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heartpascal · 8 months ago

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i was born waiting

▹— joel miller x daughter!reader

▹— summary: you’ve been looking for your dad for as long as you can remember, is this really him?

▹— a/n: hi! i started writing this september ‘23, so it has. it’s been a WHILE. so if this seems jumpy / not consistent then that is why! sorry!!! i have done my best!!!

▹— warnings: canon-typical violence and themes, weapons, parental death, witnessing parental death, aka insane amounts of trauma, death in general, she/her pronouns, reader is biologically related to joel but no mentions of appearance, no mention of her bio mother’s appearance either, fantasising about being dead (sorry), all hurt zero comfort, attempted murder, unrealistic expectations of someone you never met — please let me know if ive missed anything!

▹— taglist: @rhymingtree @sleepygraves @wnstice (everything), @auggiesolovey @just-kaylaa @evyiione @lemonlaides @fariylixie0915 @faceache111 @randomhoex @canpillowscry @pedropascalsrealgf @star-wars-lover @coolchick333 @soobsdior @rvjaa @sunflowersdrop @definitely-not-a-seagull-i-swear @miss-celestial-being @hqkon

MASTERLIST

∘₊✧───── ───── ───── ─────✧₊∘

There are certain things from your childhood that you can remember vividly. Though, really, childhood is a bit of a stretch, isn’t it? It’s hard to find the right word to encompass the way you had grown up, because you didn’t have much of a chance to actually grow.

From the moment you had been born, your life was a battle of staying alive to see another day.

That’s not to say that your mother didn’t do her best for you, obviously. But it was hard to raise a child as a child in the midst of a global apocalypse. You were bound to end up the way you did — moulded and hardened by the world around you, by having to pick up a gun at seven years old and use it to protect your mother. By never putting that gun back down.

For the past few years, you had known your mother was suffering. The world had been anything but kind to her, and age was hitting her harder than she had expected. More than the physical aspect, you knew it had been destroying her, the fact that you were now the one protecting her and not the other way around.

But what choice did you have? Her aging body had left her fragile, prone to falling and breaking even more frail bones. You could see the strain on her muscles, as they slowly decayed and shrunk, until they were barely there at all. You couldn’t let her carry the burden for you anymore, because you knew her body couldn’t handle it.

You had been preparing yourself for that moment, though. Making sure that you were ready, that you were strong enough for the both of you, strong enough to shoulder the burden she had been carrying for years.

When you were growing up, your mother had told you tales of your father.

She had told you all about how strong he had been, how he had been the best man she had ever known. She told you how he had cared for his daughter before you, how he had been the best father to that girl. When you were old enough to comprehend these things, you’d asked what had happened to him. “Is dad dead?” You had asked her, watching the way her face fell.

“I don’t know, honey. I hope not.” She had responded, smiling sadly at you, and patting her hand against your cheek.

It was hard for you to let go of that.

The uncertainty had haunted you for the rest of your life since that very moment, leaving you wondering for hours at a time where he could possibly be, why he would ever leave your mother to carry this responsibility alone. And in your more selfish moments, you couldn’t help but wonder why he wasn’t here to care for you as he had his daughter before you.

For a long time, you had convinced yourself that he was dead, despite what your mother hoped. And sure, you felt that loss, something like mourning weighing you down, but it was the only way you felt you could accept his absence. He had to be dead, because otherwise, why wasn’t he here?

But as you grew up, getting taller, stronger, you felt like you could rationalise his absence even if he wasn’t dead. After all, the apocalypse wasn’t exactly family friendly. You figured that if your mother didn’t know whether or not your dad was alive, that the same could go for him. He might just think that you and your mom died, years ago. After all, how many pregnant women survived the end of the world?

You have a feeling that the answer would have to be not many.

So, really, you and your mother being alive by now was nothing short of a miracle. It was a testament to your mother’s strength, her ability. She had succeeded where so many others had failed, and she had managed to keep both herself and you alive.

It’s a bitter kind of irony that you can’t do the same.

The last dredges of autumn fall away, leading into the coldest and harshest part of the year. Winter is hard — it’s full to the brim with fresh Infected, the ones not yet frozen solid, and resources are more scarce than ever. And this winter feels like something tangible, something which sends unending waves of dread through you.

Your mother gets weaker by the day, spending more time resting than moving, and you spend as much time as you can keeping her warm, finding food and water and pain relief for her broken arm that didn’t heal right. She’s exhausted, you can see it in her face, in her every movement. And you’re pretty sure it’s not just from the lack of rest. She watches you with dulled eyes, something like heartbreak reflecting in them.

For a long time, you pretend not to notice.

You pretend that you don’t see the way she lags behind, just watching you move away from her with speed she can’t quite manage any longer. You pretend that you don’t see the way she hesitates before taking her painkillers, or her food, or the last sip of water.

This year, the winter brings something worse than the cold. A bug, spreading across the state in a way that was familiar to so many. Not quite the Infection, but still able to take out people with ease.

When your mother catches it, you physically felt your heart clench in your chest. You felt it squeezing all of the blood around your body so quickly that you became dizzy with it. There’s a panic so deep that you can’t climb your way out of it. For days, weeks, you’re certain that you’ve lost her. That after everything, everything you’ve done, everything the two of you have been through, a cold would be the end of it all.

But then, she gets better.

The little strength she had before the sickness returns to her, bringing some colour back to her skin, some ease back to her breathing.

Religion wasn’t a thing in the apocalypse. Not really. But if you had believed in God, you would’ve thanked every one that might’ve existed for giving you this. This miracle. This small mercy.

The two of you are in an abandoned barn when it happens.

You’re dozing away, not quite asleep, but not awake either, when you hear the sound of old hay crunching underneath boots. If you weren’t so familiar with the lightness of your mother’s footsteps, you might’ve passed it off as her wandering. But these boots are heavy. They’re purposeful.

The gun in your hand means nothing when you jerk upwards, eyes snapping open and squinting through the light let into the barn by the rising winter sun. It’s an image that has since been ingrained into the back of your skull, replaying each time you close your eyes.

There, right in front of you, is your mother.

Behind her, a man, a gun pressed to the back of her skull.

Your stomach lurched suddenly in that moment, the small rationed dinner you had before dozing off trying to rise to the back of your throat, trying to race the rapid beating of your heart to see which would kill you first.

“Put down the gun.” He said, voice cold, throat dry from the winter air. The sound of his voice is printed in the base of your brain, echoing every time things around you still, go quiet.

He could be bluffing, you thought in the moment. His gun could be unloaded. It didn’t take you long to notice that the safety was off, but in those few moments, he had pressed the end of it harder into your mother’s head. You dropped the gun to the floor without another moment of thought.

You were nauseous, waiting to wake up, to realise this was all some twisted nightmare.

But you could see a look in your mother’s eyes. Acceptance. Defeat. It was almost familiar to you, so closely related to the look she had been giving you for months.

All this time, she had just been waiting to die. Waiting for something to come along and kill her off, to free you from having to take care of her. She knew that if it was up to you, that you would look after her for the rest of your goddamn life. If she lived any longer, she might just live long enough to see you die.

“Slide it over.”

You barely registered the cold pinch of metal against your palm as you pushed the gun away from you, sending it skittering over the rough ground and into the side of an old hay bale.

“Now your pack.”

There was a numbness to you as you gripped the backpack you had been leaning against, and chucked it towards where he stood behind your mother. It hit the front of his boot, but his eyes didn’t stray from where he stared at you.

“Turn around.”

You stared at him, teeth gritted together.

“No.”

There was a beat where both him and your mother just watched you. And then the surprise flickered across his face, apparently not expecting any resistance from you.

“Turn. Around.” He told you, firmer this time.

“No.”

“Okay then,” He relented, after a moment of consideration. His eyes drifted down towards your mother, who stared forwards at you. “This your daughter?” He asked, jerking his head towards you despite knowing your mother couldn’t see the movement.

“Yes, she is,” Your mother said, voice shaking, her breath clouding in front of her face as it reached the cold air. “Please, just let her be.”

He hummed, dropping his free hand down to rest heavily on your mother’s shoulder, his fingers clamping around it and not helping the way she trembled.

“So, your momma, huh?” He asked you, a smirk drawing up his face, showing smile lines around his murky blue eyes. His hair rustled in the wind, a piece falling down across his forehead. He stared at you, and you stared at him, not daring to say a word, still hoping that this whole thing was a dream. Muscles in his cheek twitched, pulling his skin taut and showing a scar across his left cheekbone. “Good.”

There was a moment where the sound didn’t register. A moment where you didn’t even realise it was your mother when the body slumped forwards. A mere moment where you didn’t think about it being her blood that splattered across your face.

The moments after that though, become blurry, hazed over, and you’re not sure it actually ever hit you that the body before you was your mother.

You’ve always had a hard time remembering that bodies were once people, that they once had lives and loved ones and thoughts and feelings. That they weren’t just bodies. So seeing her like that, as a body, not her, was wrong on so many levels. It didn’t feel real. Nothing did.

You heard the second gunshot, just a moment later, followed by a snickering laugh that you would never forget, before the pain bloomed in you.

It was buried by the shock, the complete disbelief, and you only felt the pain for mere seconds.

His gun — the one that killed your mother — was whacked across the side of your head a moment after, and that was the end of that.

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Three months passed by, judging by the way the seasons turned, and you were on your own.

It was a strange feeling, really. Throughout the entirety of your life, you had never actually been alone. At least, not really. Your mother was always a small ways away, a mere shout from running to you. There had never been any true distance between the two of you until that day.

A sort of ache claws your throat each day, when you realise that it’s easier like this.

The only back you have to watch is your own, the only life you have to worry about belongs to you, and you have nothing to lose in this world. There was no terrible outcome if you were caught. Nobody else would be hurt, or suffer because of it. And you’re less likely to be caught now, when you don’t have your mother slowing you down. You don’t have to stop for the frequent rest breaks she needed, you can try to outrun Infected without worrying about someone lagging behind, and you only have yourself to feed.

If your mother had known how much easier survival was when alone, you hope that she would’ve abandoned you at birth. Because perhaps, without the burden of you upon her shoulders, she wouldn’t have fallen apart so quickly.

Sometimes, you like to think of a world where she was spared all of this. Never pregnant with you, for a start. So when the infection broke out, she would’ve only had herself to worry about. You think that maybe, one day, she would’ve been able to reunite with your father. If she hadn’t been carrying a child, she would’ve been able to manage the journey to where she believed him to be. You look at the picture that had been in the pocket of her coat for your whole life, the papers folded and clipped to the back of it, one word underlined: Boston.

You had reached a store in the weeks after that day, and when you found a map, it wasn’t difficult to notice that the direction the two of you had been heading in was to that very city.

It’s a long shot. More than a long shot, really, but you find yourself continuing in that direction regardless. You don’t know what you hope to find in Boston, whether it was your dad, or the man who had killed your mother, or perhaps just somewhere to take shelter for a while. You try not to hope for anything. You try not to focus on the fact that you might not even make it that far.

It keeps you up for days.

The uncertainty of it. The unknown. The fact that you’re walking your way to a city you know nothing about, almost certain that your mother’s killer was already there, and more than that, consumed by a fever that might kill you regardless of the where the journey took you.

The only sleep you get results in fever dreams, rippling, warping images that make your perception falter, feeling all too real until you notice that it’s not. And when you do wake up from them, it’s as if you haven’t slept at all. An exhaustion weighs heavily upon you, and your shoulders hunch over with it. There’s almost nothing you wouldn’t do to get rid of that endless feeling.

You hope—or wish, maybe— that if you reach Boston, the journey there will have tired you out so much that your body will have no choice but to rest. It’s a distant thought in your mind, though. You’re almost certain you won’t make it that far, because if the fever doesn’t get you, surely the Infected will.

It’s not as though you’re trying to get killed. But there is a kind of peace that comes with the thought. There’s an idea of rest behind it, hiding within the shadowy depths that make you scared. Would not having to fight in order to survive really be so terrible? You have this image in mind, of a never ending blackness, a void, somewhere that your thoughts and worries can just fizzle away. The small part of your fever-fried brain that has retained its rationality reminds you of the unknown. It reminds you that death could be worse than this.

You don’t like the thought. Not after that day. It’s a shuddering feeling, wondering if your mother is in some kind of unreachable hell.

By the time you’re even close to Boston, a few hours out at most, you’re out of ammo in the gun you’d found along the way. Out of food rations. No knife, no resources. You’re barely standing on two legs, kept up by the adrenaline, the knowledge alone that you’re this close.

When the tall walls of the QZ finally come into view, you start to feel some amount of hope. Which is a dangerous thing, but especially in a situation as dire as your own. You couldn’t afford any adrenaline fading, couldn’t afford to lose your cautious nature. You couldn’t make a mistake. One wrong move, one slight misstep, and you’d be as dead as your mother. Or worse, infected. Though this close to a QZ, you had some amount of relief at the knowledge that they should’ve cleared out any nearby infected. Runners, and clickers alike.

Your steps don’t falter for a moment. Partly because of your worry about the fever taking you out, but mostly because you’re certain that the FEDRA guards on watch on top of the wall will have spotted you, and you don’t want them to think you’re Infected, just because of your sickly appearance, and shoot on sight. Though, with FEDRA’s track record, it wouldn’t surprise you if they just shot you down regardless.

For a while, you’re not sure if you’re even awake, or if perhaps you were stuck in yet another fever dream. Everything felt so real and so not real simultaneously, it felt impossible to believe that you had actually made it.

Soldiers met you on your approach, calling out for you to get on the ground with your hands up. You called back some sort of response as you did so, practically collapsing to your knees and squeezing your eyes shut at the pain that followed. But despite all of it, despite the pain and the rough hands that grabbed you and pulled you forwards, through the gates and straight into a building, you had made it to Boston.

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It was maybe three weeks into being a resident of the Boston QZ that you caught wind of him for the first time. Or, at the very least, somebody who might be him. You didn’t know how common the surname Miller was, being a child of the apocalypse, but you kind of hoped the answer was uncommon.

“Goddamn Miller, again.” A man had muttered as you walked through the trading market. You paused almost instantly, pretending to peruse the feeble amount of clothes a woman had to trade. “Said we gotta go through him and Tess if we want anything, as if we gotta listen to them.” He practically spat out, glaring around as he spoke to the woman beside him.

“They’re the most well established smugglers in the whole goddamn QZ. Don’t have to tell you how, do I?” She asked, sounding more annoyed with her companion than she was with whoever Miller and Tess were. “Joel is as nasty as they come, Darren. Don’t get on the wrong side of him.”

Your heart practically stuttered to a stop in your chest, and you had to remind yourself to keep breathing. Could it possibly be a coincidence? Could there be another Joel Miller? One who wasn’t your father? Sure, it was possible. Plausible, even, considering the fact that you had absolutely no idea if he was here. Not any concrete idea, anyway. Your mother had believed as much, but who was to say she was right?

Besides, whoever this Joel Miller was didn’t sound like the man your mother had told you about. As nasty as they come didn’t have any relation to the heroic and kind and amazing father and man your mother always spoke about. Though, you knew as well as anyone what the apocalypse could do to people.

Darren didn’t say anything else to his companion. So, after a few more moments, you continued on your way, making the journey to the tiny box apartment that FEDRA had elected to you.

But even as you got there, sitting down on the poor excuse of a mattress, you couldn’t shake the conversation out of your mind. After everything you had been through to get here, what was it all for? Could you really make this journey and just never try to find Joel Miller? Your father? You could still remember the anxiety that had come when you first arrived, when you were strapped into a chair and scanned for the fungus that had taken over so many. You didn’t know what you were more scared of: the idea that it would flash red, and you’d be killed, or the idea that it would be clear, and you’d be sent out into the QZ, where you may just find the other half of your DNA.

You don’t even know if you want to find out anything about him. Don’t know if you could face that, especially after losing your mother. That’s been the hardest thing since being here, since having your own place, the fact that you’ve gotten it all without her. It feels… empty. For your whole life, she had been there at your side, making every short stay at whatever accommodation you could find feel like home.

Plus, even if you did consider trying to find him, and if it was him those people were talking about, then who the hell was Tess? What if she got upset at your appearance, your claim as Joel Miller’s surviving child? You’re not sure you can lose another parent.

Sure — Joel Miller wasn’t exactly your dad, he couldn’t be classed as a parent in the way that your mother was, but if you never met him, that could’ve been for any number of reasons. He could be dead. He could’ve thought you and your mother were dead, all these years. You didn’t want to face a reality where you met him, and he wasn’t present for you and your mother because he didn’t want to be. You’d rather live your whole life thinking him six feet under, than know he was out there, and just didn’t care about you.

The more you think about it, the more certain you are that Boston was a mistake.

It would all be different if your mother was alive. If she had brought you here, if she had been the one to hear the chatter about Joel Miller, if she had been the one to seek him out. But she was dead, and the only living connection you had to Joel was, too. Hypothetically, if you did seek him out, you didn’t know enough about him to prove your claim as his child, and without your mother, how could you make him believe you?

They had been a family, once. They being Joel, your mother, and your deceased half sister. You’d heard the tale of how Joel and your mother had met, of how it took months for him to finally feel comfortable introducing her to his little girl. Hell, you had heard almost as much about Sarah as you had about Joel. Your mother had certainly adored his daughter, and you’re somewhat sure that they had planned to have you, despite Sarah already being a teenager.

You don’t want to have to mourn a family you had never actually had. Perhaps, Joel and Sarah were out there, living their lives certain that you and your mother were dead, just as you and your mother had done.

Not that any of this even mattered — you didn’t even know for sure if it was the same Joel Miller! And even if it was, it’s not like Boston QZ was small. There’s absolutely no chance you run into the man who might just be your dad. No way.

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You find someone else, before you hear anything more about Joel Miller, and it immediately sends the thought of your biological dad to the very back of your mind.

