Decided it was time to do an updated masterlist! I'm still on the fence if I'll cross-post my fluff pieces onto Ao3, but at the very least, my Tumblr masterlist is finally up to date.
For one shots and long form works:
Safe for Work | Not Safe For Work (MDNI)
Headcanons/Misc.
Finals Week - Corbeau, Grisham, Steven Stone, Urbain
I also do requests! Generally open to SFW and NSFW requests. It may take me a while to get around to writing them, but I'll get to them at some point!
-Updated as of 3/25/2026 | AO3 updated as of 3/14/2026-
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Person who has read a book and maybe taken a college course or listened to a podcast episode: oh yeah Iām a real History buff I know everything about this field
Person who focused on it in undergrad: yea Iām a bit of an expert on that field; it was my major
Person who has done at least some graduate level work on the topic: yeah I specialize in [subsubfield]
Person with over a decade of focused study on the topic, at least partially in an academic setting: here is an in-depth powerpoint highlighting everything I donāt know about my field with footnotes and a bibliographic essay
So Iām going to push back on that. Having ancestors and relatives who lived through those times doesnāt make you an expert on those times; it makes you a recipient of memory from within your in-group.
I am a Holocaust historian, I am Jewish, and Iām part of the 3G survivor community. Judaism is fascinating in terms of memory construction, because our history is deeply intertwined with our liturgy and observance. This leads to many Jewish individuals considering themselves experts on Jewish history, when actually theyāre conversant in a very specific, highly curated version of Jewish memory.
As a Holocaust historian, this becomes more acute because people with survivor grandparents assume that having those bonds and receiving their relationsā memories makes them well-versed in those histories. No, it makes them well versed in receiving their grandparentās memories.
And thatās fine. Thatās important. But memories arenāt the same as history. And when we receive our descendantsā personal histories, we are receiving their MEMORIES, shaped inevitably by lack of context, time, and trauma. Or to put it differently, we are receiving their primary source documents.
And thatās important. We need primary sources; without primary sources we would be literally unable to practice history. BUT, the practice of history requires that we interrogate primary sources within all aspects of their context, not accept them at face value.
This can became really messy when you study the history of your own minority identity group. In those circumstances, the experiences of y/our ancestors become a mythology that a large portion of y/our group accepts as fact. But then, when put under the scrutiny of critical historical interrogation, a lot of those agreed upon truths can be exposed as myth, and not fact. And thatās when y/our identity group turns on you.
As a Jew who studies Modern Jewish and Holocaust history, and a 3G Jew who received her grandmotherās memories of growing up in interwar Poland and fleeing from said state in 1939, I have experienced all aspects of this, and itās weird and frustrating and fascinating. I recommend Zakhor Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi for a deep dive on this.
Every story has context, every person creates their own narrative of the events that have happened to them. I love asking family members to tell their version of a story that has not been told and retold by their/our family, because you get disagreement! Itās a beautiful thing to see first-hand how people can experience something and have a different takeaway.
There are parts of my book where the primary sources contain mutually contradictory versions of events. I handled it by including on-page footnotes explaining the various versions of the story in the sources, and the reason I am presenting the selected one.
A notorious example of this are the multiple versions of Tosia Altmanās death. The parts everyone can agree on:
-the attic of the celluloid factory where Tosia may or may not have been hiding in caught fire, potentially because someone didnāt dispose of a cigarette correctly, or because Tosia was heating ointment to treat the wounds sheād received in the fall of Mila 18 and the fire got out of control
-she jumped from the attic
-the Gestapo showed up and cleared the scene
-she was dead
Thatās where the similarities end. Some say she was already dying from smoke inhalation when she jumped. Others say she was gravely injured and close to death on account of burns, wounds sustained in the fighting, and injuries from the jump. Some say she died immediately after the jump. Some say that she was alive after the jump, and then arrested by the Gestapo, and taken to the hospital where she was either: interrogated and denied medical care until she succumbed to her wounds, or tortured to death.
I presented the version of events which seems most likely based on writer and proximity, and explained that in the footnote. Weāll still never know for sure. And itās that questioning and those determinations and contradictions that make history such a fascinating field.
I've seen this in less fraught circumstances for small-scale real-world events. A disagreement about what year a decades-old daycare story happened. A misprint of a wedding memento. Cases where different people were in different rooms or paying attention to different things or or or or...
Scary and otherwise difficult events fuck with memory in various ways (which can include making it stronger or weirdly focused). I suspect a lot of first-hand experiences of historically-meaningful events were part of a scary and difficult week for the experiencer. So that's an additional layer of complexity.
Let's say that some kid interviews me about my experience of 9/11, or I give an oral history about it.
