiple choice options match your calculated answer, go with whatever is closest.

If you truly cannot figure out a multiple choice answer, start by eliminating the worst options and work backwards.

If all multiple choice options seem equally absurd, choose C. Assuming it gives you four options (average in my experience) this mathematically gives you AT LEAST a 25% chance of being right- slightly more, too, as C is statistically the correct answer slightly more frequently on average. Don't quote me on that though- the important thing is to “randomly” pick the same letter every time this happens, so at least 1 out of 4 works out.

Don't leave anything blank. Even if your odds of being right are one in a hundred, thats still better than zero.

For written answers, include the question in the answer. If the question is, “How are the blue curtains symbolic of the protagonist’s emotional state?”, rearrange the question as you present your argument. “The blue curtains serve as a symbol of the protagonist’s emotional state by…(supported argument here)”. Helps you structure your argument and looks tidier to the reader, but also if the person doing the grades is just skimming shit they may just see that you kinda get the idea and give you benefit of the doubt when marking.

I mean, in an ideal world all classes are taught for COMPREHENSION, as the lessons they teach have value beyond academic achievement and will serve you in many unexpected ways throughout your life beyond the academic, but seeing how standardized testing and AI cheats are flushing everything down the toilet as-is I’d be happy to see some more real and honest good old-fashion grifting tbh

[dollyfiles]

how sweetheart!reader and single!dad!rafe’s first date went

sweetheart!reader mlist

cw: fluff, mutual pining, heavy tension, teasing, kissing

when rafe opened the front door, you were standing there with a tin of cookies cradled in your arms and a soft, hopeful smile painted across your face. your signature red lipstick caught the porch light, and your vintage sundress swayed lightly in the breeze.

but yet your eyes weren’t on him. they flicked over his shoulder almost immediately, scanning the hallway behind him with that familiar sparkle he’d grown to adore.

he leaned one arm against the doorframe, taking in the way your brows knitted just slightly in confusion. “you lookin’ for somethin’ back there?” he asked, lips tugging into a teasing grin.

you blinked and turned your gaze back to him, caught red-handed. “what? oh—no. i mean…” you laughed softly, holding up the tin in your hands. “maybe just a certain little girl who usually tackles me before she makes it past the diner door.”

rafe chuckled, stepping aside to let you in. “well, if it makes you feel better—she definitely would’ve. but tonight’s just us.”

you stepped inside, your heels clicking gently against the floor as you glanced around, still half expecting to hear lizzie’s excited squeal bouncing off the walls.

“just us?” you repeated, with the faintest note of surprise, and just maybe—though you’d never admit it out loud—a pinch of excitement and relief.

rafe closed the door behind you and gently took the tin from your arms. “don’t worry. she’s with aunt sarah tonight. movies and lots of popcorn. lizzie picked it herself. she told me, and i quote, ‘i gots to give you time to be nerviss, daddy.’”

your lips parted with a laugh, “she didn’t.” clasping your hand over your mouth. “she did,” he said with a smirk. “and even winked at me.” you shook your head fondly. “she’s a menace. a brilliant one.”

“wonder where she gets it from,” he murmured, casting you a look that made your cheeks go a little warm. rafe had just popped the lid off the cookie tin, about to sneak one, when something in the air shifted.

sniff.

his head jerked toward the kitchen, eyes wide. “crap—the sauce!” rafe set the tin down with a loud thud and made a beeline toward the stove, you right behind him in a trail of soft perfume and concerned curiosity.

“need help there?” you asked, half-teasing, as he hurried to stir the contents of a bubbling pot before it could start sticking.

“no. no—i got this,” rafe muttered, grabbing a spoon and giving the sauce a few gentle swirls, sighing in relief as it began to bubble less. “god, that would’ve been embarrassing.”

you leaned a little over his shoulder, peeking into the pot. “wait, is this the sauce?” he glanced at you, eyes crinkling at the corners. “what sauce?”

“the one lizzie told me about, like, five separate times. apparently it’s life-changing?” rafe laughed, “you tell me..”, dipping the spoon and giving it a quick blow before holding it out toward you. “c’mere.”

you leaned forward without hesitation, your lips brushing the edge of the spoon as you took a careful taste. your eyes widened. the sauce was rich, warm, and comforting, like it had been simmering all day just for you.

“okay,” you said slowly, licking a bit of tomato from your bottom lip. “wow. i didn’t expect it to slap this hard.” he raised his brows at you, “oh, it slaps?” rafe asked, grinning as the term was quiet unfamiliar to him. “is that a good sign?”

“a really good sign!” you nodded, mock serious. “it slaps. it dances. it waltzes across the tongue. who taught you how to do this?” he shrugged, pretending to look modest.

“a man learns a thing or two when he’s cooking for a tiny food critic who cries if there’s too much oregano.” you laughed, bumping your shoulder into his. “i get it now. she definitely wasn’t exaggerating.”

you two stood close now—close enough that your arm brushed his as he reached for a fresh sprig of basil, and close enough for you to smell the warm spice of his cologne, woodsy and clean, while only the soft sounds of the simmering stove filled the comfortable silence.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

after dinner, the dishes sat forgotten in the sink—rafe insisted he’d take care of them later. the soft glow of a lamp pooling gold across the hardwood floors, and the gentle hum of an old record player filling the space with something low and romantic.

rafe returned from the kitchen with two glasses of red wine, handing one to you as you curled up into the corner of the couch. you had kicked off your heels, tucked your legs beneath you, and looked as if you’d belonged there all along.

the man settled beside you, not too close—at first. but something about your warmth, the faint scent of sugar and lipstick, pulled him in like gravity. he could definitely get used to this.

“can i ask you something?” you said after a moment, nervous fingers playing with the little heart pendant around your neck.

“shoot.”

you hesitated for a second, yet your curiosity took over. “what’s it really like? raising her on your own?”

he looked into his glass for a long moment before answering. “hard,” rafe admitted. “some days, it’s just bone-tired exhaustion. others, it’s the best damn thing in the world. she gives me purpose. but…” he paused. “sometimes i wonder if i’m enough.”

your expression softened. you turned toward him fully, your bare knee brushing his thigh as you shifted. “you’re more than enough, rafe. i see the way you are with her. she’s lucky. real lucky.”

he looked up at you then, something raw and surprised behind his eyes. “you really think so?”

“i know so,” you said gently. “and… i know what it’s like to grow up without that kind of love. you give her what most people only dream about.”

rafe reached out, fingertips brushing over your ankle, trailing slowly up to your calf as you remained still, eyes locked on his. the touch wasn’t rushed. it was reverent.

“you’re somethin’ else, you know that?” he murmured. you let out a soft laugh, heat rising in your cheeks. “you keep saying that.”

“because it keeps being true.”

his thumb swept slow circles against your skin, sending little sparks up your spine. you leaned into his touch, your glasses nearly forgotten now, resting on the coffee table. the music played on, while the distance between you two shrank with every word unspoken.

rafe glanced at you sideways, “you know,” he said, voice low and husky, “i didn’t expect any of this.” you tilted your head, curiosity flickering in your gaze. “any of what?”

“you..” he said. “after a long day… hell, after the kind of months i’ve had. i didn’t think i’d meet someone that made a hard day feel like it didn’t win. you looked at my daughter and made her laugh when i couldn’t. you… made me feel seen.”

that last part landed deep in your chest.

“and i certainly didn’t expect to want someone like this again.”

your breath caught in your throat. there it was—that ache, that buzz just beneath your skin, the kind that made your heart beat too fast in your chest. your legs still draped across his lap, your hand sliding down to rest gently on his arm.

“i didn’t expect you either,” you admitted quietly, your voice thick with something softer than nerves. “you’re the kind of good that doesn’t come around often.”

rafe shifted slightly on the couch—leaning in just a little, the space between you two shrinking like gravity was pulling you in. you sighed, laughing, “actually you’re kind of ruining me for diner regulars everywhere, you know that?”

he grinned, brushing his fingers gently up your thigh and pulling you closer by your hip, “good. that’s the plan.” you arched a brow, lips quirking into a soft, teasing grin. “oh yeah?”

“yeah,” he said, and his voice had dropped into something just shy of a whisper. you leaned in closer now—just a breath away from his mouth. “and are you gonna do something about it?”

your faces were close now. close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath, see the flecks of shine in his eyes beneath the lamplight. your gaze dipped briefly to his mouth, then back up.

neither of you moved.

not until he did.

rafe leaned in, slow, giving you every chance to pull away—but you didn’t. your lips met his with the softest brush, barely there. like a question. until they connected fully.

you kissed him with a kind of sweetness you hadn’t realized you were carrying for him all this time. your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, holding him closer as the kiss deepened—warm and aching, full of every look, every laugh, every almost-touch you hadn’t dared to cross until now.

his hand found the back of your neck, steady and grounding, while your knee shifted, drawing you even closer into his lap. the wine was forgotten. the room was forgotten. all you could feel was his mouth on yours, and the soft hum he made when you tugged him in just a little more.

when you finally pulled apart, your eyes fluttered open first, dazed and soft. “well,” you said, breathless and grinning, “now i’m definitely glad lizzie’s not here.”

rafe laughed, that low, husky sound that made your toes curl. “oh, i’m sure she’d never let me hear the end of it.”

“hm, i don’t know,” you said, voice syrupy sweet. “i think she’d be more mad you kissed me without her here to supervise. she’s been invested, you know.”

rafe huffed a laugh, turning to look at you with mock offense. “you makin’ it sound like i need her permission or somethin’.” you smirked, raising a brow. “don’t you?”

he stared at you for a beat, then groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “hell, you’re right. i do.” you giggled. “told you. that girl’s been three steps ahead of us since day one. if she finds out you made a move without her blessing, you’re gonna be in timeout.”

rafe’s eyes darkened just a touch—playful still, but with that unmistakable shift. that slow pull of heat curling between the two of you yet again. he leaned in a little closer, voice low and smooth.

“then we can’t let her find out…” he murmured.

before you could fire back, he caught your mouth in another kiss—this one deeper, more lingering. it wasn’t rushed or desperate, but it carried a weight of everything unsaid. a kiss that hummed with quiet need, with the warm buzz of wine and slow-burning tension. your hand slid into his hair without thinking, his fingers brushing over the bare skin of your thigh, sending a shiver through you.

when you finally broke apart, breath mingling in the soft space between you two, you let out the faintest laugh, resting your forehead against his. “she’d definitely know something’s up now,” you whispered. rafe grinned, lips still grazing yours.

“then we better behave for the rest of the night.”

tags: @inbred-eater @dearapril @isasweetie @beausling @rafecami @rafesheaven @rafeysbrat @rafesangelita @drewsephrry @rafesbowbunny @rafessecret @littlelamy @sturn777 @bradshawed @cherrygirlfriend @trusweethrt @inspiredangel @whinyangel @et6rnalsun @luckycrys @bluemerakis @lacyydollette @nemesyaaa @bruisedfig @rafekisser @tinythebunni @rcsbabydoll @rafesgreasycurtainbangs

[shitpostingkats]

An Asexual's love letter to Good Omens 2

There's an infamous quote by Neil Gaiman going around, regarding the general vibe of season 2, and many people (I believe humorously) yelling that it could not be further from the truth. Particularly in the last episode, where that happens.

I disagree.

The final episode of season 2 was deeply, deeply comforting to me. 

I am asexual. Have been my whole life. Even before I had the words to describe what that was, child-me had this feeling in their gut of being an outlier, that everyone was exaggerating, or in on some joke, that I wasn’t privy to. Because I was bombarded on all sides by shows and movies and books, telling the same story of love, again, and again, and AGAIN. It’s drilled into our brains with the same fervor as the days of the week, or the quadratic formula. Meet-cute -> misunderstanding ->declaration of feelings ->kiss. More or less steps can be added to account for runtime or complexity of narrative, but that’s the basic structure that a relationship follows. It MUST be, because that’s the formula every character who's ever been in a story goes through, often times when it even feels like an add-on, like it’s only there because this is a story, there HAS to be a romance. And it has to follow the steps.

For a long time, I felt love wasn’t for me, because if there’s only one way to be in love, I sure as hell wasn’t feeling it. 

Instead, the relationship I ended up in looked a lot like what Beezlebub and Gabriel go through. Meeting someone routinely until it starts to feel comfortable. Getting to know them and slowly growing more attached. Eating chips and listening to music.

We like to joke whenever someone asks us how long we’ve been together, because the answer is we just sort of slowly fell into it, and we honestly don’t know when the line got blurred between ‘friends’ and ‘partners’. And, at least for me, a good deal of that confusion, that hesitancy to label, came from the fact that what I was feeling, what we were, couldn’t be love. It couldn’t be romantic. 

We were just quiet and gentle.

And that wasn’t love.

Because it was slow, because it wasn’t physical, because there was no structure aside from consistency and companionship. Because it didn’t follow the Rules.

Then I found myself in stories, and it felt like a revelation.

Beelzebub and Gabriel aren’t the first time I’ve seen a love like I feel represented in a narrative, but it never stops feeling special. And I don’t know if I’ll ever stop celebrating it.

Throughout the sequence in the pub, I kept expecting them to “confirm” Gabriel and Beelzebub. A dramatic line, a kiss, a whatever. That’s what I’ve been taught to expect, after all, that’s the only way a relationship is “real”. Of course, this doesn't mean Crowley and Aziraphale sharing a dramatic kiss is wrong, or that I can’t see why it resonated with so many people, but for me. Those moments in the pub are worth so much more.The last scene might have been literally showstopping, but those handful of moments between the duke of hell and an archangel were the beating heart of the season for me. A simple love story in four scenes. No kisses. No ‘I love you’s. Not even any definition of what. The love Gabriel and Beelzebub have is strong enough for them to both want to shatter their worlds and flee their lives and it's just. 

It's just that. 

Two people in a pub, playing the other's favorite song, giving a little gift, buying a packet of crisps. 

That sequence means far more to me than any kiss ever could.

Love isn’t only real when it's hot and sudden and ephemeral, it can also be

Quiet.

And gentle.

And still romantic.

Still real.

[hellishjoel]

taste you

514 words // joel miller x f!reader

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word: book

warnings/information: smut!!! pussy pronouns!!! joel being a book boyfriend!!! oral f!receiving!!! fingering!!! dirty talk!!!

a/n: joel miller, you will always be famous. my banners are by @saradika-graphics. shoutout to @berryispunk and @lady-bess for putting this together on @fanfictionoverload!

Joel slowly nudges your legs open with a gentle guide of his hand, his lusty eyes flicking between your sleep shorts and the flustered look on your face. 

“This how they do it in your books?”

Your mouth is watering. You’ve never felt more attracted to Joel, all broad with his chest puffed and looking to prove something.

He’s noted how enamored you’ve been with a particular book series. One book after the other, he swears he sees you clutching one with new cover art every night. But whenever he asks about it, you clam up. 

He thinks, it’s just a book, right?

But after leafing through the pages of your most recent obsession left on the nightstand, he’s intrigued. 

There’s a lot of fucking sex in here. A lot. 

No wonder you always wiggle around in bed when you read it. You’re turned on as hell. 

This book was clearly written for the female perspective, but thinking about doing these things with you was getting him a little riled up, too. 

Now, he’s here, quoting similar lines from your book while his mouth makes out with your cunt. His tongue works slow and precise movements up and down your seam, moaning at the taste of you as your fingers comb through his greying waves. 

You whimper his name as he gently suckles on your clit, his tongue and teeth flirting with your sensitive bundle of nerves while his thick fingers stretch your throbbing pussy. 

“Joel,” you pant breathlessly, digging your head into the pillow as your stomach only tightens with immense pleasure. 

“Know she likes this,” Joel mutters with a smirk against your folds, his lips lacquered in your arousal. “Know this pretty pussy likes bein’ taken care of. That’s all she needs, someone to take care of her.” He curls his fingers, the tips gently massaging that special spot only he can service.

“Oh— shit,” you gasp, your thighs beginning to shake as your impending orgasm sinks low in the base of your stomach. “Joel, fuck, your goddamn mouth,” you groan his name as he attaches his mouth to your pulsing clit, your thighs clamping against the sides of his head. 

Everything he spoke was pure filth. 

“She’s so damn pretty, baby. Wet just for me. You know how much this turns me on? You laid out on this bed, takin’ what I give you. Eatin’ this pussy so good, you can barely talk.” 

Joel’s taunts make you whine, your body writhing against his possessive hold as he reaches up your front, his fingers toying with your peaked nipples. It’s just enough to push you over the edge, every nerve in your body set alight simply by what your books have taught him. 

“Holy hell,” you pant as he licks his fingers clean, a smirk painted on his lips as he writes the letter J on your thigh in your sticky arousal. 

“You can have your book boyfriends, I don’t mind,” Joel mutters as he runs his fingers along his square jawline, “but you’re mine off the page. Okay, baby?” 

What do you say?

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[onyxstyx]

ʜᴀɴɢɪɴɢ ʙʏ ᴀ ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴅ | emperor geta

pairing: emperor geta x fem!reader

summary: the fates spin the thread of destiny, and mortals have no choice but to follow its path. you have other plans.

➺‘the fates, who give men at their birth both evil and good to have, and they pursue the transgressions of men and gods… until they punish the sinner with a sore penalty’ - theogony, hesiod ➺‘whatever happens to you has been waiting to happen since the beginning of time’ - marcus aurelius

A/N: i watched gladiator ii, devoured all the geta fics i could find (ty writers for feeding me <3) and i’m still ravenous. the man is gnawing at me from my insides so i had no choice but to get typing. haven’t written for like a yr so bear with me. if this flops it never happened xx

warnings: mention of miscarriage (not reader's), period-typical misogyny, morally ambiguous reader bc she’s fighting for her life out here. she’s just a girl fr :( YOU try being a girlie in ancient rome :/ enjoy !!

w/c: 5.9k

latin translations: fatum - fate, carissima - dear, domina - my lady

As the moon ascends in wake of the sun’s descent, the gilded walls of the imperial palace glint softly in the moonlight. Glorious tapestries line these walls, each one telling the tale of hallowed heroes, of terrible tyrants and of revered rulers. The history of the Roman Empire.

Their patterns, depicting stories of both rise and ruin, are woven by none other than the three Fates. One Fate spins the thread, and an heir is born. Another Fate weaves it, and a battle is won. The last Fate cuts, and an emperor meets his end.

As three pairs of hands work nimbly in the heavens, another tapestry begets itself in the mortal realm, where our story takes place.

From a tender age, you had been taught to believe in fate.

Fatum.

You had first learnt the word as a little one.

You’d been a curious creature, like most children are. Sheltered from the terrors of the world, your appetite for life was insatiable. You’d wake up with a hunger for new knowledge about the world around you, and go to bed still hungry for more, no matter what had transpired during the day. Thus, you found it impossible to go to sleep of your own accord - you relied on your mother’s bedtime stories to satisfy your appetite, and lull you into slumber.

Perched by your bedside with a gentle hand stroking your hair, she regaled you with the tale of Rome’s beginnings. A tale of abandonment, wolf-mothers and fratricide. Enough thrill to tire you out, she hoped. To her chagrin, she looked down to find widened eyes, without a trace of sleep in them, staring up at her expectantly. Instead, your eyes shone bright with the excitement of unanswered questions.

She sighed fondly before prompting you to talk. “Yes, carissima?”

And so the floodgates opened. You fired her with questions with all the sternness of a Roman general, and she listened intently with all the patience of a loving mother.

Why did the king try to kill the babies? Why didn’t the wolf eat the babies?

And finally, taking great care to be gentle, you placed a tiny hand on her rounded belly and asked the most burning question. Why did Romulus kill his brother? Your innocent mind struggled to comprehend it. You hadn’t even met your little sibling yet, and you already couldn’t fathom the idea of bringing harm to him. Or her, you thought, but your father had insisted that all refer to the babe as the male heir he so desperately desired it to be.

“Fatum,” was the simple answer she supplied. “Without the king’s cruelty, without the wolf’s mercy, without Remus’ death, our great city would never have been built.”

Eyes shining with knowledge yet untold, her gaze held yours. “Whatever happens to you, has been waiting to happen since the beginning of time,” she quoted, a tone of finality in her voice.