After all, it’s not every day you see the man who murdered your mother.

It wasn’t exactly a surprise. You had guessed that this was the place he was heading, all those moons ago. But to actually see him, here, in the flesh, alive and well despite all of the pain and heartache and devastation he had caused you? It was surreal. You had to practically pinch your skin from your body to make yourself believe he was real.

And it only really hits you now, that this man killed your mother. You had been so focused on surviving, on living to see another day, on healing and moving and getting away from her body, buried in shallow dirt outside of some abandoned barn. You can vividly remember the strength it had taken to pry the frozen dirt from the ground.

Sure, you had felt the guilt over it, the guilt over the ease that came with surviving without her, guilt over your very existence, but you’re not sure you had ever actually grieved over her. Not sure if you had ever let yourself be sad, be angry, be anything about what had happened.

But now, seeing him, you feel… almost too much.

All of the rage and grief you had squashed in favour of surviving another day, all of the sadness and fear, all of it. It all comes rushing towards you at once, hitting you in the chest, winding you. You gasp for breath on the street, ducking away for a moment, gripping your chest like you could physically hold your heart steady.

When you look back out at the street, you see him as he nears the corner. Panic grips you at the thought of losing him, of never seeing him again, of failing to avenge your mother. You follow after him before you can think better of it.

It’s strangely easy. You fall back into the life of a hunter like it’s the most natural thing you’ve ever known — and maybe it is. You’re healed up, by now, or about as healed as anybody gets in this world, and your shoulder only bothers you when you move it too much. Even with that, you’re pretty sure that you could take the man on. Now that you’re not hazy with sleep, caught off guard, held back by any sort of earthly tether.

You’re strong. And despite FEDRA’s harsh reign, their dire consequences for rule-breaking, you have a switchblade stuffed into your shoe. You could do it. You could kill him.

There’s no question about it in your mind, especially as you follow him from a distance, and he remains none the wiser. He takes a left, and a moment later, so do you. He’s clueless. It’s almost painful that he was the one who managed to get the jump on you. How could you have let this man kill your mother?

He skids to a stop outside of a doorway, so you slide down the wall of the building opposite and listen. He pays you no mind as he knocks twice on the door.

“What d’you want, Colin?” The man who opened the door asked gruffly, seemingly inconvenienced by the man. He sounded tired, or out of it, maybe.

“I need the supply.” Colin answered, and the sound of his voice sent a shiver down the back of your neck. It echoed in your ears, the words he said that day. Good. Everything in you itched, like thousands of critters had dug into you and made a home scuttling around your insides. You wanted to kill him. You wanted to end his life, and you wanted to make it slow. Brutal. Painful. Even if it meant you were hung by FEDRA tomorrow morning. It’d be worth it.

The man at the door sighed, as if deeply bothered by getting Colin what he needed, and disappeared inside. He emerged a moment later, empty handed. “I’m all out. You’ll have to go across town tomorrow.” The man said flatly, saying nothing as Colin swore, before stepping away.

You ducked your head down as Colin passed, all too aware of the man in the doorway watching you suspiciously. After a moment, he sighed again, and retreated inside, slamming the door after himself. It took almost no time at all for you to push yourself back to your feet, and take off after the man who had left.

Despite your pounding footsteps against cracked concrete, he didn’t pay you any mind as you caught up to him. He seemed focused on getting to wherever it was that he was unknowingly leading you to, glancing up at the darkening sky every other step. FEDRA’s curfew would be coming into play soon enough.

To your disappointment, he walked into an apartment building, about three blocks away from your own. It seemed that, unless you were willing to risk being caught and stopped, today wasn’t the day you would be avenging your mother. You vowed that tomorrow you would do it. You would kill Colin. No matter what got in your way.

∘₊✧───── ───── ───── ─────✧₊∘

By the time curfew was lifted, you had been waiting by the exit of your building for an hour.

The switchblade in your shoe felt heavy with every step you took towards the home of your mother’s killer. It weighed almost as much as the picture in your pocket. All of it was heavy. But you acted as normally as you could manage, passing by patrolling FEDRA guards without them so much as glancing towards you.

You were waiting by his building when the door opened, when he stepped out, and headed determinedly in the opposite direction from which you had come. You followed without a moment of hesitation.

He made his way around town, trading with a few people on the side of the streets, handing them small wads of ration cards in favour of various items. Nothing dangerous, though. Not to you. He clearly was oblivious to your loitering figure, standing a few metres away, like some omen of death. Despite your shadow reaching for his shoes as the sun rose, he didn’t flinch.

It was irritating you, just how easy this was. You had been following the man for two days now, and he hadn’t even noticed. How had he gotten the drop on you? How had he managed to kill your mother? How had you allowed him the opportunity to do so?

There was nothing remotely special about him — no reason that he should have survived over your mother, no reason that he should have been granted mercy over the last twenty years. He didn’t deserve it. Not like your mother had. She had done the best she could, for years, for the only daughter in her care. And she had done it all alone. This man, Colin, he was alone, and he had no reason to hurt her. You were going to make sure he regretted it.

You loomed at the entrance of an alleyway as he walked down it, finally stopping at a dead end, leaning against the brick wall as if he was waiting for something. Or someone. You knew it wasn’t you he was waiting for, so you bided your time, cautious of someone happening upon the two of you. If they had business with him, they would care. If they didn’t, then nobody but FEDRA would care.

By the time you finally decided to move, almost an hour had passed, and Colin was facing away from you at the entrance of the alley, head pressed to the bricks.

It was strange, what the innate desire to hunt and kill could bring out in you, that it could make you move silently without thinking about it. It could make you reach for the blade in your shoe, without so much as a rustle of your clothes.

With a final glance back at the entrance of the alleyway, you grew impatient, and you attacked.

From an outside perspective, you probably looked like some kind of wild animal. You jumped at him, tackling him, pushing him sideways and landing on his back as his shoulder smacked the asphalt, and he howled in pain. It was like seeing a cheetah hunt an antelope, the way you bored down on him. If you could have widened your jaws, and ripped out his insides, you think you would have.

But without that ability, you could only press the cold metal blade to his throat, and feel him go still.

“Do you remember me?” You asked, voice flat and still, despite the way your heart felt as though it would beat out of your chest, and splatter down in front of his face. You were quieter than you had expected, too. You thought that the words would burst out of you, vicious and unending, but they were quiet. Calm.

Colin shook his head, as much as he could with the side of his face pressed to the ground, and a blade to the soft skin of his neck.

“Think about it.”

His eyes strained to try and get a look at you, and they widened as you leant sideways slightly, allowing him to gaze at your blank face. “Oh, shit,” He said, mouth fumbling around the words.

“Yeah, shit.” You repeated, waiting for satisfaction to seep into your chest cavity, waiting for the grief to fade away.

It didn’t.

Nothing changed, even as you pressed the blade closer to his throat, even as you watched his eyes dart back and forth, as you watched him try and formulate a plan to survive. “Listen, kid—” He started, throat bobbing against the knife, drawing the tiniest line of blood. You watched him bleed, and expected to feel more than numb.

He threw your weight backwards, sacrificing more skin on his throat to your knife. You went flying off of him, but you flung yourself forward faster than he could stagger up, and dug the knife into his calf as he tried to stand. His yell pierced the air, louder than any of the commotion yet, and likely drawing attention of people out on the street. You just hoped, distantly, that FEDRA wasn’t around.

His flesh and muscle moved as you pulled the blade free, and you didn’t flinch at the squelch of blood that left him alongside it.

Colin fell back to the floor, resulting in crawling along the asphalt without care for how the small stones cut into his palms, leaving streaks of blood. “You don’t gotta do this, man, chill out!” His voice had more emotion in it than it had back when he killed your mother, which was infuriating. “It wasn’t personal!” He insisted, crawling further as you got to your feet, prowling after him similarly to the wild animal you felt like.

You’d disagree with his statement, though.

He already had your pack, you had already relinquished your gun — the only thing you refused to do was turn so you could be executed. If you were going to be killed, you were going to look your murderer in the eye. Instead of that, though, Colin had decided to make it personal. He had decided to kill your mother, to spread her brains out on the ground in front of you, to cover you in her blood, rather than spare her. And then, worse, he had let you live.

That seemed pretty personal.

“You killed my mom.” You stated, getting closer as he turned so he was facing you, watching you get closer. “D’you remember what you said to me?”

He shook his head.

“You said good. You were glad that it was my mother. Admit it, Colin. Tell the world all about how not-personal it was.”

More than anything, you wanted to feel satisfaction for how badly he was trembling beneath you, for how scared you were making him. But you just didn’t. Fear wasn’t enough. Not for what this man had done to you.

“I’m—I’m sorry.” He said, shaking, still shying away from you,

“No, you’re not. You’re sorry that I’m here, that you’re going to die. And that isn’t something to be sorry for.”

“Pl—Please, I have a daughter—a son, you don’t need to do this.” He begged, tearing up as he watched your grip on the switchblade tighten, watched you continue to approach. He was pathetic. Everything about him was pathetic.

“She had a daughter, too.”

His eyes widened as you leaped at him once again, digging your knife as deep as you could get it into his shoulder, feeling it graze bone as you pushed the hilt firmly against his skin, until you could practically hear the blood vessels breaking. He howled, a wounded animal, prey. And he did nothing as your fist descended against his face, once, twice, a third time.

It was just as you were losing count that somebody grabbed you, hauling you up and away from the body sprawled out on the floor, the puddle of blood slowly expanding beneath him. His chest was stuttering, but he had stopped groaning minutes ago.

“Well, shit.” A woman’s voice said, not sounding particularly authoritarian, so you figured she wasn’t FEDRA.

The hands grasping onto your arms released them shortly after, and you dropped to the asphalt, watching Colin’s chest closely, waiting for his breathing to stop. It didn’t seem to be slowing much, and you could feel that unending wave of rage coming back to you, overruling the numbness, and enhancing your need to have him dead.

You moved the slightest bit, about to launch yourself at him, but as soon as your foot was pushing you from your spot on the ground, the hands wrapped around your arms again.

“Fuck! Get off of me!”

“We can’t let you kill the guy, for fuck’s sake. We got business with him!” The woman spoke again, sounding increasingly irate as she moved to get between you and your mother’s murderer.

“He deserves to die. He deserves to be killed. Get off!” You practically roared, resorting to a state not unlike a feral cat, spitting and hissing, spine curling, trying to claw at the hands holding onto you. They stayed steady, even when you managed to scratch one of them deep enough to break skin.

The woman swore again, “Everybody deserves to die, get a hold of yourself!”

“Tess, ‘s probably best if we get him out of here.” The man gripping you said, voice straining slightly as he focused on keeping you restrained. He couldn’t do anything but hold on to you and watch as Tess dragged the guy, by his ankle, down the alley slightly, banging on a side door that you hadn’t even noticed. It opened, and the man inside swore before helping Tess grab the guy and haul him inside.

As soon as the door was safely shut, the man released you.

You walked to the end of the alley, gripping at the back of your head, swearing the whole way. You were probably screaming, given the way your throat was grating on every word, but the sound didn’t register.

“Joel, you’d better get in here.” Tess called, poking her head out of the door. You could hear the irritation in her voice, but it was immediately sent to the back of your mind as you realised what she had actually just said. You whirled around.

He wasn’t exactly what you were expecting.

But he was… familiar.

You couldn’t help it — you laughed, almost hysterically.

“Are you kidding me?” You said, voice strained with laughter, “You are Joel? Miller?” You asked, wanting him to say no and be done with it all so badly, but you knew that he wouldn’t say that. It was ingrained in your blood, in your very DNA.

He stared uncomprehendingly at you, as if expecting a spark of recognition to go through him, but it didn’t happen. You saw Tess step cautiously out of the building, apparently prepared to have Joel’s back, no matter what your next move was.

“Who are you?” Joel asked, instead of answering your question, or even making a move towards where you had begun to cry. If only he fucking knew — he had just saved the man who had murdered your mother, who had murdered the woman who was, once upon a time, his wife.

You reached into your pocket, uncaring of the way they both reached for what you assumed were weapons, and pulled out the photo. The moment you unfolded it, revealing him stood next to your mother, it was certain. This man was your father. You held the photo out towards him.

“Joel—” Tess warned, as he stepped forward, but he dismissed her with a look, clearly communicating that he could handle himself. He wasn’t worried, despite the state Colin had been in when they had arrived.

He stared at the photo, brows creasing, face drawing blank, before he reached out and took it. His finger ran across the image of your mother, her bright smile, not a slither of grey to be seen in her hair. “How did you get this?” He asked, clearly in disbelief, denial, maybe.

You pointed to the woman in the picture. “That’s—was my mom.”

It could’ve been funny, months, maybe years ago, the way his eyes flickered between you and the image of her, as if trying to put together how much of the statement was true. You vaguely noticed Tess shift uneasily behind him, before approaching.

“Was?” Joel decided to ask, eventually, instead of whatever else was going through his head. He said nothing to Tess as she took in the photograph he was still holding onto.

“That man, he—he killed her. A few months ago.” You said, smiling, because you couldn’t do anything else. This was all too much. First, your mother is killed. And then when you finally find somewhere potentially safe, you hear about your father. And then before you could do anything about that, you see her killer! And then, before you could finish the job, your biological dad, Joel Miller, saved his life. It wasn’t funny, but you didn’t know how else to react.

You stepped back, sliding down the brick wall behind you until you were sat on the asphalt, and could hang your head between your knees.

“Oh fuck,” Tess said, connecting the dots as she looked between you and Joel rapidly, brows furrowed as she became increasingly concerned. “Don’t tell me that she’s—” She shook her head, turning away from the photo and Joel and you, running a hand through her greasy hair.

Joel was still processing, or at least that’s what it looked like to you. He was staring at the photo, strangely still, seeming blank of any and all emotions.

Tess paced for a moment more, before releasing a heavy breath. She walked past Joel, over to you. “Okay, c’mon.” She said, holding out a hand for you. When you hesitated, she waved her hand and barely refrained from putting it in your face. “C’mon, we’ve gotta get you out of here before Colin goes to FEDRA.” You take her hand, surprised by her strength as she hauls you to your feet in an instant, releasing you immediately. She shook her head again. “Joel, time to go.”

He looked at her, and then towards you, nodding once. You said nothing when he put the picture in his own pocket, instead of handing it back. You hesitantly followed after Tess, wondering what your next move should be, and Joel followed after the two of you, looking stricken.

∘₊✧───── ───── ───── ─────✧₊∘

None of you had said anything, the entire time Tess had hurried you through borders and to what you assumed was their apartment. It felt like it was miles away from your own.

The wallpaper was yellowed with age, slowly drooping down the walls, peeling away at corners, but it wasn’t the worst state it could’ve been in. The floral pattern didn’t really lend itself to the vibes of the apocalypse, though. Nor did it match either Tess or Joel’s stoic and tough demeanours.

You had no idea what to expect from this.

For as long as you could remember, your mother had told you tales of your father, of the great man he was, the great father he was. But here, on the other side of a worldwide outbreak of infection, you couldn’t quite match the image in front of you to the man in those stories. You had spent so long thinking of him as being dead, unable to do anything to find you or your mother from a grave, that to learn he was alive, and with Tess, it was a shock to your system.

Where was Sarah? Where was the half-sister you had heard so much about from your mother?

Despite Joel matching the name, and the photo that your mother had kept, it just didn’t feel like he was the man you had been imagining as your father. He didn’t seem kind or caring, he didn’t look like he had any love left in him. And maybe, you could have accepted that, if he had other aspects to him, if he hadn’t let your mother’s killer live.

“What happened the day of the outbreak?” You asked, finally, despite the way you ached to run away and cry, for your mother, for yourself, for the father you would never have. Joel just looked at you, rarely blinking as if you were a figment of his imagination, clenching and unclenching his jaw.

“No, we are asking you questions.” Tess responded, clearly taking the lead on the situation, despite having no connection to you. It really shouldn’t have been her business. You scoffed. “Where did you come from?” She asked you, unblinking in the face of your disbelief.

You shook your head, “How is that even relevant?”

“Because I said it is.”

“I don’t care what you say. He’s my dad. You’re not my mom.” You replied, roughly, angrily, and you’re only more irritated when Tess doesn’t even react. You become furious when Joel says nothing. “Are you going to say anything?”

Tess went to speak, but you spoke again before she could utter a word.

“Not even about how you let my mother’s killer go? You don’t have anything to say about that?” You questioned, stepping towards him where he had taken a seat on the couch in front of that god-forsaken wallpaper.

There was an awkward lull in the room, each of you waiting for Joel to speak. He seemed unsure if he was going to speak at all, his brows furrowing further, and he pulled the photo out of his pocket to look at once again.

“She died, years ago. My—my kids…” Joel swallowed, and shook his head. He placed the photo down beside him. The photo meant nothing. You could’ve been to his house, and brought it here with you, never having met the woman he hadn’t seen since the day the world fell apart.

“Did you even look for us?” You asked him, head tilting, eyes stinging, wanting desperately for him to say yes, to say he scoured the world but missed you somehow. But looking at him, covered with scars, you could see he was nothing like the man your mother remembered. He didn’t care, not like she thought he had. The man in front of you wasn’t your father — he was a disappointment. He was your father’s shell.

Joel didn’t speak, swallowing harshly, seemingly unable to form any words.

“You’re nothing like she said you were.” You told him quietly, shaking your head, reaching by his side and taking the picture. You wanted to rip his half off, throw it at him, denounce him, tell him he wasn’t your father, that he was never worthy of your mother, but you couldn’t. It was the only thing that you would ever have of the father you should’ve had. The man your mother had loved. She’d already had so much taken from her, you couldn’t, even after her death, take Joel away too. He could live on in the memory. In pictures.