Here's what my response would sound like: "I was in my seventh grade French class. We were learning how to count, when the phone rang. It was the front office saying that my mom was there to pick me up. I was excited because we hadn't talked about an early pickup. As I gathered my things, Steven B. said 'a lot of people are being picked up early today.' When I got to the front office my mom looked upset, and the office staff looked like they were trying not to look upset. In the car, she told me that two airplanes crashed into the WTC towers. I pictured two small, single-engine planes, and didn't quite get it. At home, I went up to my room and played with my dollhouse. It was all anyone really talked about for the next few months, but it took me years before I was able to fully grasp the events. In college I interned with the 9/11 Museum in Manhattan, and that experience overrode a lot of my ability to recall what I thought and felt in the months following 9/11/01."
That "testimony" is quasi-useless if you don't take into account such issues as age, maturity, parenting, and the impact of time/memory on recall. Now when I try to remember the actual day of, or week of, or month of, all I remember is what I wrote above, and a discussion in English class about how it looked like that scene from Independence Day, all interspersed with imagery of "jumpers," which I only encountered when I was 19; nearly a decade AFTER the events took place.
Just a long-winded way of supporting your argument.
"shipping and blorbofication are not inherently at odds with understanding a story's deep themes" and "some people can't grasp the themes of a story because they never learned how to engage with stories outside of the lens of shipping and blorbofication" are two statements that can coexist
blorbofication to me is when you love a character in such a laser focus way that you somewhat detach them from the narrative from which they are inserted and treat them in a way roughly similar to how you'd treat an oc for which you still have no story and just like to put them in situations just for fun. which there's nothing wrong with btw, it's just that it can easily lead to people forgetting the character engine in a narrative and not just a barbie doll
as an example of blorbofication taken to the extreme without the acknowledgement of the story context to ground it please refer to the thomas jefferson miku binder
really love a corruption arc where the character is trying way too hard to make it work but they're in over their head and it's uncomfortable and embarrassing and they're swallowing their own puke every time they do something awful and damp with sweat and trembling but insistent that they can do this, they want it, they're not a child, but it's like they're playing dressup in clothes that are too big for them and trying to convince their own reflection in the mirror that they fit and it's just no fun to watch at all
+ then they find inside them a capacity for cruelty far more upsettingly vicious than anyone could have imagined and decide that because they enjoy how unafraid it makes them feel for the first time in as long as they can remember it must have been their true nature all along instead of something that had to be starved in the dark until it grew desperate enough to claw its way out šāāļø
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Men developing crowās feet at the corners of their eyes as they get older and/or maybe needing reading glasses when they hadnāt beforeā¦. Very dangerous. Do not picture it with your faves. Or at least know youāre doing it at your own risk. Dangerous.
i like the phrases "it's not for me," "it's not my thing," and "i'm not the target audience" because they're the most concise way to express "this thing that you enjoy has merits but idgaf about it" without being aggressive
the thing about being nonbinary is that you really do start to forget that other people have such strict walls around what is and isnāt allowed for genders. i thought we all agreed that we made that up. could you climb out of the cave real quick and feel the sunshine for a minute.
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normalize sexualizing that old woman without having mommy issues. maybe i don't want to be her pet because i'm traumatized. maybe i want to be her pet because she's hot. you ever think of that.
Word Count:Ā 1190
Pairing:Ā Corbeau x Gender Neutral Reader
Warnings:Ā Angst
Summary:Ā Relationships are hard
Corbeau x Reader Masterlist
*mushu voice* I LIIIIIIVE
idk the angst gods hit me like a brick and I wrote this in like an hour and a half and I'm putting it up so if you see any typos no you don't
The apartment was quiet. Quieter than you ever remembered it being. On the sofa, you twisted your fingers together, chest tight as you waited for Corbeau to arrive home. The clock in the hall ticked agonizingly slowly, like the second hand was mocking you with the leisurely pace of its rotations.
You had to have a hard conversation with Corbeau today. Youād been putting it off for weeks, hoping the issue would resolve itself, but things just seemed to be getting worse. A distance was growing between you. There had been no fight, no real problem, just some individual stressors and busy schedules. You hadnāt been prioritising each other, and it was starting to show.
Tickā¦ tickā¦ tickā¦ ding.
The elevator door opened in the foyer, and Corbeauās footsteps echoed into the hallway. His jacket was already half off when he came into view, and as he tossed it onto a chair he threw a glance your way too.
āHey,ā he said. It wasnāt unkind, but it wasnāt really anything.
Corbeau used to greet you warmly, with a smile and a kiss and a question about your day. He would brush your hair back from your face or tangle your fingers in his or find any other excuse to touch you. Today he barely looked at you, turning immediately into the hall and headingā¦ into the bathroom.
Well, you couldnāt really blame him for that.