As well-loved children do, you’d lapped up your mother’s answer as readily as the twin babes lapped the wolf’s milk.

You had first witnessed fatum some years later, at the age of twelve.

On the brink of adolescence, much about you had changed compared to the little girl having bedtime stories told to her. Much except one. Age hadn’t quelled your curiosity - if anything, it had grown.

You’d exhausted all the resources available to a girl of your standing. You’d read enough philosophical texts to debate with Aristotle himself, asked questions faster than your tutors could find answers and yet, you knew there was much more that the world had to offer. So, you decided to take matters into your own hands.

With age had also come a newfound deviance. Observant as you were, you’d learned that there was much to be gained with certain types of information - if you knew how to use it to your advantage.

As such, you’d taken to eavesdropping on your father’s meetings with his fellow senators from behind a pillar. For weeks on end, they had spoken of a play becoming popular amongst patricians and plebeians alike. Oedipus.

At the centre of their discussion was a ploy to ban the play from being performed. Abhorrent, they had called it. A threat to their authority, if the people are led to believe that even kings are subject to a thing as fickle as fate. At that statement, your eyes twinkled with mischief and a devious smile found its way to your face - you were determined to see this for yourself.

So, on the fateful night you caught your older cousin in the arms of a man bearing no resemblance to her betrothed, you knew you’d struck gold.

Desperate to protect her reputation and far too embarrassed to berate you for sleuthing around when you should have been asleep, she’d hastily agreed to the terms of your silence. She would sneak you into the city’s amphitheatre to watch the next production of Oedipus, if you swore to secrecy.

And so your plan commenced. Hidden under the large folds of her toga, you observed the story unfolding before you. The mighty king of Thebes brought to his knees by the tragic fate he’d tried to escape, to no avail.

A real spectacle, the performance elicited emotions from you that were both old and new. In a short two hours you’d been perplexed, horrified, scandalised. You’d learned quickly why you had to be sneaked in - fate wasn’t the only mature theme you were educated on that night.

But you only came to understand fatum when it took the person dearest to you, two summers ago.

Pregnant again, the fifth time that you could remember, your mother had taken ill. Perilously ill. After years of unsuccessful attempts to produce an heir - one daughter, two miscarriages and two stillbirths - she had breathed her last. In her womb? The son your father demanded of her. The son he had longed for. Prayed to the gods for. What else could bring forth such a tragic end, if not the hands of the Fates?

Now a grown woman, the beliefs your mother had impressed upon you would soon be tested. Left with no living sons to continue his legacy and no living wife to bring forth such living sons, your father’s lofty political aspirations could only be fulfilled through his daughter. You.

Your father wasted no time in advancing his plans.

After a long day spent praying at the temple of Pluto, you had been ready to wind down and relax. A good distance away from the centre of the city and situated atop a number of hills, a trip there takes up the whole day. You had set out at dawn, and as the sun set over the Tiber river to bring forth dusk, your shadow darkened the entrance of your family villa.

Exhausted both emotionally and physically, your body went through the motions of preparing yourself for supper, but your mind remained absent - occupied with thoughts of what could have been and what will never be.

After your bath you called for your maid and allowed her to dress you, head still in the clouds. It was only when you caught a glimpse of yourself in the bronze mirror atop your vanity that you noticed something was amiss.

Your eyes squinted as you inspected the image reflected on the polished surface.

“Why have you dressed me in these garments? I wish to wear my usual attire.”

You wore a tunic, the draped garment secured by an ornate brooch resembling an owl, with eyes made of precious gems. Nothing out of the ordinary.

What was out of the ordinary, was the saffron yellow hue of the tunic — since your mother’s passing you had been in mourning and thus only wore dark colours. A fact well-known by your maid, who dressed you day and night.

The hands fastening the brooch faltered as she gathered a response.

“My apologies, Domina.” She stepped back, head bowed in deference. “I assumed you would revert to your previous wardrobe, seeing as yesterday marked the end of…” She trailed off meekly, allowing you to fill in the blanks.

The previous day had marked a year since your mother’s passing, and thus the end of the customary mourning period. As such, it would be socially acceptable for you to appear happy and content again, reflected in the abandonment of deep plums and drab greys for sunny yellows and bold blues. You supposed it was not odd for her to assume you desire to don brighter colours.

But upon closer inspection, your suspicion rose again. Detailed with beautiful patterns and made of the smoothest damask money could buy, the tunic was much too elaborate for a simple family dinner in the villa. The last time you wore it was to a relative’s wedding, where your father made a point of telling anyone who would listen just how much it had cost to import the material from China.

You poised yourself to question her further, but the words died on the tip of your tongue when you saw the pleading look she gave you.

“Please, Domina.”

She offered you no further explanation, but the fear in her eyes was explanation enough. She was not doing this of her own accord, but under instruction. And if you knew your father well, under strict instruction.

Whatever plans he had for you, you knew you would have little to no choice in the matter.

Wordlessly, you acquiesced and allowed her to continue. You did not protest when she brushed, braided and pinned your hair into an elaborate updo. You were compliant when she lined your eyes with kohl and blotted your lips with mulberry juice.

Primped and primed like a prized show horse, you dismissed your maid, sat by the window and awaited your fate.

Not long passed before the sound of a male timbre filled the room.

“It appears your outfit is missing something.”

You turned to the direction of the voice to see your father standing in the doorway. Instinctively, you stood to your feet - less as a show of respect and more because you were used to being on guard in his presence.

In his hands he held a translucent, gauzy material, sheer in nature and vibrant in colour, that was all too familiar to you.

Your mother’s favourite veil.

Usually fixed firmly atop her head during special occasions - festivals, birthdays, weddings and the like - you could recognise it from a mile away. Growing up, you had associated this veil with womanhood itself. You would traipse around the corridors of the villa with it wrapped around your head haphazardly, the excess fabric trailing behind you as you ran as fast as your little legs could carry you.

What a foreign sight it was to see it in the hands of your father. And what a foreign sight it was to see him in your chambers.

Following your mother’s passing, the two of you had not conversed beyond what was formally required of you, your already fragile relationship fracturing completely. Yet here he was, extending a peace offering. An olive branch.

Pleased as you were to receive it, you were not foolish enough to believe this to be a genuinely affectionate gesture. A politician through and through, your father was no stranger to symbolic gestures, and he had made no attempts to mend your relationship prior to this moment. This sudden generosity, paired with your extravagant dressing, could only mean one thing.

He wanted something from you.

Now, you had two options. Comply with his request, or comply with his request begrudgingly. You chose the latter, of course. Even if obedience was your only option, you weren’t going to make this easy for him.

You casted him a quick look of derision. “If you wish to barter for my forgiveness with a piece of cloth, I am afraid your efforts have been wasted.”

Unphased, he stepped further into the room.  “Now, now, peace, dear daughter. Let us be civil.” The faux humility in his tone was almost comical.

“Perhaps you feel…wronged by me for holding your mother to a certain standard. But, you must understand that I was simply fulfilling my duties, by encouraging her to fulfil her own. I have particular responsibilities to this family. As do you, now.”

You levelled him with an icy glare, wise enough not to express your discontent verbally, but too headstrong not to express it somehow.

“And even if I have, in some unfathomable way, wronged you; to err is human, to forgive, divine.” 

After knowing him for as long as you did, you knew this was the closest thing to an apology you would get. You also knew your father was a talented orator - it’s how he gained a large enough political following to join the Senate, after all. And so you prepared yourself to be subjected to one of his moving speeches.

“It is common knowledge that women are the weaker sex,” What a great way to start, you snarked to yourself. “Yet, I have always seen a unique strength in you. Not physical strength, of course, but a mental fortitude. Since you were a young girl you have been willful, stubborn,” he took a step closer to you with each word, purple-lined toga brushing the floor as he advanced. 

As he said the last word, he gave you a knowing look. “Nosy.”

You failed to hide your shock. “Oh yes, I saw you slinking around behind the pillars.” He waved a hand dismissively. “It matters not, now. In fact, whatever dregs of information you picked up from eavesdropping on my discussions may soon prove useful.”

His face was a picture of smugness, with an eyebrow cocked and the corners of his mouth upturned as if he knew something you didn’t. With just a few sentences he had complimented you (even if it was backhanded), revealed that he knew your secret, and teased you with a nugget of information. The perfect combination to make you anticipate his next words.

Silence filled the room as he kept you in suspense, mind whirring as you mulled over his cryptic words. 

One hand held your mother’s veil in front of him, while the other caressed its folds delicately. His eyes had a faraway look in them that suggested his mind had travelled to another time.

“Your mother was a strong woman. Not strong enough in the end, regrettably, but strong nonthele-”

“Don’t.” You interjected. “You will not sully her memory with your caustic words.”

His lips spread into a diplomatic smile, but the twitch of his eye betrayed the irritation he felt. Belligerent as he was, he ignored your outburst and continued. 

“Unlike her, you have the makings of a lady of great influence. Much like me, you have the mind for politics. That potential lies latent within you.”

With a gentleness you wished was also reflected in his words, he draped the veil over your head. “I advise you not to waste it, dear daughter, and suffer the fate of lesser women.”

You scoffed at his words, readjusting the veil so it rested perfectly atop your head and shoulders. “And how do you suggest I fulfil this…potential? The Senate is not exactly welcoming of women.”

Well-pleased that your interest had been piqued, he finally reveals his true intentions.

“Accompany me to the imperial banquet tonight. We will celebrate the successful conquest of Britannia.”

“I do not care for banquets, nor do I spare a thought for conquests.”

“You may not care for military conquests, but this banquet itself is a conquest of the political sort. In my experience, much more is won with words, than with swords. And tonight’s event presents an opportunity for much gain.”

Again with the cryptic words.

“Allow me to present you to the Emperors. Your face is comely enough to garner their attention, and for some reason unbeknownst to me, some men find opinionated girls like you to be charming.” 

Is he insinuating what you think he is?, you thought incredulously. Surely not.

“The Senate may not be the place for women, but the Senate is not the only facilitator of politics. Why not practice your politics from Palatine Hill?”

There was no mistaking it. He intended to make an Empress of you. Equally as curious as you were sceptical, you decided to test his logic.

“Beauty is fleeting. Charm wanes with time. How would I maintain their favour?”

“That, dear daughter, is up to you. I am certain you will find a way, formidable as you are.”

While it pained you to admit it, he was right. You and your father were more alike than different, what with your scheming and blackmailing. Besides, you were formidable. You were cunning. You were capable.

There may be greater things in store for you yet.

And those greater things began with this banquet.

Upon arrival, you were met with the most magnificent sight you had ever seen. Sat proudly upon Palatine Hill, the palace looked like the image your mind conjured when picturing Olympus. After ascending the intimidating number of steps that led to the entrance, you truly felt like you’d ascended to the land of the gods. Wherever you looked there was amazing artwork that instilled equal parts awe and fear in you. 

Look up, and there were grand arches to behold. Look to the side, and the spectacular frescoes offered a feast for the eyes. Look down, and there were beautifully designed floor mosaics you almost felt bad for stepping on.

As you passed through into the atrium, it was much the same. Ostentatiously decorated, it boasted gilded walls and glorious tapestries, each feature a testament to the Emperors’ opulence, and Rome’s riches.

But it was impossible to focus fully on the artwork with the room heaving as it was. Eyes darting from one person to another with every passing second,  you were captivated by the spectacle the hoard of partygoers presented. Something seemed to be happening in every square foot of the room, each guest having their fill of whatever their vice of choice was for the night. Wine was in abundance, giving way to loose lips, and scantily-clad whores prowled about in the shadows, giving way to loose purse strings.

You had been to your fair share of lavish affairs, but this was a whole new world of revelry.

Between the loud percussion of the musicians’ instruments, the aroma of the heavily seasoned foods and the leering gazes of overexcited men, you began to feel overstimulated. You stuck close to your father as he led you into the heart of the throng, finding comfort in the familiar when surrounded by the foreign. Better the devil you know.

Oblivious to your discomfort, he reprimands you under his breath. “Stop clinging to me like a child, lest our venture fail before it has even begun.”

You’d been so taken by your surroundings that you hadn’t registered where your father was leading you to. Now you stood in front of the two men at the centre of this affair, who were seated majestically upon a golden threaded couch. You prayed you didn’t look like the bewildered little girl you certainly felt like. 

With a grand, sweeping gesture of his hand, your father bowed. 

“Imperators, what an honour it is to partake in these…wondrous celebrations with your Majesties.”

“Senator,” one of them said, voice smooth like honey but with an edge that demanded caution. His face bore a smile, but his tone was calm and measured. “What a pleasure it is to see you.” The twitch of his eyebrow suggested otherwise. “In a more agreeable mood, might I add.” The man beside him sniggers.

More agreeable? Whatever could that mean? For the second time in one night you found yourself deciphering cryptic words. Father must have angered the Emperors, somehow. 

“And you’ve brought…” He trailed off, looking at your father expectantly.

“Yes, Emperor Geta, Emperor Caracalla,” with a single clap and an officious clearing of his throat he stepped to the side, no longer obscuring their vision of you. “May I present my daughter…”

You managed to regain your composure, exhibiting a grace only a lady of the upper echelons of society could possess when you sunk into a deep curtsy. Lifting your gaze, you were met with the hair-raising sensation of being observed. Not just observed – scrutinised.  

A pair of eyes, deep brown like rich soil, trailed over your form. The man that addressed your father with contempt - Geta. His brows furrowed as he took the sight of you in. Lined with kohl much like yours, his eyes were smouldering in their examination.

Another pair, red-rimmed and cloudy with the haze of inebriation, were the perfect contrast. The man that sniggered - Caracalla. With irises of a cold blue hue, they would have been intimidating if they belonged to a face other than his, what with his rosy rounded cheeks and seemingly perpetual impish grin. 

Despite their differences, the relation between the men was clear as day. Flaming locks of hair and the gold laurels that circled their heads confirmed their identities. These were the infamous twin tyrants.

But it wasn’t just the weight of their eyes that you felt. Lounging around the couch in various positions and in varying states of undress, was an entourage of courtesans. You did your best to avert your gaze, as theirs bore into you. 

And what a pleasant sight you were. Adorned with ornate jewellery and clad in the finest of silks, you were easily one of the best dressed at the banquet. Before a word had been uttered, your appearance relayed a message – you were a lady of fine stature, more than accustomed to luxury and thus, would be well-suited to palace life.

Well-suited to be Empress.

Not taking any chances, your father decided not to leave anything up for interpretation.

He began listing your virtues as if reading from a handbook - 100 Things to Look For in a Roman Wife. He spoke of your piety, your beauty, your fertility. With every trait of yours that was mentioned, you grew increasingly more irate and keeping the docile smile on your face became increasingly more difficult. 

“...and lest I forget, she is most gifted with the lyre-”

“How quaint.” Caracalla interrupted, a peal of childish laughter bubbling from his lips. “He presents his daughter’s hand as if he is lobbying for a law to be passed!”

Geta scoffed, “Or a conquest to be forfeited.”

At this, Caracalla doubled over in laughter, the overfilled cup of wine in his hand threatening to spill over the rim with every jostle of his frame. Clearly there’s a joke you’re missing here.

There’s a wicked glint in Geta’s eyes that tells you this joke has guile. 

“Three sennights have lapsed since you last stood before us, spewing nonsense about abandoning our pursuit of Britannica.” The vitriol that coated his voice strung a discordant note in the mellifluous tune of his brother’s continuous laughter. “Yet here you stand in your Emperors’ palace,” he gestured at the ongoing frivolities. “Drinking and making merry with spoils from the very war you so vehemently opposed.” 

Ah. It finally clicked. From what you had picked up from your father and his associates’ discussions, you knew that this conquest had long since been under contention among the Senators. The campaign was taking longer than anticipated, and required more reinforcements than expected. The Roman force was fatigued. At home, the starving plebeians of Rome were one famine away from revolting, and without the full support of the army, politicians relied on empty promises to appease their constituents and maintain order. Yet, the Emperors were adamant on expanding Rome’s borders.

For whatever reason, at the last Senate meeting three weeks ago your father had been the unfortunate soul to suggest that the troops should draw back. And now he stood before them at the celebration of the successful conquest, presenting you as a bargaining chip to secure his pardon. Opposing the Emperors was costly, and he decided you were going to pay that price on his behalf.

Geta leaned his head on his hands as he asked, “Tell me, Senator, what makes you think you will triumph this time?”

You watched your father’s reaction with bitter disbelief. For the first time in your life, your silver-tongued father, the man that had landed you this fate, floundered for words.

Fine. If this was the hand dealt to you, so be it. But you were going to do this your way.

“Your Majesties,” At the sound of your sweet voice, Geta’s gaze affixed itself to your face. Instantly, he was beguiled. “If I may…” 

With the slow incline of his head, you were permitted to speak. 

“I know little of war,” you feigned ignorance. “But I do know that defying the odds to bring glory to Rome is no small feat.” Preening at your praise, Geta leaned forward in his seat, a silent encouragement for you to continue. “Rome and her citizens are fortunate to be led by you, Imperators, and I am grateful to be in the presence of such wise rulers.”

His mouth spread into a self-satisfied smirk. “I bask in your praises, my lady. It pleases me to see that someone in your family has a semblance of loyalty to the powers above them” A pointed look was shot at your father. “You see, all those that oppose their Emperors,” His venomous gaze roved over the group of Senators shifting uneasily as they watched this ordeal. “Will soon learn that there is only one way for a man to wield power.” He held up his index finger for emphasis and paused for suspense. “War.”

With all the self-assurance of a man that has never truly been challenged, he stalked towards you.

“What other power can bring a man to his knees and cause him to surrender?”

“I can think of nothing greater than war!” Caracalla piped up from behind him.

“Yes, brother.” Geta held his cup of wine up in agreement. “By no other means can a man wield such power. I am sure my lady agrees?” He offered his right hand, each finger as bejewelled as the next.

The ultimatum he presented you with was clear. Kiss the ring, let all be forgiven and allow this encounter to end pleasantly. Refuse the ring, and…well, don’t refuse the ring.

But compliance was predictable, and would only get you so far. Your beauty and charm had ignited a spark of interest in him, but that wasn’t enough. You needed that spark to burst into a flame.

With swan-like grace you knelt before him and took his hand, smiling inwardly when his eyes followed your descent with rapture. You didn’t miss his quick intake of breath when you halted your movements to look up and meet his eye, lips an inch away from the stunning signet ring.

“Upon second thought,” You tilted your head as if considering his words. “There exists another power great enough to make a man kneel in surrender.” At your bold words, the hand you held tightened around your fingers until he had a firm grip of your hand. “A power so great, even Emperors are not immune.”

Gasps of shock came from the onlookers sober enough to process what they had heard.

“Impertinence!” Caracalla’s cry of protest tore you from the captivity of his brother’s gaze. 

“Forgive my daughter, she oversteps her bounds.” Your father spat the words out and fixed you with a look of warning, a late and unappreciated attempt to de-escalate the night’s proceedings.

With a wave of Geta’s hand, his words were dismissed. For the sake of keeping your resolve, you pretended not to see the Praetorians return their drawn swords to their scabbards.

You returned to the intense stare of brown eyes narrowed in… intrigue? Suspicion? You weren’t sure, but you had his attention. 

“And what power would that be?”

Your gentle smile had him entranced. “The strike of a drum, the strum of a lyre’s strings. Music, my Imperator, holds much power.”

See, while your father was busy waxing lyrical about you, you had been studying Geta closely. As he listened to others speak, his fingers unconsciously tapped the thigh of the courtesan perched on the arm of the couch. But they were not tapping any old rhythm – they tapped to the beat of the percussion in the background.

The ring your lips had puckered up to kiss was not embossed with an imprint of Mars, the god of war, but Apollo, god of music. Geta the Emperor championed conflict and violence, but Geta the man held music dear.

Rich eyes twinkled as his laugh rang in your ears. “Ah, yes. Your father mentioned your skill with the lyre. He failed to mention your humour.” He didn’t believe you.

“I assure you, Imperator, my lyre-playing is unparalleled.” You indulged him with a coy smile.