They didn’t say anything when you turned your back on them, shoving the picture in your pocket, and walking out of their door. You slammed it behind you, felt the walls of their apartment tremble with the force, and kept walking.

Part of you, a big part, wished that Joel Miller would have stayed dead. At least that way, you could have kept pretending.

789 notes · View notes

depravitycentral · 1 year ago

Text

Yandere! Uvogin NSFW Profile

Yandere! Uvogin x fem! reader

Tw: mentions of non-con, masturbation, non-consensual aiding of masturbation (? not sure what to tag this but you'll see what I mean), excessive cum-play, snowballing, facials, stalking, kidnapping, mentions of degradation, exhibitionism, implied that Nobunaga jerked it to you I'm so sorry for your loss, kind of allusions to breeding but nothing explicit, fem reader, MDNI

I do not condone any of the actions described in this post - this is fiction and should be treated as such. If you or a loved one is in a similar situation to anything contained in this post or my blog in general, please seek help. You're in charge of your internet consumption; please make responsible choices. With that, enjoy!

WC: 10K

HABITS:

In general, Uvogin is no stranger to sex. He’s had his fair share of hookups over the years, and while he’s never really had a long term partner (being a criminal and always on the run makes it a bit difficult), he’s got a good, solid amount of experience under his belt.

And so, while he may be intimidating and a bit scary, there’s always plenty of drunk women at the local bars or clubs who are more than willing to take their chance at managing to take him.

And for the most part, Uvogin is completely satisfied with this – hookups and flings are fun, and he’s able to get his rocks off whenever he pleases.

However, once you step into his life, his frequent sex with strangers take an abrupt and very strict hiatus. Not only does it feel wrong to sleep with any woman besides you, he simply doesn’t find the allure anymore – if he were to sleep with anyone aside from you, he’d spend the entire time focused on all the things that are different from you rather than actually enjoying the experience.

Maybe their hair is different – yours is prettier, he thinks.

Maybe your voice is different – it’s not as annoying and shrill and whiny as the other woman’s, and Uvogin can very confidently say that he likes yours much, much more.

Maybe their body is different – your curves are different, better for him, and you’re softer and warmer and just better.

Hookups are out of the question once he really decides that he wants you – but unfortunately, the same can’t be said of his hormones. He still craves sexual contact and release, perhaps even more so now that he has you to actively imagine and think of and desire, but his tried and true method of finding someone random to relieve some pent up stress isn’t an option anymore.

And so, once his obsession develops, he finds himself masturbating much, much more often.

It’s not as nice as having a living, breathing person there to help him out, but it’s his only option – you’re not an option yet, as much as he desperately wishes you were, because while he’d give anything to sink into what he’s sure is your tight, warm, soaking wet cunt, he doesn’t want to reserve the progress he’s made in worming his way into your life all for one night of pleasure.

And so, he falls back on pleasuring himself with a bit of an aid – it’s not enough to simply fist himself and imagine your body or your sounds.

No, it’s not nearly enough – so instead, Uvogin finds a way to seamlessly involve you in his self-pleasure, all with the wonderful caveat of you having absolutely no idea of your role.

Uvogin’s already reaching for the hem of his shorts as he plops down onto the ratty couch in the living room of his current hideout. He’s quick to shimmey them down, all the way down to his ankles, only to unceremoniously kick them off to some corner of the room.

His cock is already semi-hard, the knowledge of what’s coming next unconsciously exciting him. He sighs and lets his head roll back slightly, resting on the frame of the couch, his hand sneaking down the plane of his abdomen and settling lightly over his cock.

Idly groping at his balls (just soft, teasing squeezes – nothing too serious yet, not when the action hasn’t begun), his free hand reaches to the next cushion and picks up the cheap burner phone Shalnark had provided him with last week. There’s only three numbers saved in it – Chrollo’s, Shalnark’s, and yours.

With a sharp swallow, Uvogin presses on your contact listing, listening as the familiar dial tone rings through the speakers. Your voice is surprised as you pick up, a delighted little oh, I wasn’t expecting a call from you!

It makes him bite his lip, squeezing at his balls just a bit harder.

Yeah, sorry, but I was bored and wanted to hear your voice. He smirks at the soft little sound of surprise you make at that.

Oh! Oh, sure, yeah! Okay, well, uh, how has your day been?

And although you’ve said absolutely nothing even remotely suggestive, Uvogin’s cock twitches against his forearm, making his thighs tense slightly.

Good, drank some beer and watched the hockey game, the usual. I want to hear about you, though. Tell me everything about this week, yeah?

And with that, he settles back further against the couch, truly getting comfortable as you start telling him about how this week you’ve done this and that, then this, then that…

He’s not really listening, and some part of him – the part not currently imagining the way you’d look with his cock down your throat – feels guilty about not giving you one hundred percent of his attention, but as you suddenly gasp and say oh then this happened he finds himself not caring.

Soon he’s transitioning from groping his balls to wrapping his fingers around his length, careful not to hiss into the phone receiver as he slowly, almost painfully slowly brings his fist up to his tip, squeezing a bit, then bringing it back down.

Your voice is a constant through the phone, the familiar lilt and pace of your words only slightly distorted through the device, and as he slowly works himself, he closes his eyes to listen more carefully. He likes the way you pronounce things – occasionally you say his name, and his hips jerk up a bit to fuck up into his fist each time you do, making him hold in a grunt each time.

Slowly he picks up the pace, moving his wrist a bit faster with every sentence you say, letting his eyes flutter closed again while his head lolls back slightly, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip.

He can practically imagine you here with him – the way you’d be straddling him on this couch, your soft thighs pressing against his hips, your pussy rubbing and grinding against him because you want to tease him, your hands splayed across his chest as you tell him that you want him, that you need him, that you need him to touch you and taste you and feel you and fuck you –

Uvogin? Uvogin? Are you okay? You sound like you’ve just run a marathon…

Your voice brings him back to reality, and immediately his eyes are snapping open and his hand freezes, his heavy breaths ringing through the receiver. After a beat, he swallows and reassures that he’s fine! Sorry sorry, that stupid neighbor of mine just stood outside my front door – you know how loud he breaths. Don’t worry about it, keep going. I like listening.

You seem a bit hesitant, but you keep going, and Uvogin makes sure to mute himself this time. Now he can listen to you talk and not worry about being too loud. Immediately he’s picking up where he left off, hips coming up to help fuck up into his fist, grunts and groans of your name slipping past his lips all the while you chatter on about last Wednesday.

Uvogin’s feet plant flat against the floor as he uses them for leverage to thrust up, pretending you’re perched in his lap with his cock buried between your legs, your pretty tits squished up against his chest while you gasp and moan and cry out his name, his thrusts only getting deeper and harder and stronger, the desire to truly fuck you and mold your cunt to the shape of his cock getting the better of him.

Soon he’s fully groaning out phrases into the phone, going on about how you’re so damn tight, fuck baby just like that, shit clench just like that, oh fuuuck! His hips are making an audible sound as they smack back into the couch cushions with every thrust, and with wild eyes he stares down at his lap, imagining the sight of his cock sinking into your cunt over and over, your slick spilling down your thighs and getting everything wet and sticky, the sound of his balls clapping against your ass over and over.

He's close, feeling the trace edges of his orgasm approaching, his toes beginning to curl and his abs starting to tighten and his balls starting to clench and oh –

I missed you that day, Uvogin, I wish you’d been there.

He comes with a near shout of your name, his hips pistoling into his fist as ropes of cum spurt onto his chest, his breathing heavy and uneven as he shakes, his hand trembling slightly as it grips onto the phone so tightly it nearly breaks.

You’re still speaking, but Uvogin’s not listening as he replays your words over and over in his head – you wanted him there, wanted to see him, wanted to be with him. He’s still saying your name over and over, his breathing slowly calming down as his cum slowly dribbles down his chest, and he lets a smile sit on his lips. Running a hand through his hair (still slightly stained with cum, but the euphoria swimming through his veins makes it hard to care), he swallows, saying your name one last time with a small chuckle.

Fuck, only you can make me like this, huh? You’re making me into a real loser, you know that? Fucking himself and pretending you’re here with me. God.

Soon, once he’s gotten enough of a grip on his breathing, he unmutes himself, just in time for you to finish up your report.

That’s about it, sorry for rambling! But anyways, what are you up to?

He smiles at that, giving his cock one final squeeze and licking a bit of cum off his finger.

Just wondering if you wanna get dinner tonight, how about that Italian place you were talking about the other day?

And when you agree, eventually hanging up, Uvogin can only sigh and slap his thigh.

Soon, very soon, he’s sure he won’t have to imagine anymore – soon it’ll be your hand instead of his.

Just the thought makes him groan, blood already rushing south again.

FAVORITE BODY PARTS:

Your Ass

Uvogin likes every part of you, but he’d be lying if he said he doesn’t have a special spot for your ass.

It doesn’t matter the shape or size – it’s yours, and by extension, Uvogin wants to touch It and squeeze it and grope it.

Constantly.

He’s generally a touchy person, both in and out of sexual contexts, and while his handsiness is often innocent regarding you, his hand finds its way to your backside much too often to be considered truly accidental.

He’s a bit fan of idly groping you, letting a hand wander down and give a playful squeeze, only to feel you jump a bit out of surprise.

(He’ll always send you this toothy grin afterwards, telling you that he can’t help it baby, it’s just right there and it’s so damn cute and fuck, if you could see it you’d understand.)

He likes to come up behind you and hug you, pressing himself directly against your backside – your heights likely mean that his cock doesn’t directly sit against your ass, but even feeling his legs against the soft area makes him lick his lips, already imagining the way the soft skin would feel under the rough pads of his fingers.

He likes to smack your ass when you walk by him – it’s always, always light, of course, just enough to startle you but not enough to actually hurt.

He likes the way you get irritated and swat at him, telling you with a cheeky wink and grin that you can always return the favor, babe.

And when you’re actually intimate with one another, this habit of his certainly doesn’t change – he’s always slapping your ass when he’s fucking you in doggy style, going on about how you look so pretty from this angle, all the while groping and squeezing at your poor cheeks until they’re nearly purple.

He’s always cupping your ass when you’re riding him, helping move you up and down with a palm on each cheek, squeezing and holding you so tightly you nearly have no control over your own movements.

He’ll fuck you in a prone bone position, all the while staring at how your ass jiggles with each smack of his hips against it, his fingers (that he’d intertwined with yours above your head) clutching onto yours even harder at the sight.

He’s just genuinely in love with the way your ass looks and feels, and although he wouldn’t bring it up unless you wanted to, Uvogin would love to have you sit on his face, letting your pretty ass be the only thing he sees as you grind and scoop and use him, letting his tongue brush across your clit over and over again all while he gets to admire.

(He wouldn’t even mind if you wanted to scoot forward a bit, letting your pussy rub against his chin while his tongue works diligently at the tight, taboo little hole you don’t normally let him touch. He’s sure it'll feel good, that you’ll enjoy it, that he’ll enjoy it, because it’s just another way to be close to you, another way to claim something of yours as his his his.)

Expect your ass to fondled and groped and smacked at least twice a day, if not more – he just can’t control himself, and surely you understand?

If you were as deeply obsessed and attracted to yourself as he is, you’d have to understand that he physically can’t help himself – not when you’re so goddamn tempting.

His mouth

Because Uvogin is such a pleaser in bed, he’s very quickly exploring the variety of ways he can utilize to get you off.

Of course, he likes the tried and true fucking, making you melt on his cock, but something about it feels a bit barbarian, a little bit too rough sometimes, even if he’s addicted to the feeling of your pussy.

Even his fingers are sometimes a little too much, just because you always tense up so much, your walls clamping down on him and making it difficult to move, the stretch from them alone feeling like the size of any of your previous partners.

Of course, he still likes fucking you and fingering you, but there’s something about using his mouth on you that he simply can’t get enough of.

Maybe it’s because it’s so much more intimate, like something special the two of you are sharing. He’s tasting the most private part of you, a place only a handful of people have ever gotten to see (much less taste), and something about that knowledge makes him swell with pride, a smirk settling across his lips.

Regardless, Uvogin takes every opportunity to use his mouth on you that he possibly can – the two of you are sitting on the couch while you read one of the few books he picked up for you and he watches TV, and suddenly he’s between your legs and pulling down your lounging shorts, looking up at you and licking his lips with a positively feral expression, murmuring that he’s feeling a little hungry, yeah?

Every sexual encounter between the two of almost always including Uvogin’s lips against your cunt in some capacity – he’s a very firm believer in the necessity of foreplay (particularly due to his size), and he spares no expense in making sure that you’re properly wet for him, that you’ve come at least once his tongue, that you’re as prepared and ready as possible in order to take him with minimal pain.

And Uvogin is good with his mouth, too – he’s got amazing stamina, and is able to stick with a consistent speed and tempo.

His fallback is to lick small, tight circles with medium pressure, but he’s always stealing glances up at you to check your facial expressions, adjusting anything and everything he think she needs to in order to get your eyes rolling to the back of his head.

He’ll start with light kisses spanning along your inner thighs and all around your core, pressing butterfly licks against your folds that are barely there and leave you wanting more more more.

He’ll press kisses against your clit, coming down to kitten lick and stare at you the whole time, a smirk sitting on his lips each time you bite your lip or keen.

He'll slowly add more pressure, building up the pace a bit too, until he’s licking shapes against your bud and occasionally sucking it into his mouth lightly, feeling the way your thighs tense up a bit around his head, loving the way your eyes flutter closed and you grasp onto the pillow underneath you.

He’ll occasionally dip down to lick long stripes along your folds, dipping his tongue in to tease your entrance, making lewd, obnoxious slurping noises just to hear you get embarrassed.

He loves it, and as soon as he gets to a pace he thinks you’re liking, he’ll stay down there for as long as it takes to get you coming, whether that be five minutes or an hour – it’s worth it, because when you get all doe eyed and shake and writhe and cream on his face, you look so fucking pretty, so perfect he can’t help but grind against the bed, anything to relieve some of the ache.

DRIVE:

In general, his sex drive is high. It’s always been that way, really, even before you stepped into his life – the thrill of combat and sex are two of his guiltiest pleasures, and he’s absolutely no stranger to hook ups.

He’s not unbearably horny, but he toes the line quite well, needing to get off at least two times a week in order to stay functional and sane.

So really, once his obsession with you forms, sexual thoughts revolving around you are very, very quick to follow.

Frankly, when he first realizes that he’s drawn to you, that there’s just something about you that he can’t seem to leave alone, he genuinely believes it’s simply a sexual attraction to you that’s messing with him. He rationalizes these infant stages of his infatuation with you as simply wanting to fuck you, rather than wanting to have you.

And Uvogin is a man of opportunity – he can’t not imagine stripping you bare and cupping at your tits, smacking your ass, perching you on his lap and bouncing you up and down like you’re just some glorified sex toy.

The images come quickly and startingly easily – too easily, really, because imagining all the different ways he wants to get you screaming his name and gushing for him really should’ve clued him in to the fact that his feelings for you go way beyond physical.

And eventually, once he decides that you’re more than just a hot piece of ass, he can’t just forget about the multitudes of nights he’s fantasized about spending hours with his face between your legs, or the number of times he’s soaked his fist with cum from merely thinking about how you’d look with your pretty face pressed into the mattress, his form caging you into a prone bone position while he absolutely destroys your tight little pussy.

He can’t – won’t – forget, and so as his obsession becomes richer, deeper, more hopeless, Uvogin’s sexual fantasies revolving around you become harder and harder to control and fight. Because really, how can he not imagine even more once he’s realized he’s in love with you?

Sure, he still wants to shove his cock down your throat and hear you choke and struggle with his girth, but now he also wants to trace his tip along the shape of your lips, to see your pretty eyes sparkling up at him with a few tears dotting the lashes, to feel you moan around him at his taste.

Sure, he still wants to bend you over and feel that perfect, tight little pussy of yours, but now he also wants to thrust softly and sweetly, to get deeper and brush against the spot he knows you like, to make you cry out his name rather than just scream and gasp.

The sexual fantasies are still explicit, but they’re more loving, more like making love rather than just animalistic fucking – and of course, once these thoughts develop in their entirety, Uvogin has to exercise an extreme amount of self-control to not act them out.

He’s painfully aware of the fact that you likely aren’t clamoring to sleep with him, partially because you’re infuriated at him for kidnapping you, and terrified of him because of his physical stature and criminal status.

He’s sure you don’t particularly want to be with him in a sexual way (though he hopes, desperately, that one day you will), and the last thing he wants is for you to be even more afraid of him, or to hate him even more.

And so, Uvogin won’t force himself onto you.

He won’t force you onto your knees or strip your clothing off of you or anything of the sort. He wants to, of course, so badly that it nearly drives him insane, but he won’t do it out of respect for you and a selfish desire to get you falling in love with him.

What he will do, however, is make it perfectly, abundantly clear that if you’re ever in the mood, he’s more than willing to oblige.

He’ll tell you, pretty much from the beginning of your captivity with him, that if you ever desire absolutely anything physical at all, he’ll be naked and eagerly waiting for you within seconds.

And that includes everything: simply using those massive palms of his to grope and squeeze at your breasts, calloused fingers gently rolling a nipple between them and listening to the way you sigh out.

(He’ll approach you with this particular offer when he knows your menstrual cycle is nearing, when you’re bloated and soar and desperate for any kind of reprieve – you need someone to hold those for ya, babe? They’re looking awfully heavy, and you’d be surprised how gentle these fingers can be.)

He’ll offer to finger you when you seem stressed, that grin of his wolfish and eager but also strangely genuine, as if the prospect of pleasuring you isn’t just some sexual urge and rather something he wants to do, as if it pleasures him, too.