Still, you felt a lump rise in your throat as the conversation grew closer. What if something else was going on? What if there was more happening on his end of things that you didnāt know about? What if he was pulling away because he wanted to leave you and he just didnāt knowā
No. You couldnāt let yourself catastrophize before you talked to him.
When Corbeau came out of the bathroom he had pushed the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows and was pulling his tie loose. As you looked up at him you realized that this was normally a sight that would make you want to put your hands all over him, and now you were almost afraid to touch him.
āWhatās wrong?ā Corbeauās eyebrows pulled together, more in confusion than concern. You tried to swallow around the lump still in your throat.
āCorbeau, Iā¦ā with a shaky breath, you willed yourself to get the words out, to get this over with. āAre we okay?ā
Corbeau froze. His eyes searched your face but otherwise he didnāt move. He didnāt even breathe. For a moment the tension was thick, hanging in the air uncomfortably like a too-humid day. The clock in the hall was back to its mocking, tick-tick-ticking as if to say youāre wasting your time. I should know.
Then Corbeau exhaled. He rubbed a hand over his face and sat down on the couch, leaning his arm on the back as he looked at you. Now that he was closer you could see the shadows of the bags under his eyes, and the redness in them. His hair was just a little messy, like heād been running his hands through it all day. He looked tired.
āThings have been off, havenāt they?ā Corbeau asked gently. You looked down, running your finger over the texture of the couch cushion.
āI donāt think either of us really noticed until we didnāt know when it started,ā you said, and Corbeau hummed.
āI kept ignoring it, thinking it would resolve itself,ā he said, and you nodded in agreement. āBut it hasnāt been that long, has it? A couple weeks, maybe?ā
A pang hit your chest, twisting painfully. It had definitely been more than a couple weeks. Your fingers clenched into a fist against the cushion, knuckles going white. You couldnāt speak as you fought back tears, so you just shook your head.
āLonger?ā Corbeau asked, his own voice wavering. Swallowing again, you finally looked up and met his eyes, feeling a tear escape and run down your cheek.
āCorbeau,ā your voice broke over his name. You couldnāt bring yourself to use any kind of pet name for him right now, and you knew he would notice. āWhen was the last time you told me you loved me?ā
Corbeauās eyes went wide, and he hesitated for only a second before speaking.
āThis morning, before I left for work,ā he said, though he didnāt sound confident. āI always tell you I love you before I leave for work.ā
You sniffled, shaking your head as a few more tears fell. You wiped your face with your sleeves.
āYou always say I love you too after I say I love you,ā you explained, watching his face fall and breaking your own heart as you spoke. āBut I noticed you hadnāt said it first in a while, so I stopped saying it first just to see, andā¦ that was a week ago.ā
You couldnāt bear to look at Corbeauās broken face anymore, so your eyes returned to the couch cushion, which was growing darker with every tear that fell onto it. You felt Corbeau shift, and his knee came into your line of sight, then you felt his arms wrap around you. He pulled you close, practically crushing you to his chest.Ā
You tucked your face into his shoulder, and you cried.
āI love you,ā Corbeau said, quiet but firm. āI love you so much. Iām so sorry I went so long without telling you. I promise that no matter what, I wonāt let there be one more day that I donāt say it, okay?ā
You squeezed him tighter for a moment before releasing him from the hug so you could speak. He didnāt let you go far, cradling your face in his hands and brushing the last of your tears away with his thumbs.
āI love you too,ā you told him, wrapping your hands gently around his wrists. āIām sorry I played a stupid game about it instead of just talking to you. I didnāt mean to test you or anything, I just - after that first day I was so sad, and I didnāt want to face it, I guess.ā
āItās okay,ā Cobeau said softly. āWeāre going to figure this out together. Weāre going to do better together.ā
You nodded, and he gave you a warm peck on the lips.
āCan we find a weekend to go away soon?ā you asked. āMaybe up to the country house?ā
āAbsolutely,ā Corbeau grinned. āI love that idea almost as much as I love you.ā
Later, when weekend plans were made and dinner was finished, you were back on the couch with Corbeau. Lying with your head on his chest, he played idly with a strand of your hair while you talked, catching up on how much you missed of each other recently. You smiled at the sound of his heartbeat, his gentle laughter, and the quiet timbre of his voice.
You didnāt even mind the ticking of the clock in the hall, which didnāt seem to be mocking so much anymore. Now, in this moment of peace, its languid beats were welcoming, saying slow down, look how much time we have.
The BEST trope is when a character tells another āletās run away together, we can leave all of this behind and start a new life somewhereā and gets rejected. And then the rest of the tragedy unfolds
people are going to annoy you and thatās not a reason to burn bridges or blow up relationships
some people will even annoy you often! some people arenāt good at social cues and will therefore be frequently annoying! still not a reason to blow everything up!
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