“You believe you would best our most talented musician? That your playing would put your Emperors’ finest to shame?” He challenged your claim.

“Given the chance, I would outplay each of the Nine Muses,” you asserted boldly. You rose to his challenge.

His eyes gleamed with ardour as he regarded your statement with a raised brow. “I await the day I hear you play with baited breath, my lady.”

“It would be my pleasure, my liege.”

Not risking any more excitement, you curtsied and took your father’s arm as he guided you towards the outskirts of the atrium, and away from watching eyes. He wasted no time expressing his displeasure.

“Have you lost your senses, girl? Has some strange plague come over your mind?!” He released an exasperated sigh. “You should have held that tongue of yours.”

 “Oh, and left you there, stammering like a bumbling fool? Father,” you uttered the paternal term without an ounce of familial affection. “You entrusted this ploy into my hands, so leave it there.”

Anger flashed across his face like a clap of thunder. Before he could berate you for your indolence, however, a piercing shriek stole the moment.

You pushed through the crowd to see the commotion, weaving past bodies stilled with shock at whatever it is they were witnessing. When you got to the centre, you were met with a most harrowing display of fraternal discord.

Geta lay sprawled out on the marble floor, the corded muscle of his limbs tensing as he strained to hold back the man towering over him, wielding a dagger above his head. Caracalla. 

At first glance one may have supposed this fray was borne of anger, but with the spittle flying out of gritted teeth that gnashed and snarled like those of some inhuman beast, the incoherent stream of words and the crazed look in his eyes, it was clear that he did not have full agency of his person.

The rumours were true. He was having one of his infamous episodes.

Your eyes darted from Praetorian to Praetorian, waiting for one of them, any of them to take action. Their hands rested on the hilt of their swords, hesitation rooting them to their spots. To raise a hand against Caracalla would be treason, punishable by death. To ignore the distress of Geta would be treason, also punishable by death. They were at an impasse.

The chatter of mingling guests and the ambience of the musicians’ instruments had long since stopped, leaving the grunts of the brothers to take their place. All watched on in stunned silence, revelers turned horrified spectators.

Their scrambling continued. Geta managed to hook a leg around Caracalla’s ankle, toppling him over to join him on the cold marble. Wine cups clanged as they were knocked to the ground, collateral. The cacophony of sound nearly masked the sound of Geta’s desperate plea.

“Break the spell! Break the spell!”

Moved by an impetus you couldn’t explain, you barreled further through the crowd until you reached the musicians’ corner. You grabbed the lyre from the hands of the bard (who was too focused on the ongoing tumult to protest), and started strumming the tune of a nursery rhyme favoured by Roman children both rich and poor. 

Dulcet tones and sweet symphonies echoed through the chamber as you sang of Rome’s rolling hills, of fair maidens awaiting the return of brave soldiers, of the Tiber River’s ebb and flow.

Those around you listened intently, enraptured. They stepped aside, clearing a path for you towards the quarreling brothers. You walked forward as you sang, and as you reached the last verse you stood a few feet away from where they squirmed, limbs akimbo. 

From your position you saw the exact moment the muscles in Caracalla’s face relaxed, and his body went limp. He released a weak whimper better-suited to an injured animal than the tyrannical emperor he was rumoured to be.

Eyes fixed on you over his brother’s shoulder, he dropped the dagger as if compelled. Tears began to run down his face as he wailed, balling himself up into a foetal position. When they noticed his change in disposition, his entourage took the chance to spirit him away from the room. 

The final note of your song rang out. A beat passed as everyone came to, as if they too were held captive in a trance. Then, a slow, steady clap from one became a roaring applause, your fellow guests lauding your performance as if it had been planned. 

Chest heaving from exertion, Geta used a three-legged (formerly four-legged) stool to pull himself from the floor and adjusted his toga. At the raise of his hand, the clapping stopped. Flopping back to sit on the couch, he gestured for you to come forward. His expression was inscrutable. 

Before you could scrape together an apology, or some sort of explanation, you were utterly disarmed by the grin that spread across his face. 

“My lady,” He huffed between words, still catching his breath. “I stand corrected. It appears your flair with the lyre is equally as bewitching as your looks.”  

Your cheeks heated up at his confession of attraction towards you. “It pleases me that you think of me so, my Emperor.”

“Mmm.” He hummed, dark eyes taking their time to appraise you. “The power to bring a man to his knees can be very dangerous, you know. I believe it would be in the best interest of Rome and her citizens if such power was… managed by the capable hands of their Emperor.”

The chill of deja vu ran down your spine when he extended his hand in your direction. A second invitation to kiss the ring. Most people only get one.

“Wouldn’t you agree?”

As your lips made contact with the cold metal of Apollo’s face and you sealed your fate, you closed your eyes and said a silent prayer. When you opened them again, you found eyes the colour of rich soil searching yours. 

He turned the hand that gripped his and pressed a surprisingly sweet kiss to the back of it. His kisses travelled up your arm, growing more and more fervent, the plush of his lips leaving warmth on every spot they pressed against. He used his hold on you to pull you towards him until you were close enough to smell the heady scent of patchouli mixed with the subtle musk of perspiration, and count the freckles on his speckled cheeks, peeking through the layer of makeup. 

His palm ran up and down your arm repeatedly, inching further up each time.

“You will make a home for yourself here, in these palace walls.” Brown eyes gazed into yours, full of a veneration you couldn’t fathom. “And you shall be my little Muse.” 

As if the troubles of your life thus far had not been a sufficient allotment of suffering, the Fates had now tasked you with weathering the twin tempers of the Emperors Geta and Caracalla. And surviving.

Gods help you.

A/N: thank you ever so much for reading ! i'm working on part two so let me know if you want me to post it when it's done <3

likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated x

© onyxstyx tumblr 2025

[ladyphlogiston]

Any human metric that can be easily measured is probably not worth measuring.

010. As soon as you see people as things to be measured, they don’t measure up. (submitted by bibliothekara)

[nostalgebraist]

I feel like I've had the same experience several times now: someone does a new translation of a non-English literary classic, and all the critics praise it to the moon, so I go and try to read it, and it's turns out it's just . . . bad? Like, really bad? And weirdly bad?

A while back, I wrote about the case of Pevear and Volokhonsky. Here's another example, which I encountered while doing background research for my novel Almost Nowhere.

----

One of my novel's major characters is a literary translator, famous for his rendition of the Persian epic poem Shahnameh ("Book of Kings").

To help me write this character, I tried to read the Shahnameh myself. I started out – where else? – with the translation that seemed to be the gold standard, and which was certainly the most critically lauded.

Namely, the 2006 translation by Dick Davis, in prose with occasional shifts into verse.

Here's how the Shahnameh begins, in Davis' translation:

What does the Persian poet say about the first man to seek the crown of world sovereignty? No one has any knowledge of those first days, unless he has heard tales passed down from father to son. This is what those tales tell: The first man to be king, and to establish the ceremonies associated with the crown and throne, was Kayumars. When he became lord of the world, he lived first in the mountains, where he established his throne, and he and his people dressed in leopard skins. It was he who first taught men about the preparation of food and clothing, which were new in the world at that time. Seated on his throne, as splendid as the sun, he reigned for thirty years. He was like a tall cypress tree topped by the full moon, and the royal farr shone from him. All the animals of the world, wild and tame alike, reverently paid homage to him, bowing down before his throne, and their obedience increased his glory and good fortune.

And here is the same opening, in the 1905 translation by Arthur and Edmond Warner (which I only discovered much later in the process of writing Almost Nowhere):

What saith the rustic bard? Who first designed To gain the crown of power among mankind? Who placed the diadem upon his brow? The record of those days hath perished now Unless one, having borne in memory Tales told by sire to son, declare to thee Who was the first to use the royal style And stood the head of all the mighty file. He who compiled the ancient legendary, And tales of paladins, saith Gaiúmart Invented crown and throne, and was a Sháh. This order, Grace, and lustre came to earth When Sol was dominant in Aries And shone so brightly that the world grew young. Its lord was Gaiúmart, who dwelt at first Upon a mountain; thence his throne and fortune Rose. He and all his troop wore leopard-skins, And under him the arts of life began, For food and dress were in their infancy. He reigned o'er all the earth for thirty years, In goodness like a sun upon the throne, And as a full moon o'er a lofty cypress So shone he from the seat of king of kings. The cattle and the divers beasts of prey Grew tame before him; men stood not erect Before his throne but bent, as though in prayer, Awed by the splendour of his high estate, And thence received their Faith.

Now, I can't speak at all about the source text. I have no idea how faithful or unfaithful these two translations are, and in what ways, in which places.

Still, though. I mean like, come on.

This is an epic poem about ancient kings and larger-than-life heroes.

This is a national epic, half myth and half history, narrating the proud folkloric lineage claimed by a real-world empire.

There is a way that such things are supposed to sound, in English. And it sure as hell isn't this:

What does the Persian poet say about the first man to seek the crown of world sovereignty?

Excuse me? That's your opening line? I thought I was reading a poem, here, not taking a fucking AP World Literature exam!

----

Postscript

Some of the critical praise for the Davis translation, quoted on the back cover of my copy (emphasis mine):

"A poet himself, Davis brings to his translation a nuanced awareness of Ferdowsi's subtle rhythms and cadences. His "Shahnameh" is rendered in an exquisite blend of poetry and prose, with none of the antiquated flourishes that so often mar translations of epic poetry." (Reza Aslan, The New York Times Book Review) "Thanks to Davis's magnificent translation, Ferdowsi and the Shahnameh live again in English.” (Michael Dirda, Washington Post) "A magnificent accomplishment . . . [Davis’s translation] is not only the fullest representation of Ferdowsi’s masterpiece in English but the best." (The New York Sun)

[raddixie]

In a world where certain powers are branded as curses, those who bear them are quietly erased from public life—sent to an isolated institution disguised as a prestigious “private school.” There, they’re taught to suppress their abilities. To be safe. Palatable. Normal.

But behind the sterile courtyards and ever-watching eyes, something festers. The halls echo with stories no one dares to repeat. And some students… simply disappear. No one talks about them. No one asks. Staff gets colder, and the rules get stricter.

You are one of the cursed—harboring a truth even the institution doesn’t understand. As the cracks begin to show, you’ll uncover secrets buried beneath concrete and silence. But the deeper you dig, the more you risk losing yourself—to the power inside you, and to the place that wants to bury you with the rest.

Because here, being cursed isn’t the worst thing you can be. Being noticed is.

“They say it’s harmless, and I let them believe it. But if they ever saw what it costs me to stay this quiet… they wouldn’t just scream. They’d disappear.” — MC

Genre: Dark Academia, horror, mystery, supernatural, thriller.(+18)

Demo Release : To Be Announced

Customize your main character’s gender, appearance, personality, and sexuality.

Your choices will shape the MC’s purpose, morality, and ultimate ending.

Rebel against the system—or conform to survive.

Romance, befriend, or antagonize one of six uniquely powerful individuals.

Hadrian – 20 (He/Him)

Power: Can temporarily raise the dead, though they only obey him while reanimated.

Personality: Calm, burdened, protective, emotionally distant.

Appearance: Ash-brown, slightly wavy hair kept medium-length. Deep forest-green eyes. Pale skin with dark under-eyes and pronounced eye bags. 6'3

Style: Minimalist and somber—black turtlenecks, layered coats, heavy boots. Wears a silver ring on a chain from someone important.

Mannerisms:– Stands still while others move, like he's observing. Rarely speaks. Avoids eye contact when emotional. His hands are always cold.

Quote:

"You shouldn’t follow me into the dark. Not everyone comes back from it… and I won’t be able to pull you out."

—

Fenric – 22 (He/Him)

Power: Sees others’ fates and can alter them—at the cost of self physical harm.

Personality: Brave, impulsive, stubborn, self-sacrificing.

Appearance: Jet-black, slightly messy short hair. Piercing icy-blue eyes that shimmer when his power activates. Deep tan skin with cool undertones. 5'11".

Style: Urban-street layers—hoodies, worn sneakers, bandages. He wears a thread bracelet, knotting it each time he changes a fate.

Mannerisms: Winces at visions. Bites his cheek when frustrated. Uses sarcasm to mask pain. Frequently checks the time.

Quote:

"I already saw how this ends. But hey—just for you, I’m willing to rewrite it… no matter the cost."

—

Elias – 19 (He/Him)

Power: Feeds on strong emotions—leaving others drained.

Personality: Charismatic, sarcastic, intense; a wild card.

Appearance: Thick, tousled chestnut-brown hair. Hypnotic amber-gold eyes. Warm caramel skin with sun-kissed undertones. 6'1".

Style: Ripped jeans, vintage tees, layered jewelry. Smells of smoke and sandalwood. Has tattoos that seem to subtly shift in certain light.

Mannerisms: Smirks constantly. Leans close when emotions are high. Always fiddling with a lighter or coin.

Quote:

"Careful, darling. Feel too much around me, and you’ll be left emptier than you knew you could be."

—

Lira – 21 (She/Her)

Power: Sees the future in her dreams.

Personality: Quiet, introspective, emotionally distant.

Appearance: Long, straight silvery-white hair, usually worn loose. Pale lavender eyes that glow faintly in sunlight. Porcelain skin with cool undertones. 5'5".

Style: Ethereal—flowing skirts, high-collared blouses, shawls. Often barefoot indoors. Wears a crystal pendant for protection.

Mannerisms: Blinks slowly while thinking. Hums to herself. Sometimes pauses mid-sentence when experiencing a vision.

Quote:

"I dreamed of you before we met. You were smiling… but the world around you was falling apart."

—

Nova – 24 (She/Her)

Power: Can twist or erase memories

Personality: Loyal, stubborn, protective, combative when provoked.

Appearance: Dark auburn hair tied back in a practical ponytail. Sharp hazel eyes flecked with gold. Deep brown skin with warm undertones. 5'9".

Style: Tactical streetwear—cropped jackets, combat boots, hidden pockets. Wears a utility belt at all times.

Mannerisms: Crosses her arms when thinking. Instinctively positions herself between others and danger. Rests her hand near her hip, ready to act.

Quote:

"I’ll protect what matters—even if that means taking something from your mind you weren’t ready to lose."

—

Selen – 20 (She/Her)

Power: Controls and manipulates emotions.

Personality: Calculating, cunning, deeply wounded by past rejection.

Appearance: Blonde hair, sleek and shoulder-length. Cold gray eyes. Smooth, cool beige skin. 5'7".

Style: Dark elegance— loves makeup, bold lipstick, sleek eyeshadows. Wears an intoxicating perfume. Can't go anywhere without her phone.

Mannerisms: Smiles when angry. Tilts her head while reading people. Uses touch strategically—to comfort or unnerve.

Quote:

"Don’t flatter yourself—I don’t need powers to make you feel something. I just know exactly which part of you to break."

Content Warning:

False Grace explores dark and mature themes, including emotional manipulation, trauma, mental health struggles, death, institutional abuse, gaslighting, and body autonomy.

May include references to:

Psychological distress

Violence and blood

Graphic depictions of death and corpses

Emotional and memory manipulation

Themes of disappearance, isolation, and loss of identity

Sexual content (optional)

Player discretion is advised.

—

If you’ve made it this far, thank you.

This is my first original interactive fiction—and honestly, my first original work ever. (I also don't know how to English cause....yeah..) I used to write fanfics (but we don’t talk about that…), so diving into something this big has been both terrifying and thrilling.

False Grace is still very much a work-in-progress. I’m learning as I go—coding, design, pacing, everything—but this project means the world to me. It’s my biggest undertaking so far… and probably my angstiest, too.

I’m nervous to share it, but also so excited to share it with the rest of you (hopefully soon)

@interact-if

[myownwholewildworld]

a man called joel (part 3)

↪ a "a man called otto" inspired fic ― jackson!joel miller x f!reader

series masterlist | follow @arranupdates for notifs! | AO3 summary: it's been four weeks since your patrol with joel. and while you try to forget about him and settle into your new life in Jackson, there's an inside voice screaming at you. one that you can't ignore and, thankfully, you don't. author's note: i, uh... well. part 3 is here! this is the scene i envisioned when i first thought of this series. not gonna lie, i'm nervous about posting this one. i hope you guys enjoy it (as much as angst can be enjoyed, that is). as always, please heed the warnings and if you like what you read, please consider interacting with this post or come yap at me! love you all <3 tags/warnings: 18+, mdni. ANGST. ellie makes an apperance and she's ruthless with joel (i'm sorry). joel breaks. suicide attempt. vomitting. tiny mention of blood. wound tending. a load of angst yes, but this time there's some angsty comfort too! dual pov. quotes from "a hundread years of solitude" on joel's pov; quotes from "chronicle of a death foretold" on reader's pov. reader is female, has hair. no use of y/n. joel is 61 and reader is 46. wordcount: ~8.6k. divider by @\saradika-graphics

Hurt wouldn’t even cover it. Disappointed was more like it—not with Joel, but with yourself. For allowing yourself to care too much about a stranger, for worrying over those who didn’t bother to at least be nice in return.

Should have learnt this was not how the world worked anymore, decades ago. The apocalypse had changed humanity, brought out the worst of people. And yet again, every time you encountered someone in need, you’d lend a hand. Only to have it bitten off by the harsh crudeness of this new reality that had been haunting you since the beginning of it all.

Time and time again, you had stumbled with the same stone—the stone of hope. When the virus took hold of what little remained of societal decency, you told yourself people were only scared, that was why they were cruelly acting out. When your partner became bitter and erratic, you again told yourself it was only because of desperation. When havoc caused division within your group, you tried to assuage them.

You’d always tried—it was in your nature, part of who you were. And if there was something you were proud of, was that you never let go of the values your parents taught you. Perhaps you were too kind-hearted for this vicious world. But you refused to allow the circumstances to change who you were at your core.

Despite the conviction, it was terribly hard to constantly extend a hand to others. You were drained. Not of purpose, but because of rejection. Having lost everyone who had accompanied you since the beginning, finding yourself alone now in this decrepit world… It was taking a big mental toll on you. And when you saw the pain disguised as bluntness in Joel, a piece of you reached out to him—the fixer in you had clung to the last dregs of him. Perhaps you didn’t know him but knew his harrowing agony. Knew what being the outcast felt like, what loneliness was. Knew the torment of what if, the misery of why didn’t I.

You were drowning in your own thoughts, overthinking the situation until you worried yourself to sleep. And in a moment of weakness right after your patrol with Joel, you had asked Tommy if you could move to a different house. Not your proudest moment.

“Anything wrong with the one you are in now? Pipes all good?” Tommy had asked you when you approached him in the community hall after ensuring Joel was nowhere to be seen.

“Ah, no. Yeah, pipes are good now, thanks,” you had lied, still feeling guilty about having to block one to match the excuse you’d given him. “It’s just, uh… It’s too big of a house for just me, I’m sure a family would make good use of it. I’m happy to live somewhere smaller.”

And somehow, he’d seen through your lie this time around. The way his brows had furrowed as the inner working of his brain put the pieces together was eerily familiar—a shared mannerism between the Millers.

“Has Joel done or said something stupid?” When you didn’t reply, trying to hide your betraying expression, he had huffed. “Such a fucking prick. Is that why you’ve asked Maria to change your patrol shifts too? I swear, when I catch him!”

You reassured Tommy over and over again that neither of those two asks had anything to do with his older brother. Theatrics was never your forte, so whether he bought it or not, you didn’t know.

Now you just felt silly for letting Joel doubt yourself, what you stood for. His rejection shouldn’t set you back.

He doesn’t want my help? Fine then. I’ll help someone else.

But as that thought formed, your mind drifted away to that fateful patrol day. How you found him, frozen in front of that clicker. How the despair and regret flickered in the brown bark of his eyes. How the knife slipped from his hand—Wait, or did he drop it? Did he mean not to put up any fight? Did he mean to give up? Did he mean to let the infected kill him?

Did he mean to commit suicide?

No. He wouldn’t. He’s got a family, you thought, your mind jarring and struggling with the daunting idea of someone ending their life.

But did having a family really mean anything? Did having a family mean you didn’t feel alone? You knew it didn’t.