(This offer is always accompanied with a rather showy wiggle of his fingers, making sure the veins and tendons in his hand are visibly flexing, just to try and entice you even more – and it works, because although you shake your head and tell him that you strongly pass, he can see the way your eyes are glued to his fingers, how your thighs press together ever so slightly, how you can’t hide the desire swimming in your eyes.)

He’ll offer to let you sit on his cock when you’re feeling lonely, telling you that he’ll be there the whole time, how you can’t possibly feel lonely when there’s literally someone inside of you, patting his groin – with pants barely holding back his straining erection – and telling you that he won’t try anything funny he promises.

(And he’ll stay true to that promise – it’s actual torture to not fuck up into you, to not bounce you up and down in his lap and feel the way your walls desperately clench down on him, but he holds himself back. Besides, feeling you slowly, slowly work your way down his length is a treat enough, each inch stretching you further than you though possible, your little hisses and whines and whimpers making him physically throb inside of you.)

He’ll even offer to fuck you when the mood feels right, telling you that he’s never left a partner unsatisfied, that he knows how to treat you, that he’ll be slow and gentle and soft and sweet, something that he means with every fiber of his being.

(At least, he’ll be all those things the first time he gets you naked in his arms – after that, anything goes. He can’t always be expected to control himself, after all.)

It’s mildly intrusive and will make you uncomfortable in the beginning, but as time passes and he doesn’t actually force anything onto you, merely offering, slowly your walls will start crumbling.

If you’re stuck with him, maybe it isn’t the end of the world if you get something out of the ordeal – you’re trapped with him, but does that mean you aren’t allowed an orgasm?

Sure he’s kidnapped you and keeps you locked away in a modestly furnished home, but is it really so wrong of you to accept the pleasure he seems more than happy to give you? Does that make you a bad person, or a selfish person?

With time you’ll start thinking no, that perhaps letting Uvogin eat you out for hours and bring you high after high wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world – and he’ll be very, very happy to oblige.

(And you can tell, too – the way he groans and growls against you makes it hard to ignore, as does the way something warm and wet and thick splatters against your thighs when he’s got you hovering over his chin.)

MAIN THREE KINKS:

Size Kink

Uvogin is more than aware of the size difference between the two of you.

It doesn’t matter how tall you are, or how large you are – he is bigger than you, both in stature and presence and every other measurable way. He’s a hulking figure that takes up the entire side of the dining table you share meals at, needing to wear shirts that literally fall off your frame, dominating and bigger than you in every sense of the word.

And he knows this - he’s completely aware of how you’re so small compared to him, so tiny and adorable and breakable, and when it comes to really anything between the two of you, he has a tendency to take this fact to heart, to be beyond careful in making sure that he does absolutely nothing that could ever put you in harm’s way.

Though he won’t admit it, having you hurt or afraid of him in any way is genuinely one of his worst fears, and although he knows he can do nothing to change his physical appearance, he takes care to come across as least threatening and as welcoming as possible.

And when it comes to the bedroom, Uvo is even more hyper aware, because when he’s buried inside that tight, cute little cunt of yours, his orgasm rapidly approaching, it’s almost disturbingly easy to lose control, to just pin you down and fuck the absolute shit out of you, until you’re nothing more than a quivering, split open mess below him.

He has to keep an incredible amount of focus when his orgasm looms near to make sure that he doesn’t dig his fingers into your skin too hard lest he leave bruises, or that he doesn’t fuck into you at the pace he truly wants to lest he push a little too far and tear something.

He doesn’t want to hurt you, so he tries his absolute best to keep you on top, to keep you controlling the pace and everything else in order to keep you safe and feeling good.

(Besides, he’s got a great view when you’re on top – he can see, all in the same glance, your pussy sucking in his length over and over, your breasts bouncing and jiggling, even your face all twisted up in ecstasy as you ride him as hard as you can. He’s not particularly hands-off during sex, but often he’s tempted to simply lay back with his arms crossed behind his head, content to watch your show and let your cunt bring him steadily closer to orgasm. His desire to see you gasp and stare wildly at him in shock and pleasure often outweighs this urge, however, because he almost always settles his hands on your hips and helps guide you, suddenly thrusting just a hair deeper into you and hearing your cry of a-ah Uvo too deep!)

However, that isn’t to say that Uvogin doesn’t enjoy the size difference between the two of you – on the contrary, he thinks it’s beyond cute, that it’s adorable just how tiny you are in comparison to him.

And while the fear that he could hurt you is very much omnipresent, he can’t deny how it makes his heart race and blood pump to his cock when he sees how just one of his hands engulfs your entire thigh, how you struggle to straddle him because his waist is just so muscular and wide, how your breast is completely engulfed by his palm when he roughly fondles and kneads at it.

It’s endearing in a way, how cute and small you are beside him, and even more obvious when you have your hands wrapped around his cock, your fingers not able to close completely around his girth.

Seeing you struggle so much to simply jerk him off makes Uvo smug, a smirk falling across his face while he groans, little murmurs of your name tumbling past his lips while you work at him, trying desperately to get him to come, to get him to tell you how you’re a good girl, fuck look at your hands, ngh wanna – gonna stretch out that tiny little cunt with this fat cock, you want that?

It’s most definitely a guilty pleasure, something that makes him feel big and strong and important, and in the context of your sexual relationship, there’s just simply no way to get around the fact that Uvogin quite literally towers over you.

(Especially when you’re on your knees, staring up at his imposing stature and the large, swollen, veiny cock sitting at eye level, his voice teasing as he tells you to go on, it won’t bite, I promise. Only I do that.)

Praise

Generally Uvogin isn’t particularly derogatory in bed. He’s not a big fan of degradation in general, both in and out of the bedroom, partially because he’s not a naturally mean person (aside from the criminal activity and murder, of course), and partly because he really does cherish and love you. He thinks you’re beautiful and perfect and everything he could want in a woman, and his honesty bars him from ever saying anything to the contrary.

He doesn’t want to tell you that you’re just a slut, that you’re a hole for him to fuck, that you should stay quiet and let him get what he wants – he wants you, in more ways than one. He loves you, in his own twisted, fucked up way, and he wants your time in bed together to reflect that sentiment.

And so, Uvogin falls on the opposite side of the spectrum from degradation – that is, there’s a nearly overwhelming amount of praise in the bedroom.

Comments about how pretty you are or how good at something you are constantly slip past his lips, his voice gruff and low as he tells that you look so damn pretty on your knees baby.

He’s got a compliment or praise ready for every possible situation in bed – you’re undressing, struggling to get the giant shirt Uvogin had forced you into this morning up over your head? He’s chuckling, grinning, slapping your ass and telling you that you’re so damn cute, princess, makes me go crazy when you wear my shit.

You’re kissing him, pinned below him with your wrists over your head? He’s licking his lips as he pulls back, planting kisses against your neck and telling you that you taste so good, you’re so fucking pretty.

You’re biting your lip and carding your fingers through your hair as he sucks and playfully bites at your nipples? He’s burying his face between your breasts and vigorously shaking it, laughing and telling you that these tits are so perfect babe, god I always wanna touch ‘em and kiss ‘em, how about no more bras around the house? Or maybe no more shirts at all – don’t expect me to control myself, yeah?

You’re sinking to your knees while he sighs and grabs the base of his cock, running his tip over your lips while he stares down at you? He’s telling you that you look so pretty babe, can’t wait to see these lips with my cum on them instead.

You’re perched on his lap, his tip barely nestled inside you while you wince and bite your lip? He’s running soothing hands up your sides, cooing at you that you’re doing so good baby, ‘m so proud of you, fuck you’re tight, feels so damn good.

You’re on your hands and knees, chest and face pressed in the mattress while he mounts you from behind, hips flush with yours and pummeling into you with no mercy? He’s leaning all the way over you and growling into your ear that you’re mine, babe, fuck don’t you ever forget, god this pussy is so good, y’so damn tight and wet, gonna make me come baby, you want that? Yeah? You want my cum?

You’re underneath him, tits bouncing every which way and body physically thrusting back and forth as he fucks into you with a sturdy hand pressing right over your naval? He’s laughing breathlessly, using his free hand to push back his hair and telling you to take it baby, fuck yeah just like that, you look so damn hot like this.

Even when he’s in the middle of coming, thick spurts of white shooting from his swollen, red tip, he’s praising you – telling you that you take him so well, that you always take – fuck, take it all, look so damn pretty with my cum in you.

He just genuinely believes that you’re beautiful, and because he’s naturally quite talkative, this shows in the bedroom – he can’t not comment on how you look, how you feel, how smell, how you taste.

It would be wrong to not let you know how much he’s enjoying being with you, how badly he’s dreamed of fucking you, or how long he’s dreamed of touching you – so really, even if his constant praise embarrasses you, you’d best get used to it. He won’t stop, and if you were to return the favor?

Well, his ego isn’t particularly fragile, but he can’t deny how it affects him any time you moan out about how good he feels or how big he is or how you’re close – oh god, ‘m gonna come, oh god Uvo Uvo Uvo-!

He can’t deny the way his cock jumps, how it twitches and pulses and oozes out precum at just hearing your voice and words, hearing his name and feeling the way your body seizes up all because of him him him.

He’s a sucker for it, so expect sex with him to be loud and full of compliments – even if they’re a little vulgar sometimes (fuck babe, these tits – I wanna fuck ‘em, get them all messy and covered in my cum fuuuck-) or oddly specific (god you taste good, those panties of yours don’t even come close…).

He just can’t help himself, so get used to it – he won’t stop, even if you beg him to.

Cum play

He’s possessive, and it shows in the bedroom.

He’s always got a hand on your body, hickeys bruising your throat, collarbone or inner thighs, handprints decorating your ass, or even a light bite mark here and there along your thighs and stomach.

He likes the concept of claiming you and physically showing that you’re his, and while this presents itself in normal ways like previously mentioned, Uvogin’s favorite form of showcasing that you belong to him is by getting his cum absolutely everywhere on your body.

He produces an insane amount of it with every orgasm – it just keeps coming, spurt after spurt shooting from his swollen tip and landing on your body or the sheets underneath you, all the while he’s groaning and his hips are involuntarily thrusting, making everything even more messy.

His orgasms last easily twenty seconds, with a constant stream of white, and Uvogin loves nothing more than to absolutely paint you with it.

When your hands – so small and cute and soft compared to his calloused skin – are wrapped around him, pulling and tugging, the slick sound of spit and lube clicking in his ears, he’ll give a warning of here it comes, shit baby take it – and immediately your hands are covered in it, pools of cum dribbling down onto your fingers, slipping down your wrist and leaving everything sticky and wet and warm, Uvogin’s chest rising and falling with both the force of his orgasm and the sight of his cum against your skin.

(He’ll always grab your hands afterwards, slipping your fingers into his mouth one by one and licking away his cum, only to kiss you afterwards and push it all into your mouth, entertained by your surprised sound and the way you squirm against him.)

When you’re struggling to fit him into your mouth, only able to take the first few inches and leaving your hands to deal with the rest, he’ll dig his fingers into your hair and hold you there, biting his lip and telling you to swallow every last fucking drop, don’t wanna see any wasted babe before letting go, listening to the way you gag and eagerly swallow everything he’s giving you.

He’ll pull away with harsh breaths, watching the way you eagerly suck in air, your lips wet and glistening with spit and cum, your tongue still painted a white color.

(Sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly possessive, he’ll instead pull back right before letting go, telling you to stay sitting on your knees while he stands, fisting his cock at a near inhuman speed before pointing it right at your face, letting go and watching as ropes land across your cheeks, nose, lips and forehead, your entire face streaked with him in a way that makes his knees weak. Often, he’ll shake his cock a bit right at the end, eager to get every little bit out and onto you, groaning in satisfaction when the last, weakest little spurt lands right on your outstretched tongue. He’ll lean in closer and smear the cum across your skin even more, his voice sounding genuinely awed as he tells you that you’re so damn beautiful baby, fuck, get on the bed, I need to fuck you. Now.)

He loves to have you take his cock between your breasts, regardless of their size – he wants you suckle on his tip and rub your skin against him, feeling your pebbled nipples and the soft plush.

When he gets close, he’ll pull back and finish himself off, having you lay on your back while he straddles your waist, painting your breasts white and paying special attention to smear it across your nipples, pinching and twisting and pulling at them.

And even when he’s actually inside you, his penchant for being picky about where his cum goes doesn’t change – nine times out of ten he will come inside you, pushing his hips all the way the hilt so that he can finish as deeply as possible, the groan he lets out sending pleasure racing up your spine.

You can often literally feel it inside of you – something warm and wet filling you up, his cock spasming with every spurt, his balls clenching and tightening against your ass as he whispers your name under his breath.

(Most of the time, there’s simply too much to keep inside of you – it just never seems to end, and eventually there’s some dribbling out of you, smearing against your folds and dripping down the curve of your ass, sometimes even leaving a small pool against the bedsheets. Uvogin is equal parts proud and irritated when this happens, though – proud because god, you look perfect with his cum leaking out of you, but irritated because all of that really should be inside of you, not wasted and sitting on the bed. So, he'll scoop it up with his fingers, pushing it back inside you and fucking it up into you until he’s satisfied, the wet shmucking noise making him grin.)

Sometimes, though, he’ll pull out right at the last minute and instead come onto your cunt, letting the white settle against your inner thighs and coat your folds, leaving everything in a layer of opaque cream as he growls out your name.

He’ll often have you keep your legs spread even after he’s finished, moving closer to peer at his handiwork, getting so close and staring so hard that you inevitably get embarrassed, especially when he uses both thumbs to spread your folds and watch the cum dip down inside, even a few drops dribbling down inside you, the sight making him inexplicably satisfied.

Really, Uvogin just likes seeing you with his cum – whether it’s on you or inside you, he will find a way to incorporate it – it helps quell his possessiveness, and he can’t deny that the sight just looks so right, like something carnal and primal and natural.

(Unfortunately, though, he is a bit sensitive about you trying to clean it up – he often won’t let you shower after sex, telling you that it's better if you keep it on you or in you, and if you were to complain about it, he’ll just grab a pair of your panties and force them up your legs, the mess he’d left between them soaking into the fabric and making them damp every time you sit down or move. Again, don’t try to fight it – you won’t win, and Uvogin will often reach down between your legs just to ensure that you haven’t cleaned up – it’s a waste, he’d say, and he knows his girl isn’t wasteful.)

OTHER NOTABLE KINKS INCLUDE:

Overstimulation

In general, Uvogin loves to please you.

He’s by no means submissive, but there’s something about bringing you pleasure and watching you fall apart for him that gets him harder than he’s ever been, all the blood rushing to his cock so quickly it nearly makes him dizzy.

He just loves the way you look on the brink of an orgasm, how you look at him with such wide eyes and need, how you clutch onto him and chant his name over and over. He likes how your hips twitch and jerk in his grasp, how he has to physically hold you still so that he can keep his tongue working over your clit or his fingers thrusting into you.

It’s addicting, honestly, in some ways even better than his own orgasms – and so, Uvogin finds himself making it a priority every time he gets you naked that you find your high, unwilling to stop until you come at least once.

And that’s really the key – at least, because any given sexual encounter with Uvogin generally results in you having at least three orgasms. He absolutely loves to overstimulate you – watching you come is one of his favorite sights, those dark eyes of his always hyperfixated on your pretty face as you fall apart, and the face you make when he doesn’t stop?

When he keeps his fingers on that cute clit of yours, still rubbing and pressing and making you feel good even as you gasp and whine about how it’s too much?

Well, it makes Uvogin grin, pearly teeth on display as he tells you to take it baby, be a good girl for me, yeah?

He likes the way you squirm and beg for him, your legs shaking like crazy and your abdomen visibly clenching and unclenching.

He likes the way you get so sensitive and grasp onto him like he’s your lifeline, pushing him to get you off twice, three times, four times, sometimes even five in a single session.

Of course, he likes seeing you pleasured, but there’s a bit of selfishness at play too – because when you’re holding him so tightly and moaning out in that perfect voice of yours please – please Uvogin (he’s not sure whether you’re begging for him to stop or for more – and he suspects you’re not sure either), how can he not feel utterly self-satisfied?

How can he not feel like a good lover, not feel like your dependence on him is growing more and more with each orgasm?

He views it as a good way to simultaneously get you a trembling mess for him and to also solidify your growing feelings for him - plus, he gets to lick his fingers clean of your wonderful taste while also getting to sink himself inside your soaking wet, twitching, hypersensitive cunt already practically milking him for everything he’s got…

It doesn’t take him long to come after that, and the sight of you exhausted, twitching, and leaking thick, white globs of cum is positively droolworthy.

Femdom

But in a very specific way – you’ll never be truly in charge in bed with him, if only because there’s not a single submissive bone in Uvogin’s body.

Sex with him is under his terms and conditions, but he’s generous enough to care about your pleasure and your desires, too.

That said, Uvo is incredibly entertained by your attempts at dominating him – it’s not necessarily hot or attractive, but it’s incredibly endearing and sweet, and serves to make his heart melt and his cock swell with the knowledge that eventually he will be shattering this fragile illusion of control you’re creating.

He likes when you get on top of him, your poor hips struggle to straggle the expanse of his own, his cock pressing harshly and insistently against your ass while you bite your lip and steel yourself.

He likes the way you try to move his arms over his head forcefully (you aren’t actually moving them, even if you think you are – he’s letting you, manually moving them for you, letting you believe that you’re doing it when it reality it’s all him), seeing the way your eyes light up and your thighs squeeze around his hips tighter.

He likes the way you lean down to kiss him, your tongue rushing into his mouth, your kisses noticeably more aggressive than usual but still nothing particularly dominant.

And yet, Uvogin lets you take the lead, letting you control the pacing, the angle, everything just to maintain this illusion of dominance.

He’ll let you tie the blindfold around his head, limiting his vision but not hindering any of his other senses, conveniently forgetting to mention to you that he can still feel your every breath, hear your every movement, practically taste what you’re going to do next.

He’ll let you slowly sink down onto his length, pulling back every few moments to tease his length and leave him wanting more.

Uvogin will take it all in stride, entertained at the way you try to be dominant and in control, only to shatter it once he decides you’ve had your fun, once you pull off of him one too many times and leave his cock wet, throbbing and needing your pussy so badly it hurts –

It’s not hard to rip his wrists out of the dingey bindings you’d placed them in earlier, fingers immediately digging into the plush of your hips to force you back down onto him, setting a brutal pace combined with his own thrusting hips and moving your body up and down so that every brush of his cock into you leaves you gasping, panting for air because it’s all so unexpected and he’s just so deep and big and god…

You can try being dominant all you want, because he finds it entertaining and endearing, but know that at the end of the day you will be the one at his mercy, your body simply his to toy with and tease as he sees fit.

BIGGEST FANTASY:

It's no secret that Uvogin is possessive – you’ll learn this from the very moment you become aware of his feelings for you. He firmly, whole-heartedly views you as his, just as he is yours.

And in the context of your sexual relationship, this mindset of his is only more apparent, more blatantly obvious with the way he clutches onto you and tells you how much he loves his little pussy between your legs, the way he leaves bruises on your hips and ass from smacking you or holding on just a bit too tight while he’s fucking you, or even sinking his teeth lightly into the flesh of your shoulder so that you’re marked as his.

It satisfies the intense desire he feels to keep you by his side and away from everyone else, all with the added benefit of getting you writhing and moaning his name.

And so, most of Uvo’s fantasies in the bedroom tend to branch off from his possessiveness – specifically, while it would be unlikely to happen, he desperately, desperately, wants to fuck you in a semi-public space so that his fellow Troupe members can hear.

He wants them to hear you screaming his name, your pleas and cries sounding like music to his ears and showing them exactly who gets to touch you, who makes you feel good, who’s allowed to dump fresh, potent cum in your cute little hole.

It makes him giddy, genuinely, excitement brewing in his chest because he loves the idea of publicly claiming you, about making sure that everyone knows that you’re his, that every part of you belongs to him.

He likes everyone knowing that only he gets to touch you and make you moan and scream, that it’s only ever his name that’ll be leaving those pretty lips of yours.

Plus, this fantasy fulfills that possessive urge without actually letting other people see you – he can’t stomach the thought of any of his fellow Troupe members actually seeing your naked body or the way you look at the height of your pleasure – Shizuku can’t ogle like she does, Shalnark can’t fist his cock to the sight of your tits bouncing, and even Franklin can’t swallow and ghost a hand over his crotch at the sight of your body taking his too-big cock.

It’s perfect, a fantasy that he’s harbored since the early days of his infatuation with you – and while it’ll take a while for him to actually act out, he wants nothing more than to utterly claim you all while his friends can hear.

“You gonna scream for me baby?” Uvogin grunts, his hips snapping into yours just a bit harder.

Everything feels like too much – he’s holding you up against the wall, the cold brick digging into your back just mixing with the onslaught of pleasure his cock is giving you, bullying its way inside you and leaving you clenching down on him with every thrust. He’s so big – stretching you out nearly past your limits, making you drool and moan and shake, thoroughly destroying you long before he’s even bothering to reach for your clit.

You’re a mess already, and Uvogin knows it. It makes him smirk, staving off his own orgasm in favor of making sure he fucks you just right, just to make sure the rest of the Troupe can hear you on the other side of the wall.

“I can’t hear you.” He growls, burying his face in your neck and biting his lip to hold his release at bay. It’s hard to – you’re so damn tight and warm around him, and each time he pushes just the tiniest bit deeper inside you, you squeeze up like a vice, massaging and pulsing around him so well that it makes his knees weak.

“Fuck, Uvo Uvo Uvo Uvo -!” You’re chanting his name, the words slurred together and sounding strained, and it only makes him thrust into you harder, enough force landing on each push of his hips that it physically gets you bouncing, even mid-air.

He can hear faint, muffled talking from the other side of the wall, and it only makes him bare his teeth, lightly biting the shell of your ear. His fingers dig into your thighs, his grip on them firm and tight.

“Shit baby, tell them who’s fucking you like this,” He starts, only to cut himself off with a groan when you clench down on him particularly hard. His hips stutter for just a moment, and you claw at his back at the sensation.

“It – it’s you, Uvogin!” Your voice is strained and slurred, and it makes Uvogin grin.

“Who’s cock is this perfect little pussy taking? Who’s it belong to, huh?” His voice is gravely and deep, husky and making your toes curl as your eyes roll to the back of your head.

“Uvogin Uvogin Uvogin!” You’re practically screaming at this point, and he hears a dull thud from the next room over.

He barks out a laugh and buries his face into your neck, forcing his hips to go faster, harder, deeper, anything to get you louder.

And it’s working – you’re physically trembling, hips twitching and jerking wildly in his grasp, a non-sensical slurry of words spilling from your lips that make his heart and cock ache, each sound you make sending him closer and closer to his end.

“Tell me what you want baby, fuck fuck fuck, tell me where you want it.”

“Inside! Please Uvo, inside, need it inside me –“ You’re blabbering, but he doesn’t mind. A finger comes down to roughly press circles against your sensitive clit, and your reaction is immediate – you tense up, every muscle in your body seizing up as the pleasure mounts and mounts, his hips never stilling and drilling into that spot inside you over and over and over again –

You come with a scream of his name, your cunt fluttering wildly around him, squeezing and pulsing and massaging him in a way that gets his knees scarily close to buckling, his own orgasm right on the brink as he presses you even tighter against the wall, leaving no space to breath as he literally fucks you into the brick.

“Don’t you dare stop,” He warns you, each word punctuated by a sharp thrust.

Another loud bang comes from the other side of the wall, and Uvogin freezes for just a moment as he hears the faintest sound of panting, of someone cursing under their breath, of something muttering out an oh fuck…

He comes with a loud groan of your name, spurts of warm, thick cum settling inside you and making you cry out again, the sound music to his ears. A muffled groan sounds from the other side of the wall, and pride swims in Uvo’s gut as he watches you try to recover, your body shaking and your lips all swollen from biting them. He kisses you, hard, his tongue slipping into your mouth immediately, before helping you stand on your own and paddle to the bathroom to clean up.

Once the shower starts running, Uvogin sighs and slips out the door, walking into the other room with a smirk spread across his lips. Feitan, Phinks and Nobunaga all look at him, the first with a disgusted look, the second with a noticeable blush, and the third with dazed eyes, clearly in the aftershocks of his own pleasure.

Uvogin laughs, settling a hand on his hip. “Like what you heard, huh?”

Nobuanga nods, Phinks’s blush only settles deeper, and Feitan snorts.

Uvogin’s smile drops at that, his nen flaring up. “Too bad you’ll never even touch her.”

His cock twitches at the mere thought, and soon he’s sliding open the glass door of the bathroom, pressing your chest against the tile wall, determined to see if his friends can still hear you over the sound of the rushing water.

#yandere hxh #yandere hunter x hunter #yandere uvogin #hxh smut #_hxh #_uvogin #_lee's profiles

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hitlikehammers · 9 months ago

Text

bring him home

rating: t ♥️ cw: Eddie in the Upside Down,; Steve on what he thinks is a retrieval mission for his body (it's not); Eddie Munson Lives; Kas!Eddie (ish) ♥️ tags: established relationship, secret pre-S4 relationship, post-S4, presumed dead (Eddie), mourning and heartbreak (Steve), happy ending (because Eddie is alive, ofc), soul-deep love

for @steddielovemonth day twenty-four: Love is the only thing we can take with us (@thefreakandthehair)

oh hey look, another day I didn't intend to write at all ♥️ but then @pearynice was intrigued by a stray half-baked idea and I struggle to not at least try to provide content in such instances ♥️

He’s only thought it since, since, but he’s actually kind of grateful no one knew. That no one could even have guessed. They’re on eggshells around him enough as it is, thinking it’s the loss, finally, that he couldn’t walk them back from, couldn’t recover them allfrom safe if not wholly sound. They think he’s dealing with survivor’s guilt or just the general blow of a failure so immense, maybe long overdue: and that’s probably part of it.

But only because it’s part of the bigger thing. The real loss.

They would have been together nearly ten fucking months, y’know; the better part of a whole goddamn year since that day at the mall, eyes catching and something just…clicking. Like the barest whisper breathing this could be something into the universe for them to catch if they wanted, and for all that’s still good in the world they both wanted, beyond any kind of logic they both fucking reached.

And Steve knows he’s worrying everyone, knows Joyce cooks for him because she’s sacred for him, knows Claudia bakes for the very same reason; he knows Robin’s gone back to biting her nails over him, and he hates that, he hates it but, like: Steve feels like he left his soul in that hellscape with the man he’d wrapped up in it; knows he left his heart there, because he gave it to that same man ages ago and never ever considered taking it back—and he’s kind of just a, a shell, now, and it’s good that they all think Steve’s just fucked up over the lost, over-inflated savior complex, Rob had muttered more than once and sure, fine—let them think that’s all it is.

It means he can plan without interference.

It means he can drive to the last oozing rift in the world with axes he found in the garage, a crowbar he grabbed at The War Zone—which he knows because he found a receipt, not because he can remember going, driving, paying; he fucking can’t—a fucking tire lift that he things is better suited to trucks than his Beemer but that’s why he needs it: he need to rip open the earth beneath his feet because maybe his heart died down there with the boy he loves in ways he didn’t know he could, not until he found those reserves of feeling inside him well up for the fact of him and maybe it’s too later for his heart, and maybe his soul’s locked in as a funeral shroud but godadmn it all—

Steve needs to bring Eddie’s body home.

Dropping through he fissure in the ground is second nature, like something calling him through the break and that feel right, because the Upside Down for what it is alone is somewhere Steve never wants to be, never wants to touch: but what it holds now what it stole from him and claimed and kept: Steve wants that back beside him, it doesn’t matter how. Cold, torn, broken, gone—Steve’s already those things himself. Now he’s just a raw nerve, but if that nerve could go numb, could freeze for so much pain, so much abuse and hurt. He feels more for the knowledge of how much things should destroy him; he thinks his body is more of an echo chamber, a void that moves but isn’t…there anymore.

Is here, because he left the best of him, the whole of him here, and he—it creaks in his knees when he hits the ground on the other side, shoots up his spine from the bones of him on contact; it should hurt, it should hurt but he can’t feel so much, and he needs to get his bearings, needs to orient, needs to figure where he is and the quickest way to Forest Hills, to where Eddie—

He can’t feel shit when he’s got a purpose, here: the first he’s had in weeks.

He moves to stand, gets to his feet at—

It’s unexpected, how much he feels the impact that knocks him back down, the weight that pushes him to the ground again and covers him, snarls at him, breathes hot and violent against his jaw, against his neck, and Steve—

Steve’ll die here, that’s clear from the hiss above him, the way he’s pinned like prey, like a meal, and the only thought he really has, in all honesty, is he’ll die here.

But he already died here, so it just feels kinda anticlimactic.

The panting against him keeps up, but it…it doesn’t go anywhere, it doesn’t become other, or more—there’s no teeth, no clawing or biting or ripping him apart, draining him dry. He doesn’t think he was afraid for any of it, exactly; his heart’s pounding but it feels distant, other and something far from him, disconnected: not a part of his shell-self, so he thinks that’s just ingrained, just an automatic response to a demo-something, probably, sizing up its meal but like, it’s not doing anything and Steve, Steve doesn’t…he’s not invested, exactly, he doesn’t even think he cares, but—

He squints his eyes open the barest crack where he’d instinctively squeezed them shut and he looks, expects the toothy petals, or even a veiny body; he looks and—

“Eddie?”

Oh, good. Heart, soul: may as well add losing his fucking mind to this place, too, third time’s a goddamn charm.

Because it’s not Eddie, it can’t be…it can’t be Eddie, and—

Not-Eddie leans into him, presses onto him full-bodied, hips to chest, thighs spread to hold him down like he’s going anywhere because, because…

Steve feels that. He feels the pressure, he feels pain where this body drags against scrapes in Steve’s skin, he feels his heart pounding, Jesus fucking Christ, that fucking hurts, but he looks at the face that’s looming over him, tipped to the side like it’s asking a question, like it’s considering Steve below, and it: the bones are sharper, the skin more pale, more drawn up tight and pulled—the eyes are red, bright like when the lighting cuts the sky, here, but everything else…

“Eddie, oh god,” Steve doesn’t want to question it, Steve doesn’t want to keep his mind if the alternative is moments with some version of Eddie whose breath he can feel again, it’s, he’s;

“Eds,” he chokes, and Eddie’s got him wholly pinned down, he can’t reach for Eddie’s face to cup it, to cradle it, so he lets his breath catch, his lungs hitch, lets the tears burn on their way from his eyes in streams as he twitches his fingers, stretches the tips to brush Eddie’s palm where he holds Steve down and—

Eddie stills, and his eyes narrow, and…

And if Steve has to die here, again: let it be at Eddie’s hands. Let it be maybe for Eddie’s…benefit, he’s wellbeing, however he survives here. Let it be for Eddie.

Always for Eddie.

But then Eddie: Eddie doesn’t let him up, still lean into Steve from the middle, but—he buries his head at Steve’s neck, and breathes in so deep, Steve gets to close his eyes and soak in the feeling of his chest rising into Steve’s own: strong.

Real.

“Known,” Eddie murmurs, shakes his head like he’s trying to shoo a fly, but then a shiver trembles through the whole of him, Steve can trace its trajectory where Eddie’s held against him, and then Eddie growls—it’s not a wholly new sound but it’s deeper, more animal in it than Steve’s ever heard and then he bites out through bared teeth: “Known.”

Then he draws back from Steve’s neck, studies him shrewdly, a little hesitant, like he’s unsure of whatever’s happening to him, in him: then he nods, chews at his lower lip in a painfully familiar move before his hands leave Steve’s wrists and he’s—

“Known.”

He’s tracing Steve’s cheekbones, the line of his jaw; he’s running his nose against the slope of Steve’s, he’s…it’s like he’s tracing him, and he does it so gentle, he almost like he anticipates it, he’s—

“Known,” and Eddie’s fucking…it’s not a growl this time but somehow whatever it is, is deeper, stronger, and he mouths at Steve’s neck again but instead of breathing him in, he’s sucking at the lines of his arteries down the sides, up and down, and then he follows the blood to the sounds, groans at a pitch Steve’s never heard before but it’s still, it’s sill Eddie, and—

“Hurt?” Eddie mouths at his chest through the layers of his clothes, sounds mournful, stills as he considers something, intent with it before his head pops up, those red eyes so wide and aching as his hands tap against Steve’s arms, frantic and—

Oh.

Oh; they’re tapping out Steve’s heartbeats to every racing clench-give echoing through his ribs and Eddie moans, almost wails, then—

“Hurt,” and he looks frantic, his eyes wild, and his mouth dropped open, bereft and seeking and oh, oh: Eddie thinks his heart’s pounding because he’s hurt, because he’s in pain and kinda, a little bit but not like that and—

“No,” Steve’s quick to try and soothe, even if his voice is barely a rasp; “no, no,” and his wrists are free to he reaches, covers Eddie’s hands and links their fingers together, feels something in him reanimate, come straight back into being just for that touch, and that it’s warm:

“Happy,” Steve gasps, and squeezes Eddie’s hands with force, with feeling; “happy, to see you,” and he closes his eyes in something like relief when Eddie’s mouth stills against his chest again; sighs when Eddie nuzzles there, like he always did, like he belongs because he always belongs.

“So fucking happy,” Steve breathes, and he feels weightless; wonders if he died. If he hit the ground and snapped his neck. If the impact was a monster and not the love of his life, somehow saved from ruin just to save Steve back in kind.

“Mine,” Eddie whispers, a little bit of a hiss for the feeling in it, the intensity sewn in as he mouths around the beat of Steve’s blood: that’s what he means. That’s his, that and everything it powers, everything it lends life.

His.

He pulls back, and Steve bites back a whimper for the loss before Eddie’s eyes find his and he looks…he looks lost, then, grasping, in need as he almost begs, like the answer is the end of all things:

“Mine?”

He lifts one of their joined hands—he doesn’t disentangle them, and fuck if Steve’s ever letting go—but he lifts them to Steve’s chest and holds there, presses down and looks pointedly at the way his palm covers Steve’s heart, looks up in askance, up and down, there and back over and again, more desperate every time and Steve tightens his fingers around Eddie’s and nods, just nods because his voice is gone, his throat’s too tight, he’s—

But Eddie sees it. Eddie understands because Eddie…

Eddie always understands what Steve can’t say.

“Mine,” he exhales like it’s the answer to the universe, like it’s proof of god and the devil, like it’s more than air to breathe and Steve’s…

Steve doesn’t even know what he is. Except: he’s alive.

He died before he left here last time, and now somehow he’s alive. “Known, s’known,” Eddie mutters, shakes his head slow and pins his gaze on different parts go Steve’s body, touches and looks up to Steve like it serves as confirmation just to meet his gaze, to watch him blink; “know, know,” and Eddie bends again, mouths at his chest and inhales sharp as he rips out, almost feral: “mine,” and then something in him gives, and he falls to Steve’s chest and Steve’s heart skips, the terror in him tangible, but he throws out his hands, lets Eddie’s grasp go to hold Eddie up and Eddie panting, gasping, something has to be wrong—

“St,” Eddie’s voice is sandpaper rough, but…but full somehow and Steve can’t name what it is, save that it makes him feel warm, from the inside, in a way he’d thought was gone forever. It prickles at his eyes and he doesn’t fight the tears:

“Ste,” Eddie coughs a little, and then he looks up, brow furrowed and muscles tight as he locks his eyes on Steve’s and grits out:

“Steve?”