Perhaps I didn’t see it right, perhaps the knife did slip.

But if it did, why would you find him crying? Looking down at your hands, you rubbed your fingers together—you could still feel the dampness of his tears, the wetness of his desperation, from when you cradled his weathered face and brushed the tears away.

Your mind drifted back to your conversation with Tommy three weeks ago, the unsettling feeling returning to your belly.

“Have you checked in on him lately?” The question had slipped before you could refrain yourself from asking. Because despite how rude he’d been, you still worried about him, especially after what you thought you saw with the clicker in the outbuilding.

“Who? Joel? He’s fine. He’s always been this grumpy, don’t worry about him,” Tommy had said with a laugh and a wave of his hand. “Why you ask?”

You did really consider mentioning what you had witnessed on patrol, but didn’t want to cause any more trouble between the brothers if you were wrong. Besides, it was obvious Joel wasn’t seeking any help.

Are you fucking stupid or are you just pretending to be?

Your muscles stiffened suddenly, the disrespect of his words rummaging in the fresh gaping wound in your chest. How some simple sentence almost had you folded—a slap in the face would have hurt less. The despise in his eyes, how he backed up like a cornered animal when you reached for him again—as if the mere thought of you was disgusting, as if he couldn’t bear the thought of you putting your hands on him again.

Your heart stirred uncomfortable in your chest, a heavy, surrendered sigh escaping from your lips. How could a stranger’s rejection have such a big impact on you?

Just let it go. He doesn’t want your help. Move on.

A knock on your door startled you. Your brows furrowed in confusion as you untucked your legs from underneath you before throwing the blanket aside and standing up off the couch. It was almost midnight, the deadly quiet of the night amplifying the sound of the wind rustling leaves nearby, and you were not expecting any visitors.

Leaving the book—the one where you had gotten stuck reading the same paragraph repeatedly while your mind drifted away—on the side table, you tiptoed to the front door. Looking through the peephole, your blood froze.

Right there, standing on your porch in the dead of night, was the personification of your hurt. Joel Miller. In the darkness, he still looked tired and restless. When was the last time he slept? you wondered. Joel Miller looked like a man with one foot in the grave.

Your fingers curled around the handle, but you hesitated—what could he possibly want at this ungodly hour? He’d probably seen the orange shadow your lamp casted on the living room’s window, so there was no point in pretending you weren’t awake. But still, you stalled.

Joel raised his fist to knock again but thought better of it. You saw the doubt dancing in the whisky hue of his irises, all resolution abandoning him. His lips fell into a flat line and then nodded to himself before turning around.

Your heart raced and before he could walk away, you swung the door open.

“Joel?” you whispered, switching on the porchlight and hugging yourself when the cold breeze hit you.

Joel’s bowed head snapped up, his shoulders squaring instantly. For a brief second, he paused—as if he considered playing deaf and running away. Slowly Joel veered around and faced you.

His worn expression took you aback. Perhaps the cast of the porchlight magnified the dark circles under his orbs, the yellowish tint of the bruise kissing the exposed skin of his neck, the deep creasing lines around his eyes and mouth.

Joel Miller was a man who looked… defeated? Torn? Exhausted? Purposeless?

“Uh, hi,” he muttered in return, his eyes taking in the sight of you after your name rolled easily off his tongue.

You felt more self-conscious now—you were barefoot, hadn’t taken care of your hair today, and you had the worst pyjamas on, holes and old stains included. So unwittingly, you hugged yourself harder.

“Hi, Joel,” you repeated. “What do you want?”

You didn’t intend for your question to have a resentful hint, but it did. It just slipped, like the knife off his hand.

“Uhm,” his hand flew to the back of his neck, his lips flattening even more. “I, uh… Well…”

He hadn’t said much yet, but you sensed what this late-night visit could be about. Was he about to ask for your forgiveness? An actual, heart-felt apology for the crudeness of his actions and words. In all honesty, that was all you needed to acquit his behaviour. Everyone deserved a second chance, deserved to right a wrong.

You watched him struggle for words as your heart raced expectantly, fighting back the tiny smile that threatened to curl your lips a tad too early.

“I… Yeah. I was wondering if I could borrow that book you recommended on our last day of patrol?” Joel stumbled over his own words, his jaw locking. “Chronicle of a Death Foretold?”

The warm feeling swarming your belly soon turned cold. Heavy, churning, your disappointment so thick you had to swallow to untie the knot in your throat. Why should you expect something different? An apology from him? You almost scoffed at your risible occurrence.

“Is that it?” you mumbled in a vain attempt to hide your frustration.

Joel paused, mouth opening and closing fast as thunder. His Adam’s apple bobbed, words hitching at the back of his throat. You could see the pulleys of his mind at work in the windows of his eyes, the only tell he couldn’t govern.

And yet again, disillusionment followed.

“Yeah,” another uncomfortable silence. Joel’s posture shifted, his fists clenching. “I just finished my book, so I have nothing to read.”

“No, sorry,” you gritted, sensing your own annoyance building up. “I haven’t finished it yet.”

If your retort took him aback, you couldn’t tell. Joel just gave you a stern nod instead, his determination deflating behind his brown eyes. Was he so proud he wouldn’t admit he’d treated you wrong?

“Right, sorry to disturb. Night,” and as fast as he came, Joel was gone.

You saw him crossing the thick blanket of snow, head buried between his shoulders, before he disappeared through his front door.

Every day for the next week, you warred with yourself. Perhaps it was your people-pleasing tendencies, but more than once you caught yourself before walking up the steps of Joel’s porch and offering him Gabo’s book.

It was a losing battle though. Eventually you’d wave a white flag, stick it in the middle of the street between Joel’s and your house. Claim that it was his fault that you hadn’t given in for not opening up, for not being brave enough to say what he came to say—or what you thought he came to say.

But upon reflection, forcing someone to acknowledge their grief, their solitude, their struggles, was not the best approach. Trust required time, and it was obvious Joel Miller needed more than that. You were now convinced that he truly was at the end of his wits. The knife hadn’t slipped, he’d dropped it—it was as clear as the sun would rise tomorrow over his roof.

You wondered if his family knew, if he had at least confided in someone. Because if he hadn’t, then this secret you were keeping was eating away at the confines of your contrition. It would tear you apart, being complicit in his pain.

Sat on the bay window of your living room, you read again the last paragraph of the book.

“Santiago, my son,” she shouted to him, “what has happened to you?” “They've killed me, Wene child,” he said. He stumbled on the last step, but he got up at once. “He even took care to brush off the dirt that was stuck to his guts,” my Aunt Wene told me. Then he went into his house through the back door that had been open since six and fell on his face in the kitchen.

The last word echoed in your mind, so loud you had to whisper it. Kitchen. You said it again with a trembling sigh, wearing it out, flushing it out of your brain.

Why did you suddenly have this déjà vu, anxiety-like feeling sinking in the pit of your stomach?

As you’d done at least a dozen times in the last two hours, your eyes moved away from the yellowed pages across the street. In his porch, Joel was still in the same position as you last checked on him. Impassive like a statue, you wondered if he’d frozen up with the chilling temperatures. He’d been sitting on that bench for over two hours now, staring into the distance as his only pastime. Waiting. For something to happen. Or someone to show up.

It worried you how he hadn’t moved an inch, what was in his mind that had him under such a numbing spell. Perhaps you should intervene now, talk to him, ask him why he was out there alone wrapped in the blanket of such misty night.

But before you could make up your mind, someone did appear. Getting closer to the window glass, you watched from behind the curtains how the girl approached the porch. Her stance was rigid, her features young. She was clearly a teenager, then it hit you. Did Joel have a daughter?

The moment Joel saw her, he jumped up to his feet instantly, his posture as stiff as hers. The girl huffed, her shoulders slouching, as she walked past the steps where Joel was standing. He must have shouted back, because her head sank between her shoulders—a gesture you had seen Joel do just a week ago.

The teenager turned around, her face fierce as she replied something you didn’t quite catch. By the way her hands moved as she spoke, and how Joel’s demeanour soured even from the distance, you knew a heated argument had ensued between the two. It only lasted a minute or two before the girl stormed off, walking around the house and heading towards the garage at the back.

Your attention drifted back to Joel, who was still at the top of the stairs. You couldn’t fully see his face, only his profile—but whatever had just happened, had affected him. His right hand curled around the banister while his eyes tracked his daughter walking away and his left clutched at his chest, his stance shifting as if he was in unbearable pain. Joel remained still for another minute, and you wished you knew what was crossing his mind at that precise moment.

He looked so lonely. So broken. So… lifeless. The stillness of his posture spoke of something deeper, a sorrow so heavy it would compete with Atlas carrying the weight of the world. As if he tiptoed on the edge of life—staring into the abyss, pondering, weighing his worth.

Your heart clenched at the sight of him alone on that porch. Only if you could reach out, tell him whatever it was, it would be okay.

Why doesn’t it register in your fucking brains that I want to be left alone, huh?

But as you saw him steeling himself and walking back inside, your insides churned. You knelt on the window bay, watching the ajar door Joel had left behind.

An impending sense of doom flushed through you, your heart racing wildly, your breathing quickening.

“The truth is I didn’t know what to do,” he told me. “My first thought was that it wasn’t any business of mine but something for the civil authorities, but then I made up my mind to say something in passing to Placida Linero.” Yet when he crossed the square, he’d forgotten completely. “You have to understand,” he told me, “that the bishop was coming that day.”

But did you? Did you know what to do? Would you intervene, even if there was only a very thin possibility you were right, when your mind, your soul, was screaming at you right now?

Your heart jolted in your chest, mind fuzzy with doubt. While the Vicario brothers had been the ones to skew Santiago Nasar’s life, Joel’s Grim Reaper could be someone scarier—himself.

Maybe I’m just overreacting, reading into it far too much, you tried to convince yourself.

But as minutes went by, eyes glued to his front door, not doing anything wasn’t an option. Not when your heart and mind knew there was something wrong. You couldn’t explain why or what it was, just that it was.

Getting up, you grabbed an old cardigan, slipped your feet into the winter boots laying on the floor by your front door, and sprinted outside with the book tucked under your elbow.

You sprinted across the blizzard, reaching Joel’s porch within seconds. And even though the door was clearly not shut, you still knocked.

“Joel?” you called out, controlling the tremor in your voice. “I finished the book. I was wondering if you wanted to borrow it now?”

No reply, silence followed your feeble attempt at reconciliation.

With your heart climbing up your throat, you knocked again, the door cracking open a bit more.

“Joel?”

Nothing.

Taking a deep breath, you pushed the door open and walked inside, putting your guard up to whatever you would find. The hallway was dark and cold, the wintery breeze whistling past you. Softly closing the door behind you, you put down the book on the console table and peeked inside the living room.

The decoration was rustic, some dark woods contrasting with the soft blue on the walls. Every piece of furniture looked crafted, curated, not like the mustard couch you had falling apart in the middle of your living room. The fireplace was still crackling, the embers glowing under the soft light of a standing lamp in the corner. But it was empty.

Your instinct told you to move further down the house, and you did in silence. It was so quiet, you were sure your heartbeat could be heard from a mile away. Trudging past the dining room, you got to the kitchen.

“There had never been a death so foretold.”

Your breath hitched; your heart stilled. Under the doorframe you froze, like a rabbit in the presence of a predator. Only you were no prey—Joel was.

Prey to the drowning solitude of his home, of his own loneliness, of life itself.

Prey to the forgetfulness of death—an omen that now made sense, a subtle hint you hadn’t first fully comprehended when he recited those words to you three weeks ago.

Prey to a desperation so thick, it was literally killing him.

Prey to masquerading his pain, deceitful in his actions, in his rude, careless demeanour.

“He was healthier than the rest of us, but when you listened with the stethoscope you could hear the tears bubbling inside his heart.”

Perhaps you couldn’t hear the bubbling of his heart, but you could definitely see the foam pooling at the corners of his mouth as his legs twitched on the floor of his poorly-lit kitchen.

The ephemeral moment stretched for a second too long as your mind tried to grasp what your heart already knew.

Joel was ending it—his life. The suffering. The heartache. The desolation. The guilt he carried, for whatever he thought was unforgivable.

No.

And in the blink of an eye, you lurched forward, your knees skidding on the scratched wooden planks as you landed by his side. His whole body convulsed, his limbs shaking the life out of him, draining him. The chattering of his teeth gritting made your belly churn as tears welled up.

“Joel. Oh my God, Joel!” You whispered, trembling hands hovering over him as your eyes roved over the gut-wrenching vision in front of you. “No, no, no!”

Your desperate wails became louder, but your mind got sharper. This couldn’t be happening. You needed to act now if you were to save his life, there was no time to run out and scream for help. Joel had no time left.

You rolled him over to his side, an inner debate happening as you did.

Should I? If this is what he really wants, if his pain is so great he’s decided to end it, should I intervene? Who am I to take the choice away from him?

But at the end of the day, the real question was: could you live with yourself if you let him die? Could you look at Tommy’s eyes, at Benji’s or Maria’s, and tell them you didn’t dare intercede? That you rather watch him die than having him resent you even more?

What is one more ounce of hate?

And with that thought, your selfish decision was made. Craning his head back a little and holding his jaw with your left hand, you sank three fingers down his foamy mouth, pressing them down on his tongue.

Joel retched, even in his almost gone state.

His eyes fluttered open for an ephemeral moment, tears smudging the beautiful chestnut of his irises, to then shut while his limbs kicked everywhere.

“No, Joel, please,” you pleaded in a sob, forcing your fingers deeper down his throat and pressing down on his tongue again. “P-please come back to me.”

Finally—thankfully—Joel heaved, and you let go of an audible, relieving cry when you felt the warmth of his vomit running past your fingers. You gently held his head tilted towards the floor so his airway wouldn’t block and removed your fingers from his mouth.

“Oh, thank goodness,” you sighed tremblingly, rubbing his shoulder before you raked your fingers through his soft, silvery curls, so his hair wouldn’t be in his eyes. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Oh, God. Please, be okay. Please, Joel.”

He had a nasty cut on his left temple running down to his brow, probably from plummeting onto the floor and hitting his head on the countertop. It was still bleeding, but there were more pressing matters.

Joel stayed down for a minute while you whispered your relief, it was obvious his brain had been battling for oxygen and was trying to come back to reality. You brushed his cheek with your thumb before he showed signs of wanting to sit up.

Wrapping an arm around his waist, you did. Joel leaned back, back resting against the kitchen island. It took him a second before his misty eyes focused on you, his breathing as shaky as your soul.

Under his intense stare you froze again, kneeling in front of him. His eyes were windows to a profound desperation, a grief so deep you’d only dared to imagine, but one you felt down to your core, in your bones. It hit you like a massive wave, flooding your chest with a dread you hadn’t let yourself feel since you arrived at Jackson.

“Joel…” you hushed faintly, one hand reaching up to his shoulder, a comforting caress.

He didn’t reject your advance. And that was when you knew he was broken inside. All pieces of him scattered around like shards of glass, a puzzle with missing bits—the most important ones. The ones that made him, him.

And then Joel swallowed hard before covering his eyes with one broad palm. His shoulders shook in silence, and with that your heart shrank and fell freely into the pit of your stomach.

“Oh, Joel,” you mumbled shakily, scooting over towards him and embracing him, wrapping him in your warmth.

Instead of denying his own tears as he did on patrol, Joel cried. Soft, heartbreaking sobs that found root in your heart, and you just couldn’t help yourself but hug him tighter, fighting your tears back at how low he’d fallen to be openly vulnerable with you.

“It’s okay, Joel, you’re okay,” the words stuck to the back of your mouth. “Everything’s gonna be okay, I promise. Whatever it is, I will help you. You’re not alone, Joel. You aren’t. I’m here. I’ll always be here if you need me to. It’s okay.”

You cradled the back of his head with one hand while the other was firmly on his back, bringing him closer to you. And when you felt one of his on the small of your back in a half embrace, thick tears sprang to your eyes.

You held him tight, allowing him to brush some of the weight he carried off his shoulders. And then, your own guilt began suffocating you. Was he crying because you took the choice away from him? Because he wasn’t dead? Because he wasn’t resting?

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I couldn’t… I just… I’m sorry. I couldn’t let you go. Please, forgive me. I just couldn’t,” you begged of him, a plea for lenience that escaped before you could wish it back.

Fifteen minutes earlier...

“You’re very late, Ellie,” Joel reproached, arms folded at the top of the steps.

He fought to keep his tone steady, he hated doing this. He’d been worried sick all night, wondering where Ellie was. The catastrophist in him had already imagined every single scenario where she’d be hurt or left for dead in a trench. He’d felt so anxious for the last three hours, Joel had to set aside the carving he had been working on after messing it up twice.

Seeing her walking towards the house had filled him with an immense relief, his heart beating so fast he was afraid it would grow legs and run away. But dread quickly followed—the father in him couldn’t just sweep it under the rug. Ellie needed to be reminded of the rules. And she’d put up a fight, make him the bad guy.

And despite being okay with becoming the villain in her story, it still hurt him. A wound so deep that his heart was splintering, because he didn’t really want to do it. Didn’t want to grow further apart from her, the abyss between them so big now it seemed insurmountable. Their relationship was almost beyond repair—he was painfully aware of it—and telling her off for coming home late would only complicate it more.

But he couldn’t just ignore it. He had to do something.

Ellie’s shoulders dropped as she walked past him towards the garage, blatantly disregarding his presence.

Another chink in his already hollering heart.

“Ellie, I’m talking to you,” he raised his voice, warring with himself to keep a calm demeanour. “It’s past two in the morning. You should have come home at least three hours ago.”

Ellie stopped right in her tracks, turning around to face him. The despise in her eyes was as fiery as it was seven months ago when she learnt the truth. And despite the passage of time, it hurt all the same, if not more.

“Who do you think you are to control my every move?” She hissed between gritted teeth, cocking a querying brow.

Your father, was the innate response that burnt the tip of his tongue. Joel fought back the words, knowing full well they would only aggravate the situation.

“What? Do you really think you’re my dad?” Ellie scoffed loudly, an instigating smile curling her mouth.

It didn’t reach her eyes, more of a frustrated grimace than anything else, but still a knife through the heart would have hurt less—Ellie’s words so perfectly aimed, they’d hit the bullseye, causing internal bleeding. Joel felt a stabbing sensation behind his eyes but reined the feeling in with a deep breath.

She doesn’t mean it, she’s angry, he reminded himself.

“I may not be your biological father, but—”

“No, Joel. There’s no but. You aren’t my dad,” Ellie gritted in frustration, her hands moving as she kept on going at him. “My real dad wouldn’t have lied to me for more than four years about what happened in the hospital. My real dad wouldn’t have taken away from me the only thing that made me valuable to this world. My real dad wouldn’t have promised to not kill Eugene to then fucking shoot him while I was gone!”

She knew how to twist the knife, how to make the wound even worse than it already was. Joel’s mouth ran dry, a gurgling void consuming the pit of his stomach as the words settled in his brain. His heart was beating so hard, his eardrums were about to explode.

Joel needed to redirect the conversation before Ellie said something that would tip him over the edge. He needed to keep a cool mind, try not to let her accusations take root in his heart. Joel had to bite back, “I did do all of it because I love you like my own blood, Ellie. You are more valuable than your immunity, that’s not what makes you, you, not to me. And I would do it all over again if I had the chance.”

“Why are you late? Who were you with?” he said instead, swallowing the suffocating knot in his throat.

Ellie laughed in disbelief, throwing her hands in the air in exasperation.

“Why do you want to know? So you can go and kill them too for keeping me away from this dreadful house?” she retorted back, huffing. “Since that’s how you deal with every fucking problem in your life. Kill them all, right?”

“Because I’m your guardian—”

“—I’m nineteen, Joel. I don’t fucking need you—”

“And as long as you live under my roof, you’ll play by my rules,” he finished, ignoring her interruption.

“Then perhaps I should move out!” Ellie shouted at him, taking a step back. “God, were you this insufferable with Sarah too? Because if you were, I’m sure she hated you for being the worst dad ever. Perhaps it was for the better.”