And those eyes: those eyes meet Steve’s now—color in them, that depthless nightshade, drenched in that deep warm chocolate shade: Steve’s breath catches. His heartbeat skips again, but wholly different, and it looks, it feels like a weight’s been lifted; a spell’s been broken. And somehow, somehow even before anything shifted, somehow Eddie, his Eddie, he—

Whatever’s happened, whatever’s been done to him: somehow, deeper than any of it, he kept the love.

“Steve.”

Eddie’s voice shakes and he drops his weight again but this time when he presses against Steve it’s to wrap him close, to hold him a little clumsy, a whole lot desperate, and it…it feels like maybe Steve’s soul where it’s wrapped around Eddie? Like maybe he gets a little bit of it back; like maybe he can inhale and it could mean something again.

Eddie only draws back to tuck his head under Steve’s chin, to dip lower and put his lips to the center of Steve’s chest, to breathe there, like life into the heart of him again and fuck, but he feels it.

He kinda doesn’t need to know anything more, doesn’t need to have any more answers to know whatever this is, whatever Eddie needs: they’ll figure it out. Eddie’s lips are on his chest. His heart’s a mallet against Eddie’s mouth, beats up into the warm rush of his breath: there. Real.

Steve feels it.

also on ao3 🖤

tag list (comment to be added): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson

♥️

divider credit here

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #hurt/comfort #established relationship #kas!eddie #established steddie #pre-S4 relationship #presumed dead #(but obviously NOT)#happy ending #steve mounts a one-man rescue/retrieval mission because he's heartbroken #eddie recognizes the love of his life because in light of everything he HELD ONTO THAT LOVE #steddielovemonth #love is the only thing we can take with us #stranger things

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f1ghtsoftly · 2 months ago

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my head is scrambled but in Kate Manne’s “The Logic Of Misogyny” she put to words something I always, always knew was true.

Most of the time Men don’t hurt women for no reason, they punish women who assert themselves/their personhood. Misogynistic violence is a punishment, it’s a form of conditioning to get women to behave submissively towards men. To punish women for existing in public without male protection. To punish women for daring to think her intellect, athletic or artistic achievement could come before her sex.

I don’t present super femme anymore or hang around men outside my family basically ever-but when I did I was frequently targeted for sexual assault, usually by men who were frustrated they were attracted to me but couldn’t have me. They felt like I was taunting them-but asserting my right to exist as someone they were attracted to/without any sort of male protection or a male protection that didn’t involve sexual favors/submission. That wasn’t an accident, I’m sure if I meekly cowered behind a big boyfriend, I’m sure if I stayed inside, I’m sure if I didn’t assert myself as extraverted, intelligent, funny or charismatic those men would have left me alone-but that would have meant hiding myself from the world, hiding myself from other women and to me that was a bigger loss than a ‘lil danger. I made choices as a young person that I knew with certainty would bring me in closer proximity to men who wanted to hurt me, I decided that living a freer life was better than living a safe one. I don’t necessarily regret my assessment of patriarchy, I am sad that the price you pay for being an independent woman (in a social sense) in public is assault. I don’t blame women who think their safety is more important than making a statement. I’m sad for us both. I’m grateful I was able to find feminist communities because victimization isn’t just something casual you can shake off, even if it feels like men constantly target you/women in general.

Assault doesn’t just roll of your back either. It hurts. In the moment and for years afterwards it hurts. It’s always senseless. Always dehumanizing to the extreme. Always enraging. Always profoundly violating. Always a shock. I struggle to reconcile what I know about rape with what I know about people. I know people can be cruel, unthinking, insecure. I don’t know how someone can plot the rape of a friend or a stranger who has done nothing to deserve it. I don’t know how men can secretly tape their lovers, manipulate a young woman into sex she doesn’t want or do any of the things men do consistently or routinely. I don’t know how a boy could look at the face of his too drunk friend and go “this is my opportunity to have my way with her” instead of putting her to bed. Carelessness, thoughtless is easy to imagine. Conscious cruelty is not. Men know what they do and they either don’t care or like it.

I’m crying in a park in my Dad’s pickup truck. “There are worse things than this, you didn’t die-you’re alive” He says “this wasn’t your fault, I just want to keep you safe and what happened to you isn’t something I can control even though I wish I could”. “I’d feel better if you lived in Austin, because their self defense laws are better, there are lots of gay people there too”

He makes me laugh. I won’t move to Texas. He’s right, it’s not my fault, and helping me get better at self defense helps him feel like he can do something and while self defense does help-it’s not a perfect strategy. The misogynist’s prerogative is to snuff out the life force of the woman he interacts with, the only way to stop him from trying to do that is to become apart of the living dead. Even then, he’ll get your corpse.

There are worse things than rape in this life. A woman alive is better than a woman dead. I guess, but what life is it when constantly forced to battle for your right to live? When at a moments notice you can be filled from the inside out with death. Rotted from your insides out. I wish New York would let me have a gun. I wish I could make men afraid and polite in my presence the way I feel afraid and polite in theirs. I’m so tired of this.

#radblr #char on char

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ikilledyvette · 2 months ago

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(Realized I was never gonna finish this long ass 9-1-1 fic before the premiere, so today I’m doing the seriously condensed version for Tumblr—which I still have to break into two parts, ffs.)

It’s Thursday afternoon, three days before Father’s Day, and the atmosphere at the 118 is grim. Gerrard is gone, at least, and everyone celebrated with cake—specifically, a Ding Dong, The Witch is Dead! cake, complete with a chocolate house crushing little black boots—but to everyone’s surprise, Buck isn’t exactly welcoming Bobby home with open arms anymore. He hasn’t forgiven Bobby for resigning in the first place. Making matters worse, Margaret and Philip Buckley are flying in for the weekend. Also, Eddie is depressed because Chris hasn’t called since he left for Texas six weeks ago, and Eddie doesn’t expect to hear from him on Sunday, or possibly ever again.

Hen tells Eddie Christopher will forgive him. “He’ll come home. He just needs a minute.” Eddie says that six weeks is a hell of a minute, but Hen persists. “You’re a good father,” she says, ignoring Eddie’s humorless laugh. “You messed up; I’m not saying you didn’t. But that doesn’t negate all the good you’ve done, too. Kids, they want you to hear them. They want you to show up, so when Christopher calls, pick up the phone and listen. You two love each other, Eddie. It’s going to work out.”

But Eddie’s gaze just drifts to the kitchen, where Bobby is quietly looking at the stack of uneaten fire-engine-shaped mini-waffles that Buck refused to eat, even though he’s the one who bought Bobby that ridiculous novelty waffle-maker in the first place

“You ever think maybe love just isn’t enough,” Eddie says, and Hen isn’t sure how to answer that.

Meanwhile, Chimney, thankfully, has the day off and is drinking a beer with Tommy. (Hen, left to deal with these weird morose vibes at the 118 by herself, quite rightly considers this a betrayal and has appropriately sworn revenge.) Chimney and Tommy talk a little about their own families: Tommy hasn’t spoken to his dad in years; meanwhile, Chimney finally gave up months ago after actually telling his dad how he really felt about being abandoned. He just needed to hear his father apologize once, just once—but he couldn’t do that, not even that, and Chimney decided enough was enough.

Tommy, who’s only ever met the Buckley Parents one time (but has quickly clocked to Buck’s wildly shifting moods whenever discussing them), asks Chimney how much of a disaster this weekend is likely to be. Chimney tells Tommy that—apart from big family secrets and the general emotional trauma—every time the Buckleys visit, someone comes close to death: warehouse fire (Buck), lightning strike (Buck), viral encephalitis (Chimney).

“Maybe don’t go up in a helicopter till they’re gone?” Chimney suggests, and Tommy says, “Jesus,” and gets another beer.

Back at the 118, things have gone from bad to worse. A call leads to Buck recklessly risking his own life to save someone. He walks away with only a few bruises, but Bobby yells at him for nearly getting himself killed. Buck snarks that he must still be that young, impulsive hothead after all. Bobby, a bit at a loss, tells Buck that he has come a long way, but he can’t put himself in danger just because he’s angry at Bobby.

“What is this really about? You can talk to me, kid. I’m here.”

“Right,” Buck says, scornful. “You’re here. For ... how long again? Seven more, I think you said? No—no, you never actually said, did you? That one’s on me. Right, Cap?”

The bell goes off, ending the argument. Bobby tries to talk to Buck again after the shift, but Buck is already out the door. He barely gets any sleep that day before he and Tommy drive over for The Big Family Dinner. Tommy tries to talk Buck into staying home, suggesting they go tomorrow night instead, but Buck insists it will be a Thing if they don’t go.

Dinner goes badly. Margaret and Phillip aren’t intentionally rude or actively malicious, but there’s still a thread of casual biphobia in much of what they say: Evan’s always going through these phases. Well, if it’s not a phase, Evan, you must have known; how could you not? Please don’t misunderstand, Tommy, of course we like YOU. Very much! Yes, Tommy, thank you for your service. We’re just saying, Evan likes to throw us for a loop now and then. Really, Evan, you’ve had so many girlfriends you’re basically straight, aren’t you?

Buck finally loses it shortly after Maddie goes into the other room to check on Jee Yun. Margaret suggests that while she’s happy that Buck and Tommy are happy, of course—happy for now, at least—she’d just hoped Buck would’ve started to settle down by now, get serious about someone, rather than start experimenting. Phillip also jokes that he’d thought Buck had outgrown making bids for attention, and Buck just—snaps.

“Why did I have to work so hard to get your attention again? Right. Cause it was too hard to look at me. Cause I was the reminder of what you lost, the screwup you got left with. Maybe if Daniel had grown up and turned out bi, you’d—"

—and Margaret slaps Buck across the face.

It shocks everyone, very much including Margaret, but when Buck finally blinks and glances at his dad, Phillip automatically moves to stand behind his wife, silently taking her side. Buck, a bit dazed, mutters he’s sorry and tells Chimney not to tell Maddie what happened, right before Tommy all but pushes Buck out the door and drives him home.

Buck, still a little shellshocked, mostly can’t believe he said what he said, insists he shouldn’t have gotten that upset, and tries to brush off Tommy’s efforts to comfort him. Tries to get him to leave. Tries to distract him with sex when Tommy refuses to leave. Tommy, not having any of it, sits Buck down and talks a little about his own childhood, how he’d run away from home after his father had found out Tommy was gay, how—broken and bleeding—Tommy had never called, never looked back. Buck protests it’s not the same because Margaret and Philip aren’t abusive, have never hit him before tonight, aren’t really homophobic—at least, not in the same way—and also, Buck deserved that slap.

“Who throws a dead kid in their parents face?” Buck asks, miserable.

“Someone who lived under the shadow of a brother he never knew about for 30 years?” Tommy asks, then takes Buck’s hand and makes Buck look at him.

“Look, maybe it’s not the same. You’re never going to convince me you deserved it, Evan, not any of it—but what I’m saying is, when people repeatedly hurt you? You don’t have to look back. You don’t have to keep trying. You can, if that’s what you want—but you don’t have to forgive anyone just because they’re family. That’s not what being a family should be. And, for what it’s worth, that includes Bobby, too. Just ... maybe consider what you’re actually angry about—or if it’s even anger you’re really feeling here—before deciding to cut him off for good.”

Slowly, Buck sinks into Tommy’s side. Tommy wraps an arm around him. Kisses him gently just above birthmark.

(Part II is finished, coming tomorrow or the next day)

#911 fanfic #911 abc #my fics #bucktommy #team as family #angst with a happy ending #buckley parents #they aren't evil evil but they aren't great #definitely not working out my complicated feelings about family redemption stories

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unformula1 · 4 months ago

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it’s going to be okay (LS2 x OP81)

oscar gets the message that logan isn’t going to be with williams next year and oscar comforts logan w/c: 1734 loscar post until we get a loscar podium!! (part 48) <3 (series masterlist) a/n: i don’t know how this will continue if logan doesn’t stay in f1 also I MUST continue this one. || masterlist

Carlos is signing with Williams for 2025, 2026… and beyond.

Williams’ post first pops up after Oscar reloads Instagram. He feels his entire body jerk upward as he does a double take, he quickly cross checks with the official F1 instagram.

It’s true.

Holy shit.

Oscar stares at the phone as his mind races through all his stray thoughts. His first instinct is to open Logan’s chat, but he freezes.

He doesn’t really talk with Logan anymore.

What is he even going to say?

His fingers hover over the keyboard. All the former thoughts disappeared in a second. Oscar turns off his phone and places it on his bed.

He takes a deep breath, trying to connect all his thoughts instead of them being a messy jumble of nonsense. Somewhere in his endless web of thoughts has to be something genius he’s going to tell Logan.

He opens the chat again and doesn’t take a second thought before sending the message. His fingers glide over the keyboard, quickly typing out the sentence and sending it.

Oscar shuts off his phone right after, hoping there won’t be a sinking feeling of regret.

—

Logan lies flat on his bed, his breathing steady as his chest rises and falls. He counts slowly in his head, which is the only thing keeping him from spiralling out of control.

He places both hands on his chest, ensuring there is a constant rise and fall.

He can’t cry. Not yet. Not now.

The counting doesn’t seem to cover up the replaying scene in his head: James sits him down, the room is tense and solemn, James looks Logan dead in the eye and drops the news.

“Logan, we have decided we will not be signing you for next year.”

Logan freezes. He feels the blood in his body freeze into ice, his entire body tenses up. As much as everything prepared him for this moment, none of it really did. It’s a different feeling from just thinking about it.

Right now, he was sat in a tense, silent room, face to face with a man he once called his hero.

Logan forces out a smile and nods.

“Thank you for everything.”

Logan feels a sting in his eyes as tears start to well up. He swiftly wipes them off using his sleeve.

He’s been lying here for the past 10 minutes. He checks the clock, it’s been about 3 minutes since the world found out.

Logan didn’t know what to do anymore, the ceiling fan spun above him, slowly fading into one messy blur.

He taps his fingers on his chest and hums a generic melody. He shuts his eyes tightly, restraining himself from doing something rash.

Logan was at a loss. He didn’t like the feeling.

Last time he was at a loss, Williams was there to help him. This time, they were the reason he was at a loss.

It was like a harsh, cruel, merciless cycle.

A team which once helped him through the toughest times in his career, ended up creating some of his toughest moments. He once viewed them as his family, a team which could do him no wrongs.

Then everything came crashing down, some false and fake facade.

His phone dings and he sits up.

He checks it.

Oscar: This is so wrong. Oscar: Do you wanna talk about it?

Oscar? Oscar, of all people?

Logan takes a deep breath and opens the message. He contemplates for a while on what he should say in response.

Logan: I take it this is about the contract signing.

Oscar immediately comes online, which is pretty comforting this time around.

Oscar: Yes

Oscar: They are so wrong for that

Logan feels a warmth bubble in him. It’s from Oscar.

It’s from Oscar.

Oscar Piastri, race winner, McLaren F1 driver, prodigy, unimaginable rookie year, Lewis Hamilton reincarnate.

And what was Logan? What was Logan to Oscar now that his F1 seat wasn’t even in his own grasp?

Logan stares blankly at the screen.

Logan: I don’t know what to do

He remembered how he used to turn to Oscar for everything, now he didn’t even know if Oscar was going to be there for him.

He remembered how both of them made a promise to win a race in F1 together, to make it together in F1.

Before Oscar replies, Logan sends another message.

Logan: I’m so proud of you. Logan: You achieved our dream.

A teardrop stains Logan’s screen, he instantly swipes it off.

Oscar just hearts the messages.

It takes him another few seconds to reply.

Oscar: I hate how this turned out.

Logan chuckles as his eyes start to tear up, his vision growing blurry.

Everything he did to get into F1, all the hard work, sleepless nights, endless practice, just for this.

The friends he made along the way, the people he trusted, the places he called home. Everything came flooding back to him, all the flashbacks, just like a roll of film, all of them were replaying in his head.

This was his dream. F1 was his dream.

Oscar: You deserve better.

A soft sniffle and sob escapes Logan’s mouth. He wipes away the tears and texts Oscar back.

Logan: Did I ever do anything wrongly?

Logan feels a rising, burning sensation of guilt, regret and despair.

Oscar: Are you still in your room? Logan: yea Oscar: Stay there.

—

A few minutes pass before there’s a knock on the door. Logan lifts his head from between his knees and stands up, he wipes away his tears and takes a deep breath before going to the door.

He mentally prepares a strong front, just in case.

He opens the door and smiles.

“Logan.” Oscar’s voice is soft.

Logan’s smile cracks slightly as he lets Oscar in.

“Hi.” Logan manages.

Oscar doesn’t say anything and just as Logan closes the door, he hugs him.

His arms are wrapped around Logan, a warm embrace fuzzling between both of them.

Logan’s strong front immediately dissolves into nothing as he starts sobbing violently. He leans his head onto Oscar’s shoulding, wetting his shirt with tears.

Oscar continues holding onto Logan, his tight grip around Logan’s chest. He holds back his own tears.

He knows Logan deserved so much better.

“I should’ve checked in earlier.” Oscar admits, his voice cracking, “I should’ve asked how you were doing…”

Oscar feels his throat starting to sting.

Logan doesn’t respond instantly, but in between sobs he manages to get out a few words.

“You didn’t have to.”

A wave of guilt engulfs Oscar as he grips tighter.

“You have to fight Logan, please Logan, fight.”

“It’s over Oscar… It’s over.”

“We’re gonna figure this out Logan.” Oscar tears up, “Together, alright?”

“Give me another chance Logs.” Oscar looks at Logan in the eyes as they both take a step out of the hug.

Logan looks Oscar in the eyes and nods subtly.

“I don’t know what I did wrong.” Logan says.

“Nothing. You did nothing wrong.” Oscar insists, “Williams did everything wrong to you.”

Logan finds it hard to believe.