Ellie didn’t need to specify what was for the better, Joel caught the meaning instantly. That she died.

That was a way to take the knife out of the gaping wound to have him bleed to death. Her cruelness left him speechless, the prickling feeling at the back of his eyes returning. That was the lowest blow he’d ever received; one he didn’t expect from someone he held so dear despite the souring of their relationship.

“You don’t mean that,” Joel whispered, forcing himself to swallow.

Ellie paused—her expression faltered for an instant, perhaps realising the damage she’d caused, but her anger blinded her, stronger than the side of her that wanted to apologise.

“I’m tired,” she mumbled suddenly, her anger slowly deflating, taking a few steps away.

“Ellie,” Joel called under his shaky breath. “I—”

I’m sorry. I wish I could have done better. I just wanted to protect you. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing another child, of losing you. Perhaps you don’t understand how much I love you, how there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you. Maybe one day you’ll know, you’ll understand why I did what I did. I’m really sorry.

“It’s late,” Ellie cut him off. “And I better go to bed before you kick my ass.”

And with that, she disappeared into the gloomy night.

I’ve already lost her too.

The realisation hit him like a sledgehammer, so hard it made him stagger. Joel grabbed the handrail for support, his other hand flying to his chest. His heart was pumping so hard, it almost felt like that muscle was about to give out.

It felt like his heart had been ripped out, chucked on the floor for someone to stomp. Joel truly had no reason to be here anymore―the only tether to keep him earthbound had just been severed.

Ellie wasn’t angry with him, no; she hated him. So much that she hadn’t hesitated to bring Sarah up in conversation, knowing how much of a touchy subject it was for Joel. His memories of his daughter were fading, so ethereal now Joel almost thought he dreamt her. The only ones that were vivid in his brain were the bad ones—all the poor decisions he made, in the last few hours of her life.

Grief was a funny thing—how it gave a loud voice to his mistakes and drowned the actual good things he did for her, how it made him focus on the bad rather than the good. He sometimes even doubted if he’d ever been good to Sarah at all—good enough at least, better than his own father was.

“The heart’s memory is selective, which is the basis of its deceitfulness.”

Ellie throwing that accusation at him had only enlivened his most dreadful fear. Had he been the worst dad to Sarah? Had she hated him too? Did she blame him for her death, for his low reaction response, for not taking the bullet for her?

I wanted to. I wish I could have. I wish it had been me.

Taking a big, shaky breath, Joel made the decision he’d been postponing for four weeks now in the hopes that the situation would get better, that he would feel better. However, it had only gotten worse. Ellie had been very clear that she didn’t need him anymore, that he was just a hindrance to her life—a reminder of how she’d failed humanity. Tommy didn’t need him either; he had a thriving family of his own, and Joel was convinced that his sombre presence would only do more harm than good.

And without his family, there was nothing left for him to do on this earthly plane. Joel was exhausted—the kind of mental fatigue that only a deep, forever sleep would cure. And he was done with it all; with this feeling of harrowing melancholy, of drowning loneliness, of death sniffing at the cuffs of his pants.

He couldn’t bear the thought of one hundred years of solitude, not anymore. Joel had lived his life and had nothing left to give.

In a blurry haze, he walked inside his home.

“[…] not knowing what he was doing because he did not know where his feet were or where his head was, or whose feet or whose head, and feeling that he could no longer resist the glacial rumbling of his kidneys and the air of his intestines, and fear, and the bewildered anxiety to flee and at the same time stay forever in that exasperated silence and that fearful solitude.”

It all happened as if he wasn’t even in control of his own actions. As if he was watching himself from outside, completely detached from his own body. A void in his mind so big, there had been no room for thought. With trembling hands, Joel had taken out the two letters he’d written to Tommy and Ellie and smoothed them down on the kitchen counter besides the sink before he’d headed to the medicine cabinet. Anything he could blindly reach for would do.

It had only taken a few minutes for all the pills to make him feel sick.

Next thing he knew, Joel was on the floor, sweating and drifting away in agony—his mind spiralling, his throat itching with bile, his stomach burning.

And when he blinked alive again and saw you there, Joel thought you were a vision, that you really weren’t there. That perhaps, finally, he had succeeded, and you were there to guide him into the afterlife.

But the moment you hugged him, the moment he felt himself bound to Earth again, Joel knew he wasn’t dreaming. This was real—you were real. The person he’d mistreated at every opportunity, so much he’d seen the hurt in your eyes and regretted it.

Joel tried to mend his mistake—tried to apologise the night he walked up to your porch at the stroke of midnight. But his resolution had wavered, and his stupid ass had asked for the book instead. The disappointment in your features still haunted him, even at Death’s door.

And yet, here you were, comforting him at his lowest, seeing the ache he’d carried for so long pour out into the world.

Joel had not been able to contain the tears, the desperation trickling out the cracks of his shattered soul, soaking the fabric of your cardigan. And as much as he hated being vulnerable, he just couldn’t rein his demons back in.

The loss he felt was greater than anything he’d experienced before. So loud, yet so quiet in its disguise; so alien, yet so eerily familiar in its pain; so suffocating, yet so freeing in its release. He’d lost so much of himself over the past few months, there was nothing left of him—just a carcass of his existence, a cocoon that kept the jagged pieces of his being feebly glued together, just enough to keep him standing for the people he loved.

Not people, just the one person who grounded his world, Ellie. And with her deeming him expendable, what was there left to fight for? What was his reason for existing if not to be a better version of himself with Ellie by his side?

At sixty-one, all joy and happiness had snuffed out of his life.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I couldn’t… I just… I’m sorry. I couldn’t let you go. Please, forgive me. I just couldn’t.”

And then there was you, apologising for bringing him back, for pulling his strings like an expert puppeteer. For undoing his choice without a second thought. For forcing him back into a dark, soul-crushing world.

Should he be mad? Yes, but Joel had no energy left to confront you nor anyone. His throat was ablaze and sore, the aftertaste tingling on his tongue. And then the exhaustion—he was so fucking tired, his arms felt heavier than usual, his legs almost paralysed. His tummy churned, another wave of nausea overtaking him.

His head snapped to one side when the bile rose up his throat. He couldn’t stop the retching before he vomited again, fire climbing up his mouth with a pungent, acidic tang.

You didn’t even flinch, didn’t even step back away from him when he almost puked on you. Instead, you patted his shoulder before your hand travelled up the back of his neck to skim his curls back and away from his forehead. The caress was so gentle, so comforting and almost intimate, it made his skin crawl.

“Why… why are you here?” Joel asked gruffly, brushing his mouth with the back of his still shaky hand.

Your fingers dropped from his hair, your eyes full of a compassion he’d never witnessed before. They were warm and calming, bright under the orange glow of the overhead light. But they also had a sadness to it—almost as if you understood him, as if you knew what he was going through.

Sitting back on your heels, you sighed. “I… I just finished reading Chronicle of a Death Foretold and thought you might wanna borrow it,” you uttered under your breath, your hands twisting on your lap, but your eyes were transfixed on him. “The truth is, I saw you on the porch with your daughter. And then I had this… urge to come see you.”

Joel didn’t correct you about Ellie. Despite how adamant she’d been about him not being a father to her, despite her cruelness, he still believed himself to be her dad. Because that was what fathers should do—love their kids unconditionally, even when they would hurt you with their spiteful words. Even when they would walk away and never look back. Even when they would banish you and disown you. Because even then, even after Ellie had implanted the seed for his descent into hell, Joel still loved her as his own, always would. No words or argument could ever change that.

The irony of your words didn’t escape him—had you foretold his death? This urge you spoke of, was destiny getting in the way of his not-so-well-crafted plan?

Joel cleared his throat, sitting up a bit, the back of his head still resting on the side panel of the kitchen island.

“You shouldn’t have,” was all he managed to whisper.

You shouldn’t have come. You shouldn’t have saved me. You should have let me die.

Your gaze dropped before your eyes flickered back to his. Remorseful, but determined. A beacon of hope, a lighthouse in the middle of a thunderstorm.

“I know,” you mumbled with a little shrug without breaking eye contact.

Joel’s chest felt suddenly heavy—like a stone had lodged itself between his ribs, his throat clamping up and it had nothing to do with wanting to puke again. Such a feeling was foreign to him, its warmth slowly flushing through his body.

“I’m tired. You should go,” was his way of disclaiming this alien sensation.

You quickly sprung up to action, his petition for you to leave fell on deaf ears. Squatting by his side, you slithered your left arm around the back of his waist to help him up, the other hand wrapped around his front to clutch at his ribs. Too tired to reject your assistance, Joel managed to get up to his feet.

He staggered back, the whole world spiralling around him as his mind felt extremely buzzy. His fingers curled around the rim of the kitchen island to steady himself, all the while you were still holding him.

“I’m not going anywhere. Let’s get you to bed.”

The side glance you threw his way admitted no discussion, so for once Joel kept quiet. Trudging on wobbly legs, he made it upstairs with you by his side, his right arm draped around your shoulders for stability and your fingers intertwined with his.

You opened the door to the bedroom he’d nodded to and walked him inside. You pushed him towards the bed and almost forced him to sit down on the mattress. Without saying a word, you knelt before him to undo the knots of his boots and slide them off his feet.

“Where do you keep your pyjamas?” You asked unfazed by it all, towering up to your full height.

Joel’s Adam’s apple bobbed. It felt too intimate, too… close for comfort.

“I’m just gonna get them for you and then I’m gonna step out while you change,” you explained with a soft smile. “You can’t sleep with those clothes on, Joel.”

“First drawer of the dresser,” he mumbled, mind still hazy.

You grabbed his plaid pyjamas and left them on the bed by his side. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Joel saw you disappearing through the doorframe. Moving at snail speed, he managed to change into his night clothes before you returned with a tray. You were balancing a jug, a glass and a small bowl on it, a clean cloth perched on your shoulder.

“You’ve got a nasty cut on your temple. I’m not good at stitching, but we should clean it up before it becomes infected,” you explained while placing the tray on the nightstand before sitting beside him.

Joel had no energy left to oppose your care, so he just let you do. Your feather-like touch on his temple was soothing—so much that his eyes shut close while you delicately wiped the blood off his skin. You were so gentle he didn’t even wince once, or perhaps his mind was so fuzzy there was no room for physical pain.

“All done,” you announced after a couple of minutes. “You gotta drink all that water, okay? You may feel sick again too, although I think you’ve thrown everything up now. But just in case, that’s what the bowl is for.”

Joel nodded thoughtlessly, taking the glass you had just passed him and downing it. He gave it back to you, who put it down on the nightstand again.

“Do you want me to go get someone? Your brother? Your partner? A doctor perhaps?”

His head snapped up instantly, his heart mildly racing in worry. Joel quickly shook his head, the world spinning some more.

“No, don’t,” he husked out, swallowing a raspy groan, his hands curling into fists.

“Okay, I won’t,” you brushed his knee with yours. “Get some sleep. I ain’t going anywhere.”

“You don’t need to stay—”

“I want to stay, Joel, and I will stay. You’d have to kick me out of your house, and I don’t think you’re in a position to do that right now,” you said with gentleness before palming your thighs and standing up. “If you need me, shout.”

Your mind was still racing from everything that had unfolded. When you ran towards Joel’s house an hour ago, despite the doom pooling in your belly, you definitely had not expected to find him on the verge of death.

Your hands were shaking from the adrenaline running wild through your system, trying to come to terms with what had happened, what had pushed Joel so far as to take his own life. Because there was no denying what you had seen—it hadn’t been an accident. Which then made you wonder about the other times you’d found him.

Had he tried to end his life when you saw lying on the floor through the window? At the time you just thought he had fallen, an unlucky misstep on a ladder while changing a lightbulb. But now… the pieces of the puzzle started fitting together. Same with the mishap with the infected—he’d definitely dropped the knife on purpose.

How long had this been going on? Had he sought help? Was his family aware? Tommy? Maria? His daughter? Had Joel become so good at hiding his own misery that no one had really noticed how the light in his eyes was dwindling?

How alone he must have felt after at least three attempts without no one spotting the signs.

At least you had. Late, almost too late, but you had. And while you knew he wasn’t appreciative of your intervention, you just couldn’t let it happen. Your first instinct had been to help—like you always did. That part of you had almost died in the first few years of the apocalypse, but as time went on and people’s humanity waned, you found yours. You had been the voice of reason in your group, the kind-hearted one that would welcome strangers in despite your friends’ reticence. You had a knack for telling who was a good person, and that sixth sense had never failed you.

And that was why you were sure about Joel. He was pretty rough around the edges, but his core was good. You just knew.

Your mind kept on drifting away, running through everything that had happened over and over again until you almost made yourself dizzy with worry. You were now in the kitchen, having finished cleaning up the mess on the floor so Joel wouldn’t have to deal with it tomorrow morning.

I’ll just go and check on him, make sure he’s still breathing and doing okay, you thought to yourself while washing your hands in the kitchen sink.

As you grabbed a kitchen towel to dry your skin, your eyes landed on two brown, folded letters near the sink. One was addressed to Tommy, the other one to an Ellie. Your heart began beating wildly in your chest.

They are goodbye letter, suicide letters to his loved ones.

“Who are you and where is Joel?” A snappy voice brought you back.

The interruption startled you, heart jolting against your ribs, as you turned around.

The teen you’d seen on Joel’s porch earlier was standing a few feet away from you, gun cocked and pointed at you. You raised your hands up in the air instinctually, still clutching at the kitchen towel, fearing the worst. Joel’s daughter clicked her tongue when you didn’t respond.

“Uh, hi. Ellie?” You ventured, remembering the name on the letter. A glint in her eyes confirmed you were right. “I’m your new neighbour. I came to Jackson around a month ago. Please don’t shoot me.”

Ellie’s head tilted to one side as she scanned you from head to toe. Her eyes momentarily sparkled with some recognition, and she sheathed her gun again.

“I’ve seen you before. You live across the street, right?”

You took in the biggest breath of your life and nodded, dropping your hands and twisting the towel.

“Yeah. Sorry. Your dad’s not feeling well. He’s gone to bed,” you excused Joel’s absence the best you could without giving away what had transcended tonight. You didn’t want his daughter to worry.

A sudden realisation dawned upon you—had you not intervened when you did, Ellie would have found Joel dead on the kitchen floor. Your eyes watered at the idea, but you blinked the tears away before they formed.

“Is he okay?” Ellie asked, an instant worry washing over her young face as she took a few steps towards you.

The letters, she can’t see them.

Thinking as fast as you could, you threw the kitchen towel on the counter, aim perfect, and it landed on top of the letters, covering them completely.

“Yeah, he’s fine,” you quickly put her at ease, walking towards her and patting her shoulder. “He must have eaten something that didn’t agree with him, that’s all.”

 “Shit,” Ellie muttered, sitting down on one of the stools by the island.

Then you remembered the heated argument you saw between them, and your heart silently cried for the young lady. Ellie must feel terrible now, her troubled expression darkening while she picked at her nails.

“Don’t worry. Joel’s okay now, Ellie. I promise,” the last word came out in a whisper. You didn’t want to lie to her but couldn’t tell her the crude truth either. If she was to find out, it couldn’t be through you. “Was there something you wanted?”

“I, uh… Just came to get an apple,” Ellie shrugged, reaching for the fruit bowl on the kitchen island.

You could tell that wasn’t the reason she was here. Perhaps she had come to apologise after the fight with her dad. If they two had something in common, was their reserve for apologies, that was for sure.

“Better get going,” Ellie muttered before biting into the apple and hopping back on the floor. “You staying?”

“Yeah. Just want to make sure he’s okay, then I’ll go back home.”

“Alright. Night.”

“Night, Ellie.”

Ellie lingered in the hallway at the bottom of the stairs for a second, probably considering going to check on Joel herself. But thought better of it, and a minute later she was gone.

You let go of a heavy sigh, eyes returning to the envelopes. Thank goodness she hasn’t seen them.

You couldn’t just let them lay there, so you grabbed them. Not that you were going to read them—it was a blatant invasion to anyone’s privacy—but you had to get them out of sight in case Ellie returned. So you folded them and slid them in the pocket of your cardigan.

You never went back home that night. After you went to check on Joel, who was squirming around in bed but otherwise asleep, you sat down on the armchair in the corner of his bedroom. You fought against your own fatigue as best you could but ended up slipping into a light sleep.

A few hours later, you woke up to the whisper of your name.

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[ultimate-marysue]

It's so important to me that Haymitch figures Lenore's mystery.

We know Lucy Gray was such a remarkable woman in spite of Snow's pov. He never understands her and to the audience she remains mysterious despite the fact that we (the audience) know there was more to her than the pretty songbird or traitorous snake. To Snow she stays his manic pixie dream girl, a lesson in getting attached to pretty things he can't control.

But not Haymitch.

There are multiple characters (including Lenore Dove herself) that allude to Haymitch not knowing all her secrets. Even when he's dreaming of a life where he's not reaped, he immediately starts thinking about how Lenore Dove has that side of her that doesn't include him. Does that make him rethink his love for her? Does he ever wonder if he should find another girl that would be happy as just a miner/bootlegger's wife? Nope.

He understands that Lenore Dove has her own interior life, her own dreams and her own agency. Haymitch knows that he doesn't play a major part in all of those. He fears her rebellious spirit for the trouble it may bring to her, never blaming her for the major problem it caused him, but he doesn't try to stop her and control her. Haymitch never once wants to ask her to do what he wants, he doesn't even seem to register that as a possibility.

I keep thinking about how Snow hated Lucy Gray's poem, how he dismissed the poetry as silly and never cared about metaphors. I don't remember his exact words, but he made it sound beneath them, barely managing to pretend he cared only to get Lucy Gray off his back.

How Haymitch admits that a lot of Lenore Dove's philosophies go over his head, but instead of just giving up he keeps trying to understand her explanations. How he never got angry or frustrated despite wanting to chill with his girlfriend when she started quoting David Hume. He's constantly reflecting on what she teaches him, he's proud of how many new words she's taught him through songs, and laments that the covey can't sing them. She recognizes the dangerous lyrics and makes them his flag in the games. He memorizes Lenore Dove's name poem and he constantly analyzes its meaning. That man is 24/7 rotating The Raven by Edgard Allan Poe in his head because it's his girl's poem. He was never a singer but he learns to love and understand poetry to be worthy of the girl he loves.

So the fact that, in the end, he learns about the orange nail polish and the posters is so important. The fact that he gets the final piece to understand that Lenore Dove wasn't just his girl (he never thought that, he's not Snow), that she wasn't just smart, philosophical and a bit rebellious; that she was actively a Rebel. The fact that he takes it as a sign to forever forsake whatever remains of his dreams and commit to his promise to her, to bringing her dream to reality... He is the antithesis of Snow.

Haymitch truly, selflessly, loved Lenore Dove. In the end, he understood her better than anyone else and honored her wishes above his own. When he found out that her dreams were so much bigger than he first thought, so much bigger than him, he wasn't turned off by it. He never wanted a woman that was reduced to just him, but he gladly sacrificed all that he was for her legacy.

Snow tried to erase Lucy Gray from the world, Haymitch worked his entire life to transform the world into Lenore Dove's dream, even if he had to erase himself in the process.

[itwasntimethatdidit40]

It feels like hope.

Pairing: Hot Priest!Joel Miller x f!reader, no outbreak

Words count: 5700

Rating: Strictly +18, MINORS DON’T INTERACT

Warnings: pov second person, no use of y/n, priest kink, catholic guilt, religious kink, smut, unprotected p in v (use protections IRL!), reader has breasts and vagina and hair that can be pulled and wears a shirt and a skirt, apart from that no other description is given, age is not mentioned but they’re both grown up adults and reader is only inexperienced because she grew up in a very catholic family, fingering (f receiving), oral (m receiving), sex in a rectory, hair pulling, blasphemy all over the place 💀, pussy pronouns she/her, drinking, two hits on nipples, improper use of liturgical objects, cream pie, pet names (angel, baby), reader calls him "Father" during sex, mention of hell, mention of porn videos, mention of masturbation, improper use of prayers, God named in vain, another thing that I won’t spoil... listen, this thing is filthy, probably the filthiest more immoral thing I've ever wrote, ok? If you think you can't handle it just scroll down to another story.

This is a revised version of something I had already posted and then deleted because I personally didn't like it.

It took me months to come to an end with it, I don’t know why, I’ve changed a lot of things, I’ve changed the pov, I’ve changed dynamics etc… I really really hope you will enjoy it and please be gentle with me, I really tried hard even if you would think it’s no good.

English is not my first language and I have no beta so any mistake is all my fault, I’m sorry.

Title is a Fleabag quote, specifically from our beloved hot priest “when you find somebody that you love, it feels like hope”

Thanks to everyone who has shown interest in this story, thanks to those who were there from the beginning (you know who you are and I love you) and thanks to anyone who will read 🩷

(Just added a brief note at the end 😉)

Mood board credits: @probablyreadinsmut Thank you Sam so much for having spent time creating this beauty! 🥹

Archive tags: @pedrostories ♥️

It all started on a Sunday. 

You came to your neighborhood church expecting a nice function and you exited knowing you were doomed. 

That Sunday you met the new parish priest.

From the first moment you felt like something in you was compromised. 

You couldn't even explain it to yourself and you had never felt like this, it was something so unfamiliar. 

A need you’ve never felt before.

Your eyes glued to his holy form, adoring his raven curly hair, his scruff, the curve of his neck, his strong nose, plump lips, broad shoulders, thick thighs, big hands.

Courteous and kind as he greeted parishioners leaving the church, he shook your hand and you felt a jolt.

You weren’t like this before, you did things to do good to others before. But now…

Volunteering for every event, clothing drive, bake sale, children's shows. You were always there for the ride. Making excuses to talk to him.

Wondering if he had any more freckles than the ones on his neck, how warm his skin would be, how manly and intoxicating his scent would be, what his kisses would taste like, what his fingers would have felt like inside your cunt, peeking at the outline of his cock under his black pants.

A perfect Christian girl who would have make your mother proud on the outside, a raging hell of arousal on the inside.

You couldn’t believe that he was him who had awakened this new person inside you, insanely hungry, wanting, needing to taste, lick, bite. 

His low gruff voice grueling from his chest echoed against your damp inner walls so much that you were almost afraid to get up after the mass and see a stain where you were seated.

It was more and more difficult every time to fight your urge, stay on the tracks of life that you were taught to live, no sex before marriage, no masturbation because it’s a sin, no impure thoughts because you were a good girl.

Yet now you could hear them, all those voices crowding your head, pushing you towards something you had been taught was wrong.

Entering the church you were trembling, guilt pulsing in your gut.

Everything was quiet and serene, your eyes wandered on the frescoed walls, the organ, the large altar and the wooden benches neatly lined up in rows in the central nave, your steps sounded uncertain and timid on the marble floor.

You entered the confessional feeling your heart beating wildly in your chest, palms sweating and your mouth dry.

You could hear his breathing through the grate.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned” 

The following silence weighed like never before.

“Open your heart to the Lord so He can forgive your sins”

And you had confessed. 

The words slipped from your mouth like pearls from a broken necklace, finally rolling free between your lips revealing your every sordid thought.

The girl shaped by catholic parents to be a modest virgin, mother and maid, perfect smile and delicate manners was in reality a shameful bundle of filth.

You were a sinner.

A sinner eaten out from dirty thoughts.

You told him how you couldn't stop thinking about him, how you had questioned your feelings and who you were as a person, how you hadn't spent a night without touching yourself thinking about him in many months.

You told him about your desire to kiss him and more. So much more. Everything.

Every single time you lowered your hand in your panties, every single time you squeezed your breasts, driven by instinct and desire, every single time you thought of him as Joel. Just Joel, a man.

You just wanted to let go of the weight on your chest, coming clean. If you said it all out loud you would have realized how crazy it was.

You heard the door snapping, a few heavy steps close to where you were seated, the door opening to your side.  

Suddenly he was there, standing in front of you.

He said nothing, only grabbed your arm, dragging you to the rectory.

Dust in the air danced beneath the soft light that came in from two small windows high up.

There wasn't much in the room, a cupboard where liturgical objects were kept, a table, a wardrobe where the clothes for the service were hung.

Nobody was there except the two of you, you could hear the rumble of his breathing and your heart drumming behind your rib cage.

He was staring at you. 

Your mouth sealed, a lump in your stomach.

You thought about the day he tried to teach you how to play guitar.

You were here, together, helping with the Christmas party. He was sitting strumming when you walked in, you tried not to surprise him from behind by pretending to cough and he turned to you. He didn’t stop playing as he greeted you, you told him “I didn’t know you played” and he invited you to try. As you sat down your legs were shaking, he gave you the guitar and you just stared at it, fingers uncertain and mind empty. 

“It’s not that hard” he told you and he leaned over you taking one of your hands in his and placing it on the neck of the guitar, moving your fingers over the strings “like this. Now play”

You strummed on the guitar and an unpleasant sound came out, you both laughed softly at your clumsiness and a flood of pleasure slicked your panties.

His breath on you was like a caress, you felt the minty scent grazing at your nostrils.

For a moment, just for a moment you thought, “I could turn around right now and kiss him. A few inches and my lips would be on his.”

Your desire flowed before your eyes, leaving you with nothing else to look at.

“But I can’t. I can’t.” 

You've tried to swat away that sinful thought with another strum on the guitar but nothing disappeared, instead it burned in your core even strongly than before.

You thought about that day when the rain caught you on your way to set up the bake sale, how you walked into the rectory soaked from head to toe, how he looked at your shirt stuck to your skin that left little to the imagination, how you instinctively covered yourself when you just wanted to let your arms hang at your sides and let him look at you. You saw a reaction in his eyes as he mumbled that he was going to get you a towel, just a moment before he regained his composure, and it was enough. You knew that he was not indifferent to you. That night you touched yourself imagining what it would be like if he took your shirt off, if he placed his lips on your neck, his tongue on your breast, his cock inside you.

You started to navigate on porn sites daily, out of curiosity first and then because you needed to see, you needed to imagine, you needed to visualize something so unfamiliar and strange to you. 

You were ashamed, but at the same time you couldn't help it, it was the only resource you could think of looking for and it was there, on your phone, private, no one would have known. You didn't even imagine you would find so many, a whole catalog of big dicks, huge tits, positions that your brain couldn't conceive.

Seeing those women pleasuring themselves scared you but at the same time attracted you, you wanted to be like them, you wanted to reach that pleasure, you wanted to try their way of using their hands, you wanted to refine your clumsy way of reaching that heat between your legs.

You sinked into it.

If your parents had known, if your community had known, you would have been branded an unworthy woman, a pervert, a slut.

But your parents were far away now, your whole life was somewhere else and you were proud to have freed yourself from the golden cage they had locked you in. You were an adult now, it was the moment to choose for yourself. If they hadn’t always denied you any other vision of the world, if they hadn’t forbidden you to have the experiences that everyone has in their youth, maybe it wouldn’t have happened this way.

His mouth was a thin line, tensed, you looked into his eyes and you saw nothing than dark.

So much different from the gentle detachment he had always shown to everyone, his look was a mixture of concern, agitation, maybe a hint of fear, but most of all - to your great surprise - sexual arousal.

You could see him cracking behind those eyes, you could feel his mind filling with all sorts of questions.

His voice was barely a whisper but sharp as a blade when he finally spoke “Are you even honest with that ‘I am a good christian’ thing? Say the truth”

You hesitated, the uneasiest bitter taste in your mouth.

“I-” your throat felt like atrophied “yes” you tried to say.

“No, you’re not. The least you could do is being fucking honest with Him” he raised his finger pointing it at the ceiling.

You’ve never heard him cursing before.

You looked down feeling the weight of your stomach turn to lead and then concrete and if you thought you were free now you felt even more guilty. 

You said the only thing your brain could think of at that moment and you knew what you were asking for, you knew what it would do to him and you knew that in this way you would drag him down with you. And yet you did it anyway, because desire was stronger than anything, than faith, than lies, than truth.

“I need-I need to repent. Teach me” you pleaded “teach me how to be good”

Something lit up in his gaze, like a spark of hell, a glow of lust.

He turned around and you hungrily followed his every move.

His hands moving expertly, the cupboard opening, him taking out the mass wine and pouring it into a chalice.

You saw him down the entire glass, without hesitation, without a shred of tremor.

You felt like you were watching a hurricane approaching, just waiting for the wind to suck you in without being able to do anything else.

You wanted it. You wanted it to sweep you away, to make you someone else, braver, indomitable, someone who wasn’t afraid to say what she wanted because of a belief that had been instilled in her, someone who was simply herself. 

We are all born with guilt, you told yourself. I am tired, tired of dealing with mine so much.

You just wanted to feel alive, to feel something authentic and fierce, no half measures. 

You wanted to be desired in a way that felt relentless and desperate, like air that is necessary to keep humans alive, something unique and undeniable.

Could Joel read it in your eyes? He was so good at reading people, you could tell it right away. 

He had guessed a lot about you, he had noticed how coffee was a weakness of yours - and his - and he offered you a cup first thing in every meeting.

He had noticed how nervous Danny, a parishioner who liked to play the fool with any woman present, most often in front of his wife, got you and made sure to never leave you alone with him.

He had noticed how much you enjoyed sewing and had assigned you the costumes for the play and praised your work. 

And he did the same with the guitar that day when he saw how enthusiast and curious you were about it. He didn't say it openly, but his gestures spoke for him.

He came closer to you again, bending the chalice to your mouth and said “drink”. Sharp, cold, an order.

At that point you didn’t care it was something you were not supposed to do, forbidden, maybe unholy even, you just drank. 

You were dealing with a part of yourself that always existed but you had put that in a box.

Joel looked into your eyes sternly and said: “Show me the good Christian that you think you are. Pray.”

“What?”

“Pray. Right now” 

“What prayer?” You asked, confused.

“You're not starting off well, you should know that.” He smirked, caught you in fail.

“Act of contrition” you whispered and he nodded “yes. That’s right.”

He was just inches away from you, his crucifix hanging between your bodies, grazing at your stomach. 

You began to recite in a low voice, stumbling over your words, your brain couldn’t think straight:

“O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest… all my sins because of thy just punishments, but most of all because they offended Thee, my God, who art all good and deserving all my love.”

You said it dozen of times before and yet it seemed totally different in that moment. 

Joel took off his rosary, letting it dangle from his hand and swing across your chest. Beads brushed against the cotton bra you wore under your blouse, making your nipples harden, you could feel them pushing against the fabric.

“Go on”

“I- I firmly resolve with the help of Thy grace to sin no more and to avoid the near occasion of sin. Amen”

“Take off your shirt,” he told you in a whisper.

Something shifted inside him “and your bra”

His voice was no longer the same, it came from deep within him, frighteningly authoritarian but to you it seemed like a magic instrument that was hypnotizing you.

You did what he told you. 

You were half naked in front of a man for the first time. It could have happened before, much before, but of course you couldn’t because you never got married. No one was supposed to see your body except the man you were going to take to the altar. That’s what they taught you.

Joel looked at you, entranced, almost in disbelief. You wondered how long it had been since he’d seen someone else’s naked body, what effect it had on him. 

You were more alike than you seemed, both of you denied something because of religion. 

You were both more needy and frustrated than you were allowed to admit. Tension hung in the air like a fog that clouded both of your gazes.

Every time you had talked to him you had noticed the way he looked at you but you thought it was all in your head, like you were a poor naive girl who was building castles in the air, but now you knew that wasn't the case.

It was another thing you shouldn’t have done but you prayed deep down that he wouldn’t decide to stop.

He raised his arm, clutching his rosary. You felt a slash through the air and then a sharp smack on your nipple.

You looked down shocked as the pain quickly turned into a dull pleasure rising from the pit of your tummy, to fade more and more, becoming a tingling sensation.

You liked it.

You wanted more.

He did the same at your other breast and all the breath you had left in your body had slipped past your lips in a lustful sob.

He took one of your nipples between his fingers, twisting and pinching it and you couldn’t help but moan. A sound you never made for no one and you made it first for a priest.

His body pushed you against the wall, his breath on your neck, his fingers didn't stop torturing your nipple. Everything you saw was red. Red like the passion you had never felt before, red like the blood that pulsed in your veins, red like sin.

“Kneel” he said firmly.

You were equal parts scared of making a fool of yourself and eager to try.

You knelt down, feeling the cold of the floor touch your shins. 

His eyes were as uncertain as yours, it was new territory for both of you but you saw a flame burning in him and you felt it inside you. 

His face was serious, tense, as if he was ashamed of what he was doing but couldn't contain. 

He was punishing you and punishing himself at the same time.

You weren’t afraid though, you were ready to face what was eating you up and you trusted Joel for some reason. You could see in him that he wouldn’t hurt you. At least not more than you wanted.

Your tentative fingers undid his pants, letting them sag around his ankles. A pronounced erection protruded from his boxers as his eyes almost begged you, they weren’t cruel and ruthless eyes, but rather needy and guilty.

You moved your hand closer to his crotch, hesitating for a moment before placing it there, testing the sensation, opening your fingers around it to realize how thick it was. You could feel the heat through the fabric. You caressed it, feeling the tremor that shook Joel's body. Your eyes couldn't tear themselves away, it was the first time you had seen one in person, you were amazed and attracted. You continued to caress him until you heard a grunt leave Joel’s lips and a stain wet the front of his boxers. You were struck by how much he was growing under your hand and the smell, like musk, pungent but not unpleasant.

You remembered the videos you had seen, how women did it, looking into the men's eyes lustfully, with a confidence and naturalness you had never acquired. You wanted to be like them, but you were afraid of being ridiculous or grotesque.

You slowly pulled down his boxers, gasping at the sight of his cock springing free. 

Joel had his eyes fixed on you, they were encouraging somehow, he made you feel safe but the trembling of your fingers did not stop. You took his shaft in your hand again and were surprised at how soft his skin was there, velvety. You watched that thin layer of skin retract as you moved your hand up and down like you had seen in the videos, it felt incredible. It was heavy, hot and throbbing. It was uncut. His big balls hanging right under. You ran your thumb over the tip, collecting the pre-cum that was leaking, spreading it around.

Joel was quiet, he let you do it.

He was touch starving, just like you.

You lowered your head and licked him, just with the tip of your tongue. A timid lick, like a kitten.

His taste, matching the musky scent you could smell, invaded your mouth in an instant. You had never tasted anything like it. You braced yourself, while Joel waited, and licked once more, this time starting at the base and working your way up.

Joel groaned.

You pulled away, looking into his eyes, he brought a hand to your cheek and then to your chin and took it in his palm. 

“You are so beautiful” he whispered.

And you felt beautiful, you felt like someone was really seeing you for the first time. And you loved that that someone was him.

You took a deep breath and lowered your head onto his cock, you knew you couldn't fit it all in your mouth, but you wanted to take as much as you could.

“Don’t force yourself” Joel murmured as your lips touched his skin, causing another whine.

“I want to do it” you replied resolutely, you were loving hearing him whimper beneath you.

His length slid across your tongue, wet and salty, your lips closing around it.

You closed your eyes and focused on that feeling, just holding it there, nestled inside.

“Suck it,” Joel commanded gently, bringing a hand into your hair and twining his fingers there.

You were unsure how to do it, you tried to suck it in as if you were using a large straw, with all the breath you had.

Joel flinched, almost losing his balance “Easy, baby” he muttered

You pulled away again, eyes widened “oh my god, I’m sorry” almost afraid of having hurt him but he immediately reassured you "no it's okay, just... go slower, go slower if you don't want me to come right away”

“Uh- okay” responding timidly to the smile that was spreading across his face.

You began to suck again more calmly, holding the base tightly with your hand, feeling it pulsate between your fingers and on your tongue.

It was an addictive sensation, spreading through your synapses like a drug.

Obviously you had never tried any drugs, but you imagined that the sensation might be similar to something like that.

Joel still held your head, his grip tightening as you continued, you could feel his body tense and respond, and you liked it. You liked it more than you ever liked putting on your Sunday best and going to say prayers with your parents like you always had.

There was actually a prayer that was ringing in your head and it was Joel's, who softly repeated "just like that, you're being so good to me”

It was exhilarating.

You felt like you had a true gift, for once in your life.

An obscene gift, but still.

You had the courage to run from your mom and dad and then at what felt like a minute later you found yourself there, naked from waist up, on your knees, sucking a priest cock.

You’ve never felt more alive.

Deep down you were exactly that person there, not a whore like everyone you knew would say. Just a woman, a woman who wanted what other women wanted. Sex, pleasure, being important to someone or just not being condemned to do what others wanted for you.

You continued to suck as Joel's breathing became heavier and more labored.

At that point he was just uttering disconnected phrases like “oh my God” and “Yes, go on”, his voice hoarse and scratchy.

Suddenly he started shaking violently, almost falling, as something warm and sticky hit your throat. You knew what it was and you were eager to swallow, as you had seen done in so many videos.

A little of it slipped from your lips, down your chin, onto your neck.

Joel's hand was still in your hair, it almost hurt but it was a delicious pain that you were enduring, a small punishment for the rush of adrenaline and excitement that was coursing through you.

You kept holding his cock in your mouth until you felt it relax.

“Get up,” Joel said gently, still out of breath, as he was fixing his boxers and pants.

Your knees almost gave out, you leaned against the wall feeling wetness on your panties.

Joel came closer to you, placing a hand on your cheek, pulling you into a deep kiss that left you stunned for a second and then you were more than happy to reciprocate. His tongue in your mouth explored feverishly, you wondered if he could taste himself from your lips.

He pulled out saying “I’ve never done anything like this before” and you replied “me neither.” 

And then he was on your lips again, nibbling at your lower one, placing his hand on your thigh, raising it under your skirt, up to your drenched panties, grazing them with his fingers.

You squirmed, moaning a “yes, please” from down your throat, a tingle spreading on your outer lips, in your tummy, up to your chest.

He put his hand inside your panties, brushing your skin.

“What should I do with you?” He asked, in an almost desperate tone, as if he knew he couldn't stop and was asking permission not to.

“Make me come” you pleaded “Please.”

He sighed, pulling your panties aside and sliding his index and middle fingers between your folds, gathering your wetness up to your clit, starting circling it as you writhed. 

It was different than when you did it yourself, his fingers bigger and stronger, his touch a little clumsy but still effective and intoxicating.

His mouth landed on your neck, stifling a moan, sucking a hickey where it joined your shoulders, nibbling hungrily at your skin.

“Have you ever done this before?” 

“Just…me” 

He smirked “have you ever put your fingers inside you?” 

“I- yes.” there were no point on beating around the bush, you told him that you touched yourself thinking about him. You were already deep down into that dizzy. 

“Put your fingers in me” you added immediately “I want to feel them, please Joel, I want to know what they can do to me” 

“You sure?” 

“Yes, yes.” You breathed.

He prodded at your entrance,  just a little bit, making you whine just with his fingers tip.

The rosary lay abandoned on the floor, you could see it out of the corner of your eye and you didn't care about that eyewitness symbol of what was happening between you two.

You would have liked him to put it around your neck while he fucked you, fully participating in that sinful act. 

You were surprised yourself at what you were thinking but somehow it made you even more eager.

You felt two of his fingers sink inside you, filling that void that you had never been able to fill enough on your own, stretching you. 

It hurts a little at first because they were bigger than yours, but then it was more heavenly than anything else. If you were made for anything, it was to be there in that moment.

Joel looked ecstatic “God, she’s so… wet” he whispered “and warm” His face was the representation of pleasure, lips slightly parted, his eyes wide, his pupils dilated, his heavy breathing blowing on your neck.

He began to move his fingers inside you rhythmically, each thrust making you shake and sob, a litany of “yes” coming out strangled from your mouth.

He went slowly, taking his time, as if he was savoring every second of your pussy tightening around his fingers.

He placed his other hand on your breast again, cupping and squeezing and then twisting your nipple. Big hand full of your tit.

It was beautiful. You didn’t know how or why people could deny themselves that, but you certainly wouldn’t do it again, not after having Joel inside you. He curled his fingers, looking for the right way to make you feel the pleasure you wanted, the one you kept asking for.