“Listen to me.” Oscar says before taking a deep breath, “You and me, we’re gonna figure this out.”

Logan can’t stop his tears anymore.

“Just like when we were kids, when we figured things out together, you know.” Oscar says.

“I messed up hard for the past year or so, but I promise that we’re going to make it through this together.”

Logan can feel despair and bitterness mixed together with warmth and happiness bubbling in his own heart.

“Please?” Oscar begs.

“Promise?”

“Promise. I promise with all my heart.”

Logan takes another deep breath and then cleans the dried tears scattered on his cheeks.

Oscar can’t help but feel the sting in his own heart. His best friend, things panned out differently for both of them, immensely different.

“I’m sorry it had to be like this…” Oscar steps closer to Logan and holds onto his hands.

Logan flinches, moving his hand back, but then holds Oscar’s hand after a second.

“I trusted Williams…” Logan says, “They didn’t even give me a proper farewell…”

Oscar knows.

“One post. One line.” Logan says, his fists clenching, “That’s all they could do.”

Oscar sighs, “They don’t deserve any part of you.”

“You’re an amazing, wonderful, and perfect person.” Oscar says as Logan continues to grip tighter onto his hands, “Williams just couldn’t see that.”

“What will I do now?” Logan says, his grip loosening slightly.

Oscar wasn’t going to lie, “I don’t know.”

Logan’s face falls.

“I’m sorry.” Oscar says, and repeats it a few times.

“You don��t have to be.”

“I’ll make it right.” Oscar says.

He was going to. There was no way he was letting Logan go through this alone, not now, not ever.

—

Both of them sat on Logan’s bed together. Logan’s head was resting on Oscar’s shoulder as they sat in silence.

It wasn’t tense silence.

It was a calm silence.

Oscar looks over at Logan and watches his breathing stabilise after that chaos of emotions talking about Logan’s own feelings.

He truly did not wish Logan had to go through this.

Oscar glides his fingers through Logan’s hair, the blonde streaks getting gently caressed by Oscar.

This is what Logan deserves.

This is what Logan needed.

Logan adjusts himself slightly and looks up at Oscar, who smiles gently.

“We’ll figure it out.” Oscar says.

And for some reason, Logan knows it’s true. He knows the warm embrace he feels next and he recognises the calm breathing on his neck.

Logan gave everything to Williams, for them to tear him apart.

“Do you think things could’ve turned out differently?” Logan asks, fiddling with his shirt.

“I would choose another version in a heartbeat, if it meant doing things with you.” Oscar replies, without hesitation.

A smile creeps up Logan’s face.

Right…

“I would too.” Logan says, a small chuckle escaping his lips.

Oscar smiles, he’s glad that his presence was something good for Logan.

It was. Oscar was comforting, everything Logan needed right now.

Logan shifts closer to Oscar, pressing himself right up against Oscar. Oscar smiles, pulling Logan in.

This is warm.

“It’s going to be okay.” Oscar says.

And Logan believes it.

Oscar’s going to fix every wound, every stab, every scar that life has inflicted on him.

Oscar’s here.

And it’s going to be okay.

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infraaa · 1 year ago

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KOSA 101

Let’s talk about this. This is something I haven’t seen a lot of in my end, and this new bill may be troubling to not just us as a whole, but content creators. So, this isn’t just exclusive to AO3 anymore. This can go as far as places like Wattpad, Quotev, DeviantArt, and here.

So, to put it bluntly, if you give a fuck, listen.

What is KOSA?

KOSA (Kids Online Safety Act,) is a bill within the United States that was initially created last year with the aim of protecting youth (considerably age 16 and under,) from viewing harmful content online. It has since been updated and reintroduced by Richard Blumenthal (D-CT) and Marsha Blackburn (R-TN.) Now, on surface level, it may seem like this has a good outlook, right? Not in the slightest. This bill, while it may not be passed yet rather introduced, may take an extreme to protect youth and monitor all. Yes, I said monitor.

Not only is NSFW content bound to be flagged, which may totally censor a lot of creators not just on this platform but others, a wider band that is under this new bill is LGBT+ content. According to Senator Blackburn of Tennessee, who is KOSA’s co-author, even education on race discrimination was viewed as “dangerous to kids,” and this soon branches out to race, gender, and sexuality discrimination. This also extends out to anxiety, depression, eating disorders, etc. The bill puts itself in the hands of State Attorney Generals in order for them to use tools of censorship against our rights and safety— not just for the youth, but for adults too, as we may face (giving an example,) hurdles trying to obtain things like legal documents.

How does KOSA work?

KOSA works by acting as a censor and self filter for the internet. By the hands of Attorney State Generals, they ultimately decide what is harmful to kids online. Though, this is a dual edged sword. This would also present the loss of access to information that a large sum of people may not deem dangerous. This again extends outward towards things like depression, substance abuse, etc— complex topics without a clear agreement on causes or solutions. This means that it could also filter, and possibly censor medical information, extending outward to trans medical care as well, which may lead on to silence the transgender community further. This is a very bad thing.

There would still be features like Age Verification, but it also filters legal speech. What I mean by “there will still be features,” to give an example, Tumblr has a tab in settings where you can add your birthday, which in turn verifies how old you are. Tiktok has this feature as well. About filtering legal speech, any kind of media or information that has to do with societal ills that is held on a platform, for example, Tumblr, will enable that platform to be held liable for holding that information. But… it may seem like I’m getting off topic, aren’t I?

So let’s swing back around…

KOSA has the ability to hurt creators on several different platforms. This gives the United States Government unlimited range of control over the internet.

This linktree has at least four different petitions open for you to take action against the bill, and to contact your congressmen and women. There’s also a discord server that’s dedicated to stopping KOSA from passing.

By doing this, you are spreading your voice. You are helping millions of people nationally— creators, artists, writers, everyone.

And finally, don’t just like this post. Reblog it— it helps it spread and gain exposure.

Let’s put an end to KOSA.

#infrawrites #infraspeaks #kosa bill #kosa act #kosa #stop kosa #kids online safety act #lgbtq community #lgbtqiia+#wattpad #a03 down #a03 #writers on tumblr #artists on tumblr #I’m sorry for the tag overload and the cookie run tags are irrelevant but that’s the community I’m in #cookie run kingdom #cookie run #cookie run overbreak #crob

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softer-ua · 3 months ago

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I think Hori did a great job showing that societal changes can happen, the world has gotten better before and it can again, but that change isn’t always linear or noticeable in the moment unless you actively choose to see it and be grateful for it

Because the fight for change takes everyone consciously doing their part as well as creating systemic changes

It will be full of loss, big and small, in the end it may not even feel like much has changed and the accomplishments don’t always measure up to amount of grief accrued

because it’s the next generation and the generations after that really get anything from our efforts

Think of society as the field where we plant ourselves, and think of the oligarchs(rich fucks in charge) of the past who stole the people’s harvests, limited what was allowed to grow, and forced overworking the land to the point of poisoning crops

They do the same now stealing the fruits of our creativity passions and dogged work ethic, they limit where we can direct those efforts so we only grow in ways that benefit them, and they demand we drive ourselves to burnout and all creativity must equal profit

You see the land and your people dying, so you work yourself to the bone to turn the inhospitable over farmed land into something farmable again and you do your best everyday to inspire others to join the cause

In the beginning crop yields are still small and people are barely surviving off the rations, so much work for so little, but you beg they remember that what they grew is heartier than the failed crop last year, the effort wasn’t in vain

You have to work with a lot of shitty people, and they don’t all get less shitty, and those that do can’t undo the harm they caused. But over all less harm is being perpetrated, pieces of the cycle have been broken off giving room for something better to grow.

This is the cycle for a few years, only small sections of land have seen change and it’s a delicate balance because it could easily be over farmed and collapse again, it feels hopeless at times but a dedicated few keep inspiring others to keep going

Then a decade goes by, nights of going to bed hungry become a distant memory for the children, even while you go to bed haunted by the memory of those who didn’t survive the winter.

Some ghosts are leave a lighter touch, it’s unfair their bodies gave out but they find rest in knowing the world is changing and you held their hand the whole way.

The worst ghosts are from those whose soul fled long before the wasting took them, the ones who festered in fear/anger/resentment/isolation . Those whose suffering made them cruel and leaked rot on to the lives of others.

They claw at your nerves, demanding the unanswerable, why? Why didn’t change come sooner, why wasn’t this all prevented, why them, why not you?

Could you have given more of yourself to save them? They were hurting others, all your empathy couldn’t change that, so you hurt them and all our empathy doesn’t change that either.

B&W thinking, or nuanced gray. Both have their place, but neither replaces grief, you can’t intellectualize away a hit nerve.

Pain demands to be felt, but the future demands your present and to get through everything you closed that door and put so many locks on it

It feels like it was a life time ago, it was such a different versions of you, the one who closed the door doesn’t seem to be here anymore and what if you can’t recognize what’s left of the you that’s been locked up for so long.

There’s ghosts on both sides, how many are malevolent? All the benevolent ghosts bid adieu, so what if that old you has soured and become the most malevolent of all?

It’s been rotting behind the door with all your unresolved fears, bloated with your insecurities, everything about yourself that you didn’t believe could survive and yet it’s still there, but you have changed so completely so is it really still there?

Pain demands to be felt, the future demands that you are present, you must make space for the past, the past doesn’t exist, you can’t move forward holding on to all this, the future is NOW

You let some of the ghosts go, some don’t let you go. Some we wish we could have kept

Sometimes building the future means you never get to reconcile all of your past, sometimes closer is just time passed

You can never be the same again, some doors stay locked, you take whatever closure you can get, and you stay grateful for whatever the future brings

You serve the children hardier meals, they grow up strong enough to keep tilling the land with the knowledge you gave them about what greed does to the land and how we hope to prevent it.

And sometimes, every so often through your life, you get to greet a day that is so different from the world you were born into that you can feel lives being saved just because they were born in a world you held create

What’s more, sometimes, sometimes you do get everything you ever wanted, and you get to share that future with the people you loved through all of it

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mushroominaforest · 10 days ago

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Hehe oc / siblings au lore drop time!!!!

(It’s kinda long sorry lol)

BEHOLD:

The Assistant!

Assistant was designed to look aesthetically pleasing. They don’t love their appearance that much, but at the end of the day, being doomed to look cute that isn’t the worst fate that a purposed organism could face. They’re Unparalleled Innocence’s messenger, but they also just sorta assist UI in general, hence the name.

UI is actually one of the decent Iterator parents in the au, but Assistant still got bored of running errands, and wanted to have an adventure. UI reluctantly let them go, telling them that they would be missed and were welcome back anytime.

Assistant was thrilled to have their adventure, but they were also what one might describe as ever-so-slightly privileged. They worked, yes, but they hadn’t actually had to survive on their own before, hunt for their food or fight for their shelter. So they were struggling somewhat, and considering cutting their losses and going back to their easy yet boring life with their parent.

And then Assistant met someone. Another purposed organism their age, the toughest, bravest and strongest slugcat they’d ever seen. Someone with beautiful purple eyes.

Assistant met Artificer.

Things were pretty good at first. Neither of them had really even had a proper friend before, let alone a relationship, and they rode the high of young love and freedom for a while. Assistant gave Artificer the love she’d never had before and desperately needed, and Artificer kept Assistant safe. But their happiness didn’t last, as Artificer started to go back to her old self.

Assistant eventually decided that they’d had enough, and it wasn’t worth it anymore. What followed was a messy breakup which left Assistant with a scar and Artificer with a broken heart. (This breakup happened before Artificer knew she was going to be a mother.)

Assistant was happy to be out of their unhealthy relationship, but didn’t have anyone to protect them from the unforgiving ecosystem anymore, and wound up going back to UI.

They still want to see the world, but don’t want to be on their own. if only there was somewhere they could go where they wouldn’t be alone. Maybe somewhere with a bunch of slugcats… some sort of community…

#Rw siblings au #rw oc #Rw Assistant #their nickname is Sisi btw #Lore time!!!

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hawkogurl · 6 months ago

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You guys ever think about how Harry lost half his face right before his moral compass shifted for the better? And how he lost something superficial he valued, his appearance, to see what really matters? And on top of that he’s experiencing a major change to his face which along with generally being representative of identity, resembles Norman’s so much that he hallucinates his father in his reflection, which is representative of how he’s given up his entire identity for his father and what would please him? And how even if violently, he’s being given a chance at identity after that injury? Down to the fact that even his appearance isn’t his father’s anymore? How even if the loss of one of the few things he likely thought was good about himself no doubt destroyed him inside, he could finally look at himself and see himself? Does anyone understand what I’m cooking?

#harryposting #harry osborn #raimiverse #raimi trilogy #spider man #spiderman

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coff-in · 6 months ago

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aaAAAA I've been lurking and um um um I have brainrot from two of the previous asks >_> What if what if

Younger Sister Reader from the I love you more than I should post x Yandere Andrew post Decay route?? And they have the same toxic thing going on from that one post where Andy threatens to off himself if the reader moves an inch from his side. Like all I can think of is Andy having a shit ton of romantic feelings for reader that the reader is just coming into realization about while also reeling from the fact that, yk, Ash is dead? Andy telling his baby sister that he doesn't want to live if he can't have her (romantically, carnally, etc.) I just really want a jealousy scene where reader like...looks at another man and Andy is like "So. You want me to die?" and then reader has to comfort her older brother in a variety of ways that are decidedly not very sibling-like. Andy basically going "date me or I die" and reader is just. panicking.

notes from coff-in: i had trouble writing a ficlet or headcanons for this for some reason so it's just me fucking word vomiting my thoughts directly. also also also, thank you!!! i would've never thought people come to lurk on my blog, GUH IT'S SUCH AN HONOR!!! ur going to make my heart explode

[fem] reader-insert, [reader] is 1 year younger than ashley, incest, NSFW

i think it would mostly play out the same as yandere andrew with the older sibling but with more incestuous overtones. all i can think about is andrew and baby sister [reader] going out shopping or something. baby sis [reader] asks one of the employees where she could find some seasonings or something and the employee points to the aisle and leaves, then andrew comes up behind [reader] saying “did you really need to talk to him? hm? maybe you just wanted to ogle at him up close, huh? is your big brother not handsome enough for you anymore?” [reader]’s like “no no no!! I just needed to find the chili pepper, im sorry :(” and andrew makes her kiss him with tongue in the aisle to calm him down.

they’d have to get a job together, this is non-negotiable to andrew. preferably the same position so they’re close to each other but i think he’d settle on being in the same workplace in general if reasoned with enough. baby sis [reader] hides back into her shell again like she did when nina died but she doesn’t come back out this time. faced with the loss of her big sister ashley and the possible suicide andrew threatens her with, [reader] just deems it safer for her to be as introverted as possible. she’s still has some independence and autonomy but it’s only around andrew if that makes sense. she’ll cook and clean and entertain herself at home with or without andrew but in public she’s very introverted and clingy with andrew. andrew isn’t complaining about any of this though.

andrew’s very happy that he gets his baby sister to himself now! with all the fucked up shit they’ve done together he’s not too conserned with introducing themselves as a couple even if people put two-and-two together that they’re blood related. i can see him being very physically close and intimate with his baby sis [reader]. a hand on her lower back, hand holding, a finger curled in her hair, sleeping in the same bed, and like… a lot of sex. [reader] loves her brother and he’s been respectful when it came to sex. it took her a while to properly figure out how to feel about andrew’s romantic attraction towards her but she does feel the same way too (whether it was natural or something that was fostered while on the run). he likes to leave hickeys on her neck and other obvious places so people know who she belongs to.

every morning they wake up together in the same bed and say “I love you” to each other and they do it again every night before they go to bed.

i also think about semi-public sex with them, too. andrew gets jealous somehow and drags [reader] into an alleyway and forces her on to her knees and flops his cock on her face. “how about you show your big brother how sorry you are, huh?” she tries her best to take him into her mouth but she’s just really bad at it because she’s never done this before. andrew doesn’t mind, though, and praises her for her effort and eagerness because he can’t be mad at his baby sister for that long :) he cums into her mouth and her cheeks get filled up too quickly and some of his semen spills out of her mouth as she tries to swallow it all and andrew’s like “aww, what a good baby sister you are :) it’s ok if can’t swallow it all. i’ll have more for you later.”

i love this idea, thank you ‘nonnie.

----

coff-in

#cobweb in the coffin #tcoaal #the coffin of andy and leyley #andrew graves #tcoaal x reader #the coffin of andy and leyley x reader #andrew graves x reader

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hetafice · 6 months ago

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Hi! Could I request the allies with an overworked s/o? Thanks!

hi! as usual reply is beneath the cut.

America:

It could go one of two ways with Alfred.

Alfred’s solution to the problem may just be to have you quit your job and find a new one.

As someone who gets paid to occasionally loaf off, he might not understand whatever incentivized you to stay at a job you weren’t completely in love with. In his eyes, if your job is too boring or too hard, just leave!

And should you try to explain that you do enjoy your job, just not the overbearing workload, he would be at even more of a loss.

Another possibility is that you both end up being overworked together and forming a sort of late-night ritual where you work side by side. Sometimes talking, sometimes complaining, sometimes eating, sometimes sitting in comfortable silence as you both hustle to meet a deadline.

Although he is free by nature, Alfred is also keenly aware of just how constraining responsibility can be. To complete his duties to the fullest, he can also lose himself in pursuit of perfection. As someone who’s constantly moving the goalpost for himself, it’s sometimes difficult for him to slow down, to pace himself. As such instead of encouraging you to leave a situation that does not suit you, he might instead choose to remind you of your commitments and why you chose them in the first place.

He isn’t a complete robot, however. He understands the toll that hard work and sacrifice bring, so he’ll try and do something nice to take your mind off of things. It would likely involve one of his favourite coping mechanisms - food. Expect him to either drop food in front of you while you work at random increments or to be pushed into the car and accompany him to the closest fast food drive-in window.