“You like that, baby?” He asked with an hopeful tone

“It feels so good, so good” you told him, clinging to his neck, digging your nails into his soft skin as you felt like you were losing your mind. You didn't care about losing it, your mind had ruled your life for so, so long.

“Please don’t stop” you murmured, tightening your other hand on his wrist, guiding him “don't stop”

You felt your essence slowly leaking out of you, spreading over Joel's fingers and your outer lips, you had never been so soaked, never so much as under Joel's touch.

Your eyes suddenly fixed on that little piece of white cloth that was around his neck, that little piece that made all the difference in the world and made what you were doing terribly wrong in the eyes of others and God and Joel kissed you again like a man deprived and starved, his lips trembling and dramatic, asking silently for more and more, like they were drinking from yours.

He was all over you, like a sailor through a  violent storm, he clung to whatever he could, as if it were a matter of life and death. 

Tasting him like this, the smell of his skin, his warmth, his clerical clothes rubbing against your half-naked body, made your head spin.

You moved your hand onto his collar, grasping it with your fingers, pulling it, until it came undone, you squeezed it as you came copiously, repeating Joel's name and God's, cutting off your moans, abandoning your head on Joel's shoulder.

It was all too much and yet not enough, you wished it would never end. Joel held you tight, one hand moving behind your back, as his fingers continued to sink into you. The blinding pleasure that had invaded every fiber of your body was raging like hell’s flames inside you, like a sinful but also purifying fire, wrong and right, heavenly and hellish.

And then it slowly faded, giving way to a sense of satisfaction that had never belonged to you.

You could feel his erection pressing against your thigh, hard and demanding again.

Joel grunted, pulling his fingers out of you, taking them to his lips, gathering your juices with his tongue.

“I want… I want your cock, Father” you whispered, at that point you felt greedy, delirious, drunk on sex.

His eyes widened, being called “Father” was making him even more aroused and dizzy.

You grabbed his balls from above his pants, holding your hand tightly on them “please, Joel”.

If you were going to Hell for this, you might as well go all the way.

Joel pushed you against the table on the other side of the room, making you sit on it, unzipped his pants again, pulling out his cock without hesitation, as if he had finally accepted his fate.

His fingers were big but his cock… you wondered how it would all fit inside you.

“I’ll go slowly” Joel reassured you “It will fit” he said, brushing your folds with the tip, aligning his cock with your entrance, as if he had guessed your thoughts. His eyes were blacker than ever as he prodded his shaft past through your lips.

It felt overwhelming, so big and pulsing, it hurt but you almost immediately felt a fullness that you had never felt and a sense of belonging, your pussy opened like a bud, widening and molding for him.

If you were made for anything, it was to be there in that moment.

“She’s tight, so damn tight” Joel gawked “fuck” 

You whimpered, looking at his face, so serious, pleasure written all over it and you felt like it was right, it had to be right if it was that good.

“Make me yours, Father, make me good” you pleaded. 

Joel growled as he slid in and out of you, slamming against your walls, your pussy making obscene squelching sounds every time he moved, dripping all over his cock and the table.

It didn’t even seem embarrassing to you to be so inexperienced, you both were. You didn’t know if Joel had had sex before but you guessed he hadn’t had it in a long time anyway. 

You didn't know if it was the way it was supposed to be but you felt like it was natural, not like in the videos you'd seen which were probably mostly choreographed to please the eye.

It was sex. Pure and simple. Urgent, hungry, even uncontrolled.

And the way your body reacted, melting like wax under Joel's hands, arching into his touch, bending to his will, and seeking all the friction you could get, told you that this was the right way for you.

“See?” Joel mumbled “You’re taking me so well, baby, a perfect angel for me”

You twisted your legs behind his back, pushing him against you as much as you could, kissing the exposed skin on his neck. It drove you crazy that he was still dressed, you wanted to rip off his shirt and run your hands down on him, feel his warm skin on yours so you did it. You placed your hands on both sides and you just popped every button, revealing his broad chest, feeding your eyes with every single detail and your fingers with every shape and curve.

“Never had a cock inside before but that pussy is made for mine, I swear to God she is” he started desperately rutting into you, deeper strokes every time, taking God’s name in vain, murmuring some prayers while he pounded into you. You could feel his big vein brushing at your walls, his big mushroom hammering your cervix, the most intense rapture you’ve ever felt.

He pulled at your hair, forcing you to look him in the eye, murmuring “that’s what you wanted, huh? Dragging me to hell with you?”

Your eyes filled with tears at the thought. It was true, somehow you corrupted him, but you were willing to face that just to feel something so strong. You weren’t sure about him though.

But again, he was there, right there with you, with his cock inside your cunt and you didn’t force any of it, he could say no, he could stop, but he choose the sin. Now blaming you wasn’t so saintly nor kind, but you understood why he did that. He needed to blame someone other than himself, and you were there, open arm taking the weight for him.

Your ass slid back and forth on the wood of the table with each thrust, one of his hands was on your nipple again while the other held you behind your back. He then moved to your clit, applying pressure on it, circling it with two fingers.

You looked down only to see his cock sinking between your lips, his balls bouncing and the bush of hair that adorned his groin glistening with your juices.

You could smell the sex in the air, your mingling scents becoming one, your pleasure merging and becoming one as he shot huge spurts of cum into you.

He muttered a prayer, asking God for forgiveness, his voice exhausted, hoarse, broken by orgasm.

And then you woke up.

Your room was quiet, the crucifix that your mom gave you hanging on the wall behind your bed.

It took a few seconds for your sleepy, blurry gaze to settle on it, you were sweaty and shocked.

You closed your eyes, shutting them and cursing under your breath. 

You unrolled your body from the sheets and then stood up and picked up the crucifix. Your days as a good, God-fearing girl were over.

A/n: if you don't know what is dream and what is reality in the story at this point, that's what I wanted, I hope it's not too confusing but I wanted to try something new. I hope you liked it and thanks for your time 🩷

[thatbitchery]

I did NOT waste my early 20s, everything I think I did right to achieve my goals by 25

To be fair, its more 15-25 than its 20-25 lol

1 . Beggars can not be choosers- You HAVE to earn the privilege to be choosy, and before I earned mine I got around doing whatever needed to be done and picking up whatever came my way. From personal assistant to working at a fish preservation plant to tutoring to babysitting I'd have picked whatever job came my way. This mostly taught me time management I was working three part times and managing high school and its multiple extra curriculars and being class topper and captain and chair of couple of clubs and organizations. I'm naturally predisposed to split attention and I found a way to make it work for me. Add on the work ethic and the social navigation required to get around all my many worlds with different rules and different people where I had to play different roles. It was a formative experience and the money was the least important thing I walked out with. Till date I'm not really picky with what I do. If it seems worth it I'll take it, so my Cv is all over the place. Important to add my curiosity made everything easier, I'm hungry for life.

2. Will Forever credit my pathological compulsive need to know myself with my progress. I'm always learning about myself. Through my thoughts through my actions through my experiences through others I have a PhD in the field that is me. I came across a quote that said something within the vicinity of you are not your thoughts you are your actions and if you want to know who you are watch what you do when you are alone an there are no consequences to your actions and I want to scream this on top of my lungs to every single lady- watch your actions. Not words. Not thoughts. You are what you do when you are alone. As always I am a huge fan of lying I think we (women) should lie more and bring gender equality to the dishonesty demographic there isn't much representation there (And crime) but lying to yourself is actually diabolical. You can not do right by you if you do not know you. Majority of us do not achieve our goals simply because those are not our goals they belong to someone that is not us. Whether it's your parent's goals or your favorite influencer's goals or the goals to the version of you you hope to become it doesn't matter you can NOT achieve someone else's goals. And the reason you lie to yourself is because you want to do the dumb thing (being good) and where has that gotten you huh. I have always known who I am and what I want and that has made getting it easy because I know my strengths I know my weaknesses I know me inside out and I do not fight her I embrace her she is me- for this reason I have literally never had self-doubt what am I doubting the blueprint sits on solid ground. Journalling my actions not my feelings and observing myself without judging without trying to be anything just- watching me and my immediate reaction to everyone and everything about me and listening to my feelings no judgement no tuning no nothing I feel what I feel has been veryyyyy handy in my goalsetting and navigating the world around me. Do I fake my personality uhm yes obviously but not to myself. When it comes to me I come naked and raw, and i look at her and think yeah no you're godlike I will give you the world- so when I work for things I work according to my goals my personality my strengths my weaknesses my needs my wants, despite what I'm projecting to the world. Cliche but, I am myself 24/7, even when I'm being fake af.

3. investing in what's important to me and being mediocre at the rest. Society does demand an all rounder and I'm a big believer in give the people what they want so I mastered early the art of looking like an all rounder - pretty, classy, intelligent, talented. I've been in school for most of my life (20 yrs. I'm 25 so) and school makes this SO easy. Good grades join a club play a sport look good and done. So when I show up to club meeting twice a week I will take the editor spot so I can peacefully have my face buried in my laptop and work on what I really care about as everyone else yaps about god knows what and throw some points in randomly just to seem involved (tip, use people's names and echo someone else's point immediately after they make it and quote them - like Aliie said it would be great to X- you seem invested. Just echo the most popular person you'll get away with it) or in class I'll listen because that's when I learn and then go to the library to work on my business etc. Point being I look like I'm an all rounder but I actually only focus on the things I care about- finance, literature, neuroscience, psychology. I don't say no to hang outs or a life to 'lock in' I show up, look like I'm in the room but actually focus on what I love and what's important to me. So I'll be on a dinner table fully immersed in conversation but mentally plotting my next move in my business or memorizing for my exams. That way I don't isolate myself but also don't waste energy on things that don't even matter to me.

4. Learning the Art of relationships. Being autistic + Being foreign + having a five minute social battery + being super bitchy = a very hard time socializing, so I had to actually learn the art of socializing. The books did help YES read the Dale Carnegie book etc but we don't learn in books we learn in experience. It was my many jobs with many people in many different environments that taught me how to people, that coupled up with a Bachelor's in Psychology with a focus in sociology, evolutionary psychology and human adaptation. I know how to people I am a people person. Relationships are where everything happens. Sucess is a process of successful people pleasing. I can, in fact, talk to anyone anywhere about anything, I can make conversation out of a piece of hair or thin air. Every single thing on earth will come from someone. Social skills = survival skills, and relationships are a result of successful and functional social skills. Spending all my teens and early 20's making and maintaining relationships - I'm still friends with people I did odd jobs with in my teens and the people I went to school with and the random millionaires I have met for an hour max. The greatest thing I have ever done is learn how to people. I have made friends in the thirty minutes we sat next to each other and been invited to whole weddings by people I knew for less than hours. Peopling is the greatest skill ever.

5. Creating the right social portfolio. A friend to all is a friend to none but a friend to one is an enemy of the rest. The art of being everyone's friend but tied to no one but claimed by who I want to be claimed by is actually my biggest flex. When it comes to success the only portfolio that matters is your social portfolio. Who are you that anyone should give you anything. Who you are is defined by who likes you. Society runs by endorsement look at politicians. Who you are is measured by who likes you, and it needs to be diverse. The gang member highschooler is supposed to escort you home yapping about his family and make sure you got home safe. The valet is supposed to endorse you and the nice lady at the farmers market is supposed to think the sun rises and sets in your eyes and your ex bf is supposed to say yeah no we broke up but that's my girl right there and the billionaire you sat next to in that one wedding is supposed to bring your name up on his partner's yacht and when he tells his wife your name she's supposed to say- ah yes, nice lady. She has this exquisite pair of earrings she let me borrow and the pastor at church should personally shake your hand after service and ask about your week and then drag you by hand and introduce you to the latest widow on the block that 10000% murdered her husband and say hi so this is one of my daughters, she can drive you home today. Social portfolio is actually your CV. Spending my early 20's and late teens being so woven into society that my absence is notable. Belonging to everyone yet no one.

6. Learning transferrable, socialization and survival skills. Majoring in communication and minoring in Psychology - two of the MOST transferrable skills on earth - can be applied in ANY field ever and isn't confined in one. Having hobbies that demand socialization - Pool, poker, bowling, tennis, equestrian, IR, chess ,go, monopoly. Survival skills- personal finance, cooking, homesteading and cleaning, wellness, health (gut health, reproductive health, brain health), organization, etc.

7. Being a people pleaser to the people that deserve pleasing. I'm not a crowd pleaser (although I put considerable effort into looking like I am) I find who deserves the pleasing and focus on them. I'm a gold-digging social climbing narcissist so this is pretty easy to pull off. i learned really early that how you perform is determined by what the people in power think of you and how they see you and I'm awesome at creating an image I should actually get paid for it. I'll find whoever call the shots or whoever influences whoever calls said shots, how to sway them my way while looking like I wasn't trying and pull it off. I have my first class honors in all but one unit to prove it. It's not that I'm smart (I am though) its that I'm likeable.

BMAC

[lilianne-tarot]

How the Universe Has Its Way of Guiding You, and That's Okay

TW: LONG POST

I have always trusted in the universe's plan in every step of my life. When things took an ugly turn for me, when I failed at things I thought I was the best at, when I couldn’t get the things I was desperate for, I questioned the universe, "Whyyy mee?" but We, as humans, tend to run after things that feel out of our reach. A lot of us chase things, even the wrong things sometimes. But the reality is universe gives us what we need, not what we want, and that’s the difference. We often realize this too late in our journey.

A very cliché quote, "Every rejection is a redirection," is what I live by. Another famous quote from a writer says, "If things go according to your wishes, that's good. But if they go according to God's will, that's even better because it is happening the way He wants, and God will never wish anything bad for you." My mom taught me this very early in life and I reminded it to myself every time I hit rock bottom.

I have always been very intuitively blessed, and even when things were about to take a turn for me, I could feel it coming. A perfect example of how the universe gives signals in the most unexpected ways happened 2 months ago ago. I was in an awful situation, really fighting for something, feeling desperate, so I resorted to my love, my tarot cards, for guidance. As I pulled the cards, I did it multiple times because our energy really affects the cards we draw, and I was confused and anxious. But one thing kept happening: the World card kept appearing in my readings, whether through jumper cards, as a shadow card, or just somehow showing up every time.

Even though I know the meanings of my cards well, being human, I needed reassurance. So, I searched through my books, and internet, found the meaning, but left it there and went on with my day. Later that day, I randomly opened this app and saw a post explaining, "What does it mean when the World card shows up multiple times in a reading?" The moment I read that post, I had the biggest breakdown. It was like the universe was speaking directly to me, showing me how miraculously and unexpectedly it sends signals. And last week I passed the test successfully. I am finally eligible for the course I badly wanted to attend. Ultimately, the universe wasn’t lying that day. I was grinning ear to ear when I saw my results. The power the universe holds is beyond our contemplation.

The way I write my readings, I heavily credit my loneliness and ADHD for it. Funny, isn’t it? Personally, even though I have always had really supportive friends, I never had someone I could connect with on a soul level and share my deepest thoughts with. So, I resorted to journaling and talking to myself. I used to take night walks just to let out all of my thoughts to my invisible friend who would never judge me.

Two years ago, I got really serious about my tarot hobby when I was super burdened with my studies and other stuff. I started asking questions about myself and writing my own interpretations in my diary, the way I wished someone would tell me those things. I would reread them later, and that became my little comfort, even if I exaggerated things there but it gave me the happiness I was looking for at that time. Over time, my style evolved. I got better at reading the cards, better at articulating my thoughts, and when I started doing readings for others, I saw the impact it had. When people told me, "This made my heart warm," or "This gave me so much clarity," I felt so proud to be able to do that for others.

One fine day, I stumbled upon this community, completely out of the blue. The funny part is I didn’t even expect this app to have a tarot community, LOL. But when I found it, I binge-read so many posts here. And then an idea struck me: "What if I share my own readings here?" So, I made my blog. Unexpectedly, I received so much love, more than I ever imagined. It might sound like an exaggeration, but I truly feel like I found my soul family here.

None of this was planned. And that’s exactly how the universe works. It guides us in ways we don’t always see at first. Sometimes, we’re too focused on what we think we want that we don’t recognize what we truly need. But the universe has its way of showing us, through signs, through redirections, through moments of clarity that hit us unexpectedly. And when we finally look back, we realize that everything was aligning perfectly all along.

i hope i was able to bring some reassurance and comfort to anyone who might be going thorough a rough time and looking for a signal from the universe. 💗

With love, Lilianne.

Masterlist ⭑ Paid services ⭑ Ko-Fi

[prlssprfctn]

"Who Is Afraid of Little Old Me?" is so Jason Todd core, and you are READY for this conversation.

'The scandal was contained

The bullet had just grazed

At all costs, keep your good name

You don't get to tell me you feel bad'

You tell me it is not about that one time Batman had finally faced Red Hood, with Joker being between them - as a reminder and a choice - ended up throwing a batarang in his neck (while Jason barely hurt him) and never told anyone else about this?

Is it a wonder I broke? Let's hear one more joke

Then we could all just laugh until I cry

And you tell me this is not about Jason's death? About his last minutes with Joker, about how they forever imprinted in the core of his memory, to the point that sometimes he laughs at them instinctively, until the realization doesn't kick in?

So I leap from the gallows and I levitate down your street

Crash the party like a record scratch as I scream

"Who's afraid of little old me?"

I was tame, I was gentle till the circus life made me mean

"Don't you worry, folks, we took out all her teeth"

Who's afraid of little old me?

Well, you should be

Is it not Red Hood who is back again, trying to return to Manor to remind others what happened to him?

So tell me everything is not about me

But what if it is?

Then say they didn't do it to hurt me

But what if they did?

… I wanna snarl and show you just how disturbed this has made me

You wouldn't last an hour in the asylum where they raised me

Had Bruce and Dick ever wanted to hurt Jason, both in the past and in the present? No. Did it still happen? Is Jason still the one to live with these memories, unable to explain how it makes him feel? Yes.

So all you kids can sneak into my house with all the cobwebs

I'm always drunk on my own tears, isn't that what they all said?

That I'll sue you if you step on my lawn

That I'm fearsome and I'm wretched and I'm wrong

And if I say it is about Jason and all the kids that came after him that doesn't fully know who he is, but heard stories of Red Hood and violent Robin? They don't know a little boy who thought Robin gave him magic, the boy that died a hero — but they know Red Hood. And they heard of what a doomed, angry Robin he used to be.

And you hurt me

And you taught me

… You caged me and then you called me crazy

I am what I am 'cause you trained me

What is it if not Jason's POV towards Bruce? He is the crazy one now, a killer, a wrong one (not to mention these comics, where they actually threaten to send him to Arkham or Blackgate), but he is his father. His mentor. Still.

And some additional parts I want to add, because I think that they speak volumes too:

- "But my bare hands paved their paths, you don't get to tell me about sad"? I can't fully explain to you what I mean by putting this quote, but it is about Jason, crawling out from his grave (literally) and it is about everyone who stepped on the Robin path after. It is about his family making his death and grief about themselves at some point, leaving him nothing;

- "If you wanted me dead, you should've just said. Nothing makes me feel more alive" just one sentence — it is Jason about the batarang incident;

- A little detail, but I heard a lot of people complaining after the song's release that "Who is afraid of little old me?!" parts were at first loud, and they expected it to get to the full scream, but only ever got it becoming weaker, almost a whisper-like. And it is so Jason, too. Because he returns to scream, to yell, and he does at first. Until his anger washes out under disappointment and realization that he will never be chosen in a way he chooses people. And he doesn't scream anymore. Just whispers.

[strwberrybils]

FABLE AND TRUTH 1 | billie eilish

୧ ‧₊˚ love was the law & religion was taught…. ↳ summary: you had always been raised on being poise, feminine, classy. but what was most important to your family was your religion— and it had embroidered itself into your daily life. but when it’s time to pick between feelings and faith, which will you choose? pairings & aus. billie eilish x fem!reader warnings. religious backgrounds & guilt | mature language | sexual content | substance use author's note. YAYYY ITS STARTINGG!! wc. 4.4k

✧ 9:06 am, monday ✧

the bells of harkness tower toll sharply, their deep, reverberating chimes slicing through the crisp autumn air. the sound is rich and weighted, echoing across yale’s storied campus, signaling the start of another day as people dispersed from their dorms and earlier classes, talking amongst themselves and hastily walking to their next destination. 

the mist of early morning clings to the aged stone of the university, a slight fog covering over you as you walk briskly across the cobblestone pathways, your leather satchel bouncing gently against your side. chanel pumps decorate your feet, a cartier bracelet accenting your freshly tanned skin. your sleek, blown-out hair was framed against your face, bouncing slightly with every step, and your pale pink cardigan stood out amid the sea of muted fall tones around you.

beside you was emma harper, your best friend— strolling at a leisurely pace, tugging her scarf tighter against the crisp autumn air that whacked against the both of you. where you were polished and deliberate, emma was bold and carefree, her wild auburn hair nearly as untamed as her personality . 

the two of you couldn't have been more different, yet your friendship had stood the test of time, from summers in france to your shared journey at yale.

"you're going to give yourself a stress migraine, y/n." emma teased at you, nudging your shoulder as you both approached your lecture hall, "professor weller isn't grading us on who takes the prettiest notes, or who sits at the front. why so worked up?”

you offered up a small laugh, though your grip on your notebook tightened. a sigh follows your short-lived giggle, "i just want to be prepared. philosophy of religion isn't exactly a casual topic. it's very intense."

"you've been prepared since the first day of class," emma grumbles, rolling her eyes. "honey, you're literally the only person i know who can quote augustine without looking it up. so relax a little."

relax. you had heard that word countless times, usually from emma. it wasn't that you didn't know how— it was just that there was always so much to do. papers to write, prayers to say, a faith to nurture. for you, discipline wasn't a burden; it was a way of life, a way of honoring the God who had guided you this far.

but as you entered the lecture hall and emma plopped into the seat adjacent to yours, you couldn't help but smile. emma was right in her own way— you could afford to let go sometimes. just... not too much. everything always had to be structured, neat, and in order. just how you liked it. 

professor weller's lecture was as engaging as ever, his voice commanding attention as he wove through topics of faith and reason, along with their uncomfortable contrasts and truths. you sat straight-backed, your pen flying across the page as you absorbed every word with neat, pretty handwriting, your pink pen gliding against your paper. emma, meanwhile, alternated between typing notes and sneaking glances at her phone, her impatience barely concealed as she locked her phone, slipping it into a pocket. 

midway through the lecture, emma leaned over, her voice low. "sooooo, sam's hosting a party tonight…”

you didn't look up, still writing away on your paper attentively, "and how does that concern me?"

"well, he wants to know if we're coming, duh.” 

you paused your writing just long enough to shoot emma a knowing look. you cock your head to the side, lips forced into a pout, "come on em, you know i don't do parties."

emma groaned softly, "right, of course. yale's resident saint doesn't do parties.” she throws her hands up in defense, “whatever. but just come with me, please? i promise, you’ll have fun!"

"it's not about being a saint," you whispered back, your tone firm, but always remaining kind. "i just don't see the point in spending a night doing... things i'd regret, like doing substances that make me forget i’m on planet earth. it’s never been my thing.” 

emma smirked, "not everyone regrets it, you know. some people do actually have fun. maybe you should learn how.” 

you smiled faintly, but said nothing. having fun wasn't the issue—it never had been.you did have fun— doing things that actually mattered, things that actually interested you. you could curl up with coffee and a good novel, or crochet a new sweater, there were multitudes of things that you did for fun. 

but in contrast, emma was the party girl. her type of fun was smoking a bit of weed and blasting music in her audi, or going home with various guys that she’d meet out at bars, or even in passing. she was bold, strong, carefree. but you adored structure, class— you didn’t put her down for doing what she does, she’s your best friend, afterall— but it just wasn’t your style. 

 it was about your values, about living a life that aligned with the principles that you had held dear for so long. you weren’t naïve; you knew what went on at those parties. drinking, hookups, conversations drowned out by loud music... and none of it appealed to you.

emma, to her credit, didn't push further. your friendship always worked out so well because you respected each other's boundaries, even when you didn't understand them.

you packed up your things as the sound of the bell’s ring filled your ears, sliding your bag into your shoulder as you waited for emma to stash her loose papers into her bag. you frowned, “your organization skills are..definitely something.” 

she just laughed it off, “works for me. i like living life on the edge.” 

after class, the two of you made your way across campus, the golden autumn leaves crunching beneath emma's boots and your new, all-black pumps. yale's gothic architecture loomed around you as you treaded against the grass, looking at all the buildings that were majestic and timeless, a reminder of the legacy that you were part of.

"there they are!" emma hollers, spotting your friend group near the library steps.

oliver, ever the charmer, was lounging against the stone railing, his tailored coat giving him an air of effortless sophistication. he flipped a hand through his brown hair as he looked up, his eye landing on you and emma as she shot you both a warm smile. you spotted naomi first though, her bright purple hair almost impossible to miss— and she waved a ring-accented hand at you, a cigarette shoved between her index and middle finger. jules was seated right next to naomi, her black hair sleek and flowing down her back, complimenting her starry eyeshadow and long, red nails as she twiddled her fingers at you in greeting.

"y/n! emma!" oliver called, his grin broad and welcoming as he waved you and emma over, his lanky frame extending, ready to greet you with hugs like he always did. 

emma sauntered over, her confidence nearly as natural as breathing. you followed her lead, offering polite smiles as you joined the group, taking a seat next to naomi. she pulls you into a tight embrace, planting a little kiss on your cheek, “y/n! hi my love! missed you so much!”

she smelled of cigarette smoke and versace perfume, and the mixture was always oddly comforting to you. you giggle at her over-the-top affection, though you always loved it. naomi was the sweet one of the group, always offering the shirt off of her back if she really needed to. she was beautiful— inside and out, her whimsical fashion sense complimenting how pure and sweet her soul was.

"so," jules started, exhaling a plume of smoke from her half-dead cigarette, "sam's party tonight. we going?"

"i'm in," oliver said immediately, adjusting his coat with a shrug that oozed nonchalance, “need to get out a bit, yeah?”

"same here.” naomi added, flicking ash from her cigarette as her eyes found yours, and then all eyes simultaneously turned to you. you sat slightly apart from the rest of them, your pink cardigan and neatly pressed skirt a stark contrast to the haze of thick cigarette smoke and leather jackets. you smiled gently, your hands clasped in front of your frame.

you let off a shrug, a little sick and tired of having to repeat these same words over and over again, "you know i don't do parties.” you shrug gently, your voice soft but resolute.

"come on, little saint," emma teased, crossing her arms at your protest, "just one night. we’re your best friends, we promise that nothing will happen to you— we won’t let it.” emma’s statement earns approving nods from the rest of the group, sharing looks with one another in hopes that their eagerness was convincing to you.

it wasn’t. 

you laughed lightly, shaking your head, "just isn’t my thing, you all know this—“ you gesture to everyone, “i really just don’t feel up to it."

oliver shrugs, while naomi and jules nod quietly. they weren’t going to push you, so they just carry on with their conversation, chatting about classes, teachers, and everything that surrounded it.

as the conversation flipped to other topics, you found yourself falling quiet, content with listening in as the others bantered. you loved your friends, truly you did— but moments like this reminded you  of just how different you were from them. it wasn't a bad thing, necessarily; it was just... isolating, sometimes.

faith had always been your anchor, the thing that kept you steady in a world that often felt so chaotic. but every now and then, you wondered if it also kept you apart, if your refusal to compromise made yourself unknowable in ways even your closest friends couldn't understand.

you eventually pushed the thought away as emma started telling a story about some disastrous group project in her third class, her animated gestures pulling laughter out of everyone. 

comparison was the thief of joy— you knew this, but you sometimes wished that you could be more like emma. carefree yet compassionate, smart but knowing when to let loose. sometimes, you felt like you could be a little too uptight, and jealously oozed from your pores at you watched your best friend take a drag from a cigarette, laughing and carrying on with wide, sparkling green eyes. 

but you refused to get sucked up in comparisons, so you smile, warmth blooming in your chest as everyone stood up, walking to the main hall for a passing period.

you thought long and hard about the idea of going to a party with everyone— it seemed stupid in your humble opinion, but you missed hanging out with your friends— so you offered up, “okay, i have a proposal. what if i go to this stupid party, but only to drive? i’ll make sure none of you get too drunk and wind up someplace you aren’t supposed to be.” 

that makes everyone cheer, and naomi flips her long, shiny black hair to the side, “yes! yes!” she wraps you in an embrace that’s so tight you can hardly breathe, “— you’re the best! love you!” 

you offered a nervous smile towards the group as you filed into a starbucks, waiting in line as your friends carried on about what everyone was wearing, what drinks they hoped were there— and that’s when you tuned out. you were pumped to attend this party, but also scared, and as the day went on, the burden of going to this function was the only thing on your mind.

✧ 7:45 pm ✧

you sat cross-legged on your bed in your shared dorm room, your closet doors open as you stared at the carefully organized clothes inside. the room smelled faintly of lavender and pine, a subtle touch from the air freshener you’d tucked beside your desk— it always seemed to calm you down. your eyes scanned the rack, hoping something could catch your eye, but nothing particularly stood out.

emma had insisted that you join in on their festivities until you finally caved and said yes. you had reluctantly agreed, though you couldn't quite shake the nagging feeling that you didn't belong in that atmosphere. but now you felt like you needed to go— you had to, the feeling of missing out making you a little afraid. 

finally, you settled on a dark blue polo sweater that clung to your figure just enough to be flattering, but was still modest. you paired it with some well-fitted jeans and, of course, your signature black heels—Chanel, naturally. it was a bit more casual than what most people would wear to a party, but it was your style, so you didn’t really mind. 

just as you were smoothing out the sweater's collar, emma barged into the room, her wild hair a stark contrast to your usual, soft blow out. emma's eyes immediately landed on your outfit as she raised her eyebrows.

"you're really gonna go with the ‘first day of prep school’ look, huh?" emma teased, tossing her purse onto your bed before digging through her own closet for something more daring.

"what's wrong with my outfit?” you asked, glancing at yourself in the mirror, twisting on your heel and flattening out a small wrinkle in your jeans.

"oh, nothing," emma grinned mischievously, shrugging, "it's just so... you. not a bad thing, just— this is a party that you're going to, did you forget?” 

you chuckled softly, fixing your hair in the mirror now, "i know, but i think it suits me, em. is that so bad?"

emma snorted. "right, of course. just—" she stopped mid-sentence, tossing her hands up in frustration. "you look so cute, but it's a party! where's the wild side, y/n?"

"i'm here to drive you guys," you said simply, a smile tugging at your llips. "that's all. i'm not here for anything else."

emma raised an eyebrow, pulling a dark velvet mini skirt off the rack. "yeah, yeah, i know. but you need to have fun, too. you're way too uptight sometimes."

"i'm not uptight, em!” you protested, though the smile on your face betrayed you.

"uh-huh, sure. just wait until i drag you out onto the dance floor!” emma winked, throwing a bold crop top onto the surface of your bed, “and you’d look so fucking good in this, why don’t you put this on?”

you snorted lightly. "yeah, good luck with that."

by the time everyone in the group was ready, the night was creeping in, the campus already buzzing with excitement. you could feel a quiet sense of discomfort stirring within yourself —parties weren't your scene at all, and you weren’t sure what to expect. but the drive to the party felt like the safest option, so you settled on that.

after a few minutes of emma touching up her makeup and slipping a pair of louboutins on, everyone met up in the parking lot, and you felt a little out of place. jules was clad in a black, tight mini dress with slick silver heels, her hair in a effortless but beautiful bun as she pulled out her digital camera to take pictures. naomi had settled on a purple halter top and a black skirt, complimentary to oliver’s lavender top and leather pants. 

jules gave you a raised eyebrow, “you sure you don’t wanna change out of that?” 

you gave out a sigh, a little irritated with how many times someone had suggested to change out of your outfit. it was comfortable, and that’s all you really cared about— so you just nodded yes, grabbing your keys and heading to your car while everyone finished up their photos.

emma and the others climbed into your car, the sound of music and laughter filling the air as you made your way over to the address. the streets were lined with people, most of them laughing or stumbling their way into various houses or apartments. as you neared the destination, you felt your heartbeat quicken.

although you didn’t want to admit it, you were a little nervous. you had never stepped foot into a house party, and it felt so off that you’d literally be in a random stranger’s home with a bunch of other people you didn’t know, and you were supposed to dance and get drunk in these conditions? absolutely not. 

the party was already in full swing by the time that you and your friends arrived. music blared from the speakers, a mix of bass-heavy tracks and indie-pop anthems that were so foreign to you. you killed the engine and parked the car, trying to steady your breathing as everyone filed out.

"you're gonna be fine," emma said, slinging her arm around your shoulder as you approached the door, "trust me, it's just a party."

"well, i've never been good at these," you admitted, your voice seldom quiet, "i've never even been to one."

emma grinned, tugging you inside. "well, now you have the opportunity to be good at them. so let’s go!”

you sighed as the group filed into the house, which was chaotic, with people everywhere— laughing, drinking, shouting over the music, and making out in random corners. you felt immediately out of place, standing still for a moment to take it all in. you followed emma as she navigated through the crowd, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor, while the others spread out, eager to catch up with their friends.

you didn't expect to enjoy herself, but a part of you longed to feel connected—to lose the anxiety that seemed to constantly gnaw at you. but it just wasn’t something that you were all that familiar with. you tried to hold onto emma as long as you could, but she eventually found some cute guy to buy her a drink and have a quick dance, so you ventured off, attempting to find some refuge in a corner that you could hide out in. 

as you walked, you heard something in the distance, smooth and beautiful.

a voice.

it was soft, haunting, yet full of raw emotion, it stood out amid the chaos of the house. the crowd around you seemed oblivious to it, caught up in their own worlds. but you, however, stood frozen for a moment, the familiar pang of curiosity tugging at you.

it was an acoustic set, just a voice and a guitar— but it was captivating. the melody drifted over the noise of the party, lulling you into some kind of trance. you had never heard the song before, so you pulled out your phone and quickly opened Shazam, holding it up to the sound.

as the app processed, the result popped up on your screen: billie eilish.

your heart skipped. you knew the name. of course you did. billie eilish was a sensation. a moment— everyone knew her name.

you lingered in the background, mesmerized by the performance. billie's voice was even more incredible live, filled with emotion, effortless and raw. you didn't notice how long you had been standing there, listening to the music, and you really only noticed because your feet were slightly sore from the heels. you started to walk away to find your friends until you felt someone brush past you— someone who was too close, and way too fast.

clink.

before you could move, you felt a cold splash across your chest.

"shit, i am so sorry!"

you looked down at your sweater, now stained with the dark liquid from some foreign drink, and your heart sank. it was easily your favorite sweater, and it was all ruined now. but when you looked up, you were met the apologetic gaze of a girl with striking, pitch black hair and vivid blue eyes. it was billie eilish.

"oh my gosh," you spoke softly, though you couldn't help the tiny flare of irritation, “no, i-it’s okay…but….you're…”

“billie eilish?” she asked, and you nodded in response, almost too shocked to really say anything else.

she was beautiful, way more beautiful now that she was standing right in front of your face, literally. her eyes were a piercing blue, oceany and warm, and every single one of her features were so unique, so prominent, and you felt your breath hitch.

billie's expression shifted as you stayed quiet, her lips curling into an apologetic smile, "i didn't mean to bump into you, love, i'm really sorry. let me fix this."

you shook your head, trying to laugh it off, "oh, no need, it's fine. it's just a silly sweater, i can always wash it out."

"no, no, it was shitty of me to not look where i was going, so i'll make it up to you," billie said quickly, like she was in some type of rush. "i'll buy you a drink. how about that?"

you stood frozen for a moment, wondering whether or not it was even worth the hassle to make billie buy a drink for you, or even tell her that you don’t drink at all. but she was persistent, and you knew that no matter how much you protested, she was going to somehow offer up a repercussion for her actions. 

"uh, i don't really..." you drafted, your voice still soft, unsure if you wanted to ruin this moment, by saying alcohol wasn't really your thing, so you just shrugged. "okay, yeah, sure."

billie left you with a wink as she turned around. "cool. i'll be right back."

billie disappeared into the crowd, leaving you standing in the middle of the chaos with the awful remnants of your ruined sweater, but somehow feeling a little more at ease than before. the music blared, people shouting and laughing over the pounding beats, but you couldn't help but feel something strange settle in you chest. billie was sweet, and thoughtful, and really the only person at the party who made you feel like you could just chill out.

a few minutes later, billie weaved through the crowd again, holding a glass in one hand and cutting through people like she owned the place. she didn’t really say excuse me, because people already knew to move. the crowd filed onto separate sides of the room as she walked through with a smile, her eyes finding yours as she met up with you again. 

you looked reluctant to take the cup in her hand, so billie shook her head, "no no, it isn't alcoholic, don't worry." she smiled, handing you the drink, "i figured you'd be more comfortable with this. i can tell you don't really drink— so it's just grape juice." 

you felt your lips curve upward, the kindness behind billie's words making something warm stir within you. you smiled, "thanks." 

you sipped at the drink quietly, the cider sweet and refreshing, and you couldn't help but appreciate the thought behind it. billie hadn't tried to push anything else onto you, which made the whole thing feel a little less like a game, and you felt yourself soften up a bit. 

billie swigged from her own red solo cup, the liquid inside clearly something much stronger, judging by the way she made a tight face when she drank from it. she let out a small cough, holding the empty cup in between her thumb and index finger, slumping against the wall, relaxed.

"yeah, no worries," billie spoke gently, "i know how people are with the whole 'let's get wasted' thing. i can tell that just isn’t your thing, yeah?”

you smiled at the words, but you still felt that familiar unease of discomfort just talking about it, "yeah, i just... i don't really get the appeal.”

"me neither," billie said bluntly, shrugging, “it's just a way for people to forget their shit for a minute. which i guess is fine sometimes, but it's not really my thing. i like to face everything, even the hard shit."

your brows furrowed slightly, cocking your head to the side, "but aren't you drinking...right now? excuse me for asking, i’m sorry.”

billie gave you a sharp look, her iridescent eyes glinting in the dim light. she waved a hand at you, "nah, i get it, don’t apologize. i only drink sometimes, simply when i feel like it. but i can’t get with people pretending everything’s all fine and dandy when they’ve got a little alcohol in their system. i don’t like that.”

your chest tightened a little, your mind racing with how easy it was for billie to speak so openly, so unapologetically. it made you feel a little small, like all the structure you’d built around yourself was just a facade. billie didn't give two fucks, and that somehow made you want to be like that, even if it was just for a moment.

"i get it," you said quietly, your voice calmer now, "i mean, i don't know if i'm that brave. but... i get it."

before billie could respond back, the crowd shifted, and your attention was pulled across the room. emma was waving at you, impatience and irritation written all over her face. you glanced at billie one last time, feeling a flicker of regret at the thought of leaving the conversation behind.

"hey, i should probably go," you said, finishing off the last of your juice, "my best friend’s calling me."

billie nodded with a lazy grin, leaning back against the wall, "i understand. but next time, don't bail so quick, yeah?" i'll be here when you wanna party a little bit."

your smile lingered as you turned to leave, pulling your purse closer to your chest, "well, then i don't think you'll ever see me again." 

you gave billie a wave goodbye as you walked toward emma, and you felt your heart literally beating out of your chest as you tried to place this weird feeling you got from billie. you were intrigued by her, wanting to know more about her opinions, how she felt about any and everything. about– 

"dude, are you coming or what?" emma's voice snapped you out of your thoughts. she was standing by the door now, arms crossed, a look of annoyance on her face. "i can’t believe what just happened to me, so please, let’s go before i get in a fight."

you laughed softly, shaking your head. "okay, i'm coming."

with one last glance at billie—who was already disappearing into the crowd again— you turned and walked toward emma, your mind racing with questions you didn't really have the answers to. you couldn't put billie out of her head. and somehow, you had a feeling it wasn't the last time you’d be seeing her tonight.

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