Russia:

To Ivan, there is no such thing as success without a little bit of blood, sweat, and tears. While he may sympathize with you on some level, he believes that struggle is a necessary part of working hard and actualizing one’s dreams; and that to aid someone along the way is just to coddle them.

On one level, you are someone he deeply cares for, and so he does not wish for you to suffer. However, he also knows from personal experience that without learning the lessons that come out of hard work, you are likely to take things for granted and make simple mistakes in the process of completing your goals. To help you at all would teach you that weakness can still beget success, which would not only then inspire weakness in your future endeavours and prime you for failure, but also place a massive target on your back.

In his eyes, weakness of any kind is ripe for exploitation and is to be avoided at all costs.

Besides, given his history, he knows that people can get pushed and pulled far beyond their limits before they break, so consider this a sort of litmus test. How far can you be pushed before you can’t take anymore? Where do your limits actually lie?

Canada:

Matthew has likely experienced the same things before and is naturally empathetic, so he is a great person to confide in in this scenario.

He would try his utmost best to ease your burdens in whatever capacity he could. If you were busy with work or school, he would compensate for that by doing most, if not all the work around the house. He would check up on you throughout the day to see if you need help with any tasks or even just a general morale boost.

He is more than happy to lend a helping hand or a shoulder to cry on. His advice is usually pretty sound, and he could help you think of ways to better organize your time and/or minimize your workload. If that isn’t an option he could offer various mindfulness and wellness tips to help you keep sane until your workload naturally tapers off.

China:

With his work ethic and general philosophy on life, Yao would push you to be stronger, go harder, and do more.

In his eyes, hard work is a unanimously good thing. If you are feeling overworked it means you're just coming closer to another limitation that can be surpassed. You may be dealing with uncomfortable feelings, but this discomfort will teach you a lesson and lead to character growth. What bad has ever come of that?

To be completely honest, he may very well be the one overworking you.

If you are enduring mistreatment in the workplace, or it looks like things may be too much for you, he may try to offer a few words of advice. He would propose that the knowledge this experience would give you was well worth all the struggle, that it would likely aid in cultivating your character, and that you shouldn’t let an opportunity like this slip through your fingers; or worse yet, quit right before the finish line.

Should your body start to take a toll from the overwork, he would offer reminders to take care of your health, but his general stance would not change. Yao is not the type to intervene when things like duty and honor are concerned.

France:

Francis would not understand why you would willingly put yourself through this.

If it’s getting to be too much, why not just leave your responsibilities behind? If your superiors are giving you too many assignments, why not raise hell about it? Meekly sitting in silence is doing nothing to help the problem, and only teaches others that they can walk all over you. Why not just take a few weeks of leave and lounge around with him?

If for some reason, the prospect of potentially missing out on opportunities in favour of spending uninterrupted time with this man is not your style (shocking, I know), he would support you in your endeavours and try his best to help you unwind at the end of every day. He would make sure you ate regularly and continued to sleep well, while also providing you with as much wine as you needed to get you through it.

England:

As he has matured, Arthur has gotten better at consoling people. With that being said, he’s still not the best at it.

Expect an awkward, albeit endearing pep talk coupled with a bit of well-intentioned advice.

He may not be the best with words, but he’s the most concerned when he sees signs of physical exhaustion in you. Despite finding it a bit awkward to voice his concern for you, he’s seemingly always nearby with a cup of tea for you and refuses to head to bed unless he knows you are right behind him.

He’s more than willing to accompany you on those restless nights. Sitting beside you, either reading a book or getting ahead on a few of his assignments. He still remembers his younger days when he frequently worked late into the night. At the time, he secretly wished for a companion, and so now he happily fulfills that same role for you.

A part of him also feels less worried knowing that should things go on for too long, he can step in and stop you before you work yourself too hard.

#hetalia x reader #hetalia #hetalia headcanons #hws america #hws england #hws russia #hws china #hws canada #hws france #idk man some of them really would make ur overworking issue even worse with the amt of bs they put u thru lol #requests are open!#also if u read the tags hi

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horsesource · 3 months ago

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"A rather superficial thought has been going round my head for some time: no one listened to Antonin Artaud, but he was right. We have to get out of the insanity our civilization is creating. But drugs, alcohol, and in fine madness and/or death are no solution; we must find something else.

Meaning is withering…The forms I've known as mine are falling away. My writing is foundering, I’ve nothing interesting to say anymore, nothing worth trying to say…How many psychologists would call me insane if I told them that it feels as though I’ve lost my grip on everything? So that’s what’s driving you to hole up in the mountains!

Yes indeed, and now you’re really losing the plot, because even the mountains are coming apart. Losing cohesion because of melting ice, because of these heatwaves. The handholds are crumbling rocks are falling, this is how it is. And friends are crashing at the foot of the sheer rock face…something inside me is ringing in response, something that hurts and unbalances me.

It’s would have been so easy if my personal unhappiness could be summed up by an unresolved family issue…But no. My problem is that my problem isn’t mine alone. The misery my body is expressing comes from the world.”

Nastassja Martin In the Eye of the Wild

“We live, like all other life forms – animal, plant, fungal, bacterial – in the midst of enormously complex networks of semiotic life…A brain in a vat could never generate meaning. What is needed for mind is a living body in a lived world. Place, or umwelt, isn’t incidental. Places, and the tongues that ‘speak’ there, are a central aspect of what makes us. Human linguistic meaning-making in metaphor does not spring brand new and unbidden from the cosmos. It has evolved from natural metaphors and meanings which are gathered in evolutionary layers in all the life forms of this planet. The evolving organism draws on these hidden and nonconscious layers of meaning-making, and so do the poet, the artist and the scientist as they discover new forms of living knowledge. [..]

When meanings become unstable, inventiveness through exchange may be possible, and new habits may be made and laid down. But when reciprocity is refused or absent, then we are nothing but a chaos of broken relations. With that, we are in the presence of what the Estonian semiotician Ivar Puura called semiocide. Carelessness over meanings – in nature and in culture – is a symptom of relational sickness.”

Wendy Wheeler “In Other Tongues: Ecologies of Meaning and Loss”

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the-californicationist · 4 months ago

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Why do I hold onto clothes that I won’t wear? If I have them hanging in my closet, does it mean that I am still connected to the time and place I wore them last? They’re washed. Surely the dirt and sweat and tears and cake and ash from the birthday candles have all gone out of them. Surely only my memory remains. And yet, the shirt is still here. The one I stole from the bottom drawer in my friend’s dresser, the girl who isn’t my friend anymore. The shirt I got from the 5k that kicked my ass; the one that taught me that even after a year of personal training, I should return to my mantra — temet nosce. Know thyself. But not knowing as in funfetti is my favorite, even though I’ve never had it on my own birthday. Not knowing as in when I go to target for a pack of tampons, I’ll leave with a cart full of bags. Don’t worry it was a sale. Full to the top of that red basket of snuts and trinkets and oh so important necessities that I’ll find at the bottom of my bathroom vanity by Christmas. A closet full of singleton socks and novelty headbands that I’m not manic pixie enough to wear. The coat from when my father was in Korea. Not for the war. For something else. Who knows what? It’s a memory that isn’t mine. And yet still it takes up space here on the rung, forcing me to confront it every time I open the door. Knowing it’s there. Being able to feel the cheap chocolate brown silk and the quick embroidery. But the thought of a sudden fire, bright flames melting it away to nothing, literally makes my eyes burn with tears. The unbearable loss of a memory that isn’t mine. And all of the sweaters that I hoped would get their mileage, forgetting somehow that I live in east Houston, the land of concrete and strip centers, flattening anything that could even pretend to be a tree, an easy bake oven of a place, garish and scorching even in November. Is nostalgia the Marlboro of my generation? Did we get a peek at that exploitive heaven of the nineties only to discover that we do indeed reap what we sow. The reaping is a nasty business. The loss of houses. Hurricane Katrina. Temperature spikes. Snow in March. The sweater I bought from a beach front shack because I had nothing else to wear. How do you tell a fourteen year old that she should pack clothes when she has pictures and burned CDs and video games that she can’t live without? And if they were washed away, somehow their loss would be her fault. I should throw out these dresses. The one I wore to my grandmother’s funeral is too black. Too specific. The nylon body con hugged me as I read my trite eulogy, a love letter she will never read. A woman full of memories. Of finer clothes than mine. All of her socks had pairs. Where did she find them? Or did she banish the lonely ones? Did she have a heart to say goodbye to something when it served her well, it’s time on earth fleeting and yet eternal. Nothing leaves this blue speck, does it? And yet I cling to this screen-printed Gildan like it’s my own skin. If I put it on, will any part of me come rushing back?

#I’m cleaning out my closet today #it’s the worst #I am such a damn packrat omg #why are there so many tee shirts??#where did they come from!?

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rahuratna · 3 months ago

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Hi Rahu!!! My Nanami-loving, schmutt-reading, STEM-girlie, critical-thinker friend! Today I bring up a character who I have been actively avoiding thinking about: the one and only Satoru Gojo.

My overall reactions to Gojo are very mixed. Season one, I didn’t really pay him any mind. Season two, his his fighting scenes though 🫣🫣🫣 Let’s say I finally understood the appeal.

This morning (it is 3 AM), I’d like to discuss Gojo’s perceived loneliness. Maybe another time, when I take a deeper dive into how Gojo’s powers actually work, we could talk about calculus? But these are just fragmented thoughts floating around my head. I just have random questions on when Gojo had to learn calculus for his technique (he seems like the type to sleep through the lessons… did Yaga force him to study??) and what happens if you duplicate a Gojo and divide his infinity by another infinity. You get indeterminate and what happens then?

Uhh, anyways 🙂‍↕️

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Context: For me, I found it really hard to see Gojo as an individual person. Until recently, I only really payed attention to Gojo and Geto as a pair. That’s why I want to take some time to look at things through Gojo’s perspective of the transition to independence… because I’ve been actively procrastinating thinking about it despite drawing thirst traps of him—

Question: Is Gojo lonely? At first I said yes, but my only reason was because I solely focused on what he doesn’t have: Geto. And that’s quite simplistic of me. I didn’t acknowledge the type of relationships he had with his colleagues and his students because I only viewed Gojo as half of a pair to Geto. That is why I would like to revisit the reasons why I (and perhaps other members of the JJK community) think that Gojo is lonely, specifically through a comparative, discourse, thematic analysis the lenses of his different relationships.

Discussion: I think about how in our previous discussion, we talked about how Gojo did not need Geto anymore as a moral compass after the Riko incident. In this way, Gojo outgrew his friendship with Geto not only because of their different values (remember how their ideologies were always opposite of each others), but rather because of the extent to which they commit themselves to their ideals. This means that Gojo would not change who he is and his beliefs for Geto. It shows the beginning of Gojo’s independence as he becomes more rooted in the cause he fights for.

Is this independence— through motives and strength— a big factor into this perceived loneliness? Yes, I think so. He lost Geto because of the magnitude of their commitment to different beliefs, and his strength mitigates any room for reliance/codependence of his colleagues. But it also brings up the following question: to what extent does Gojo create meaningful connections with others besides Geto, and how does this change the initial hypothesis of perceived loneliness?

It is 4:00 AM and I am a slow and exhausted… so I’ll leave the conversation pretty much open and on this note:

I think it’s easy for an outside observer to compare Gojo’s connection with Geto with the one he had to his peers and his students. It initially seems so small compared to the enormity of what Gojo and Geto were. But that isn’t necessarily true. Here, the value of the different types of relationships we have are subjective. If I were to make a guess, Gojo does not undervalue his other relationships even if he’s not as close to them. He does not consciously put the value of relationships on a scale trying to determine which is more meaningful and which is less. Especially with his students. This is why I think that perhaps I had previously overestimated perceived loneliness. It was because of a narrow-minded outlook focusing only on loss rather than what he gained.

That’s it for now, but perhaps when I wake up I’ll be adding a couple more ideas that I missed in the comments. In general, I don’t think I added much that was insightful… it was more sort of a detailed prompt. But I think that’s cool too since I love hearing about what you have to say! Happy Friday, Rahu, and enjoy the weekend ahead!

Courtney 🧡💜

Hi Courtttttt!! @courtneedsleep *rubs hands* It's time to chat about Gojo! But seriously, thank you for this. I've been actively looking for a proper outlet to explore my own thoughts on this man, and you have PROVIDED. And I would LOVE a deep dive into the calculus, but I'm going to leave that for another juicy analysis, since this is one is already pretty long.

I definitely saw the appeal of his character from the beginning, but like you, didn't really feel particularly attached to him. He was charming. He was funny. Obviously very powerful and exceptionally confident in his own abilities.

In the beginning, I didn't perceive him as particularly lonely, considering the flippancy with which he seemed to process deeper emotions. It was during the exchange event arc that I began to see the layers to his character.

The concern he showed for his students seemed overshadowed by his own devil-may-care attitude, but later highlighted the faith he had in their abilities. Outwardly, he seemed flippant, as always. But when I re-watched, in the context of what I learned about his character later, his actions took on a new significance.

It starts with his training of Yuuji and Yuuta. Gojo specifically selects these boys who are marked as pariahs, even in the jujutsu world, for the power and potential for great destruction they represent. He devotes himself to their training and shows delight at their development. I realised, as I continued watching, that this delight wasn't so much directed at the evolution of their power, but the evolution of their souls and characters, things he knew would be singularly defining in their development as the powerful sorcerers they became.

Yuuji and Yuuta were later able to overcome fear, uncertainty, their own weaknesses and more importantly, embrace their own weaknesses in order to become not just very strong, but utterly exceptional sorcerers in their own right. A lot of this was not just due to Gojo's mentorship, but his unwavering belief in them.

On my first watch of season 1, I thought that he showed disappointingly little reaction when Yuuji 'died' after having his heart ripped out. Now knowing just what kind of losses Gojo suffered over time, and the brutal nature of the world of sorcery, I understand better just how much gravity he expressed when he thought that Yuuji was dead.

This brings me to the subject of his loneliness. You're absolutely right about the tendency to view him and Geto as a 'pair', and thus weave their character development inextricably together in our minds. I also had this tendency, when I started watching season 2, but I suppose my awareness of the potential depth of Gojo's character left me looking for more. I wanted to see this formative stage in his evolution as a sorcerer, how what happened with Geto might have transformed his thought processes on many things in the jujutsu world.

The significance of Geto to Gojo, and vice versa, cannot be understated. It is obvious, from their interaction, how much they valued and respected each other, and were also kindred spirits looking to right wrongs in jujutsu society. As we touched on in a previous discussion, the rift came after Riko's death, and the manner in which they both processed that.

Gojo's independence, as much as it is flaunted, also has its limits. Throughout the time I noted the rift with Geto forming, I also wondered how much of Gojo's change also occurred because of the subtle brainwashing that came with being openly acknowledged (and self aware) as the 'strongest sorcerer' of modern times. In the end, he truly did become a weapon, as tragic a fate as the one suffered by Geto. His fierce belief that he HAD to enact some form of change in the jujutsu world was also a form of conditioning, based on his abilities. It was much easier for everyone to identify the flaws in Geto's thinking because he was on the wrong side. The curse user side.

Gojo's loneliness is apparent, but not because he doesn't have real connections, or people who care for him (and people he cares for). His interaction with Nanami, for me, is one that highlights this. Gojo's power is terrifying to those not on the same side, as seen in the Shibuya arc, where an entire plan (and many sacrifices) were foreseen by the enemy, simply to seal him away. And yet, he places so much value on leaving Yuuji in the care of a sorcerer like Nanami, someone strong, intelligent and competent, but not in the same league as Gojo, power-wise.

Why? Because, as we learn, Gojo does value compassion, heart, dedication to a cause, and the lives of the younger generation, all qualities and beliefs enshrined in the core of what makes Nanami the type of sorcerer he is. Gojo cares for Nanami and values him as a friend, not just because he is one of the old guard, but because he genuinely cherishes everything that Nanami represents as a sorcerer and a human being. He may have irritated the living daylights out of Nanami, but at the end of it all, they had each other to fall back on, when all else in the world of sorcery failed the very tenets of what they believed was right.

So, in what way was Gojo truly lonely? In the way that reaching the rarefied heights of true power can make you. He was alone in ability, in the precocious genius of sorcery he was, in the role he was subconsciously forced to take on as a natural result of what he represented in jujutsu society. Returning to the idea of his conditioning, he could have taken no responsilbility at all, maybe even followed the same path as Geto. But he didn't. Not even the bone-deep kinship he felt for Geto could turn him away from his core beliefs and the role he knew he needed to play, not just for others, but for his own peace of mind.

One could say that Gojo's loneliness was self-imposed, in a sense. One could also take some comfort in the fact that this self-imposed isolation was precisely because of how much he cared for and valued those around him.

Gojo knew how much his students, colleagues and friends valued him. He knew the sacrifices they'd have to make, in order to survive the brutal world they existed in. He knew that like him, they'd experience loss, death (in some cases, their own), fear, moments of hopelessness, defeat and overwhelming odds. He also knew, with some unerring certainty, that they would rise above those challenges and face their fates with courage, dignity and the fierce hope that is born from experiencing true despair.

How did he know this? One can only speculate. I do think, however, that it stemmed from a torch he had passed on, an unquenchable fire, a tenacity that showcases itself clearly in his students and successors. Gojo had such faith that his will would be passed on, that they would win. In this, he was never truly alone.

Thank you for yet another beautiful analysis and ask (I rambled so much with this one, because I have so many THOUGHTS) and I appreciate all the analytical meals you feed me!

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #gojo satoru #jjk gojo #gojo analysis #gojo headcanons #nanami kento #itadori yuuji #jjk character analysis #jjk characters #rahu answers #rahu writes

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