#only two of which were in the post itself

[ohdeerfully]

omg hi! I love your writing! I had an alastor x reader request for an idea I can’t get out of my head! Imagine him and the reader secretly pining for each other as besties but just can’t admit it to each other (or themselves lmao). So alastor talks to Rosie about it and she is so shocked that he likes a girl! And after some time the reader decides to go ask Rosie for advice due to her being alastor other bestie and she kinda plays matchmaker for them!

Thank you for reading this and I hope you like the idea! No worries if not tho 💖

hi love! i split this into two parts (second part is already written and posted!), i hope that's okay! reader is also i love mutual pining its so yummy

thanks for the request!

Mutual Dilemma (i)

Alastor x Reader part i part ii TW: none!

join my discord!

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Alastor knew plenty of things about himself and those around him—this was something of a skill he gained throughout his time in Hell as an Overlord. His all-smiles personality, at least to those that didn’t take the ‘myth’ of the Radio Demon seriously enough, earned him plenty of trusting acquaintances that provided him with constant, easy information. He was always confident in this way of things.

But you—just some seemingly ordinary demon at the Hazbin Hotel—you confused him. You made him unsure of himself. When it came to you, there were so many unknown, confusing emotions that made his mind and body swirl with discomfort. There was only one thing he could accept within himself as truth–

He hated you. 

He hated you simply for the fact that he didn’t understand you, and you made him doubt himself. Alastor was so used to picking apart the inner workings of those he came across, but everytime the two of you interacted he always found his mind lost and unable to think as if he were a drunk man. Maybe you were doing it on purpose to taunt him; you were placed here by Heaven itself to torture him.

Truthfully he wanted to avoid you at all costs in order to preserve what was left of his sanity, but as time passed it became increasingly difficult as you were aggravatingly involved with the various hotel matters. You had quickly become close friends with Charlie Morningstar herself, so where she was you were likely nearby… so it was nearly impossible to not see you everyday considering his own duties to the hotel.

Currently he had sat himself on an eccentric red armchair in the lobby, hands politely folded over his lap as he observed the conversation in front of him—Vaggie, Charlie, and you were discussing some plan to attract more residents to the hotel, sitting cross-legged by a low table. The group would rarely turn to him for any input, but that matter didn’t really bother him—he was never much help, anyway.

Every now and then Alastor would catch your eyes tentatively look away from the spread of papers on the table to take a peek at him, and each time he would stare back in his usual manner; a spreading, malicious grin and slight tilt in the head, which always made you shoot back to attention to your task. He wasn’t sure why you kept looking, though, but he just chalked it up to the typical sense of fear and anxiety demons usually felt in his presence.

He didn’t fail to notice the light pang in his chest each time he caught your eyes—a weird, twisting feeling of emotion that he couldn’t recognize. He wanted nothing more than to tear those eyes of yours right out for even looking his way since they seemed to be the culprit of the discomfort; but, at the same time, it was like a mysterious force held him incapable of laying a hand on you and cursed his body with even more of those strange feelings at the mere idea of you being hurt.

It was something he never really cared to explore too deeply within himself as he was content with simply believing it would pass with time. 

◈

You, on the other hand, wanted nothing more than to explore the strong emotions that you actually were able to recognize as love; or, something similar… love was a strong word to use when referring to the Radio Demon of all creatures in Hell.

Still, it hurt your soul to see the complete and utter lack of care towards your existence in general that he seemed to hold for you. He played friends when it mattered, which was particularly in cases like this when Charlie, Vaggie, him, and you were all trying to plan something—with mostly Charlie doing the work, you were kind of just her yes-man—but otherwise he seemed to just… avoid you. Ignore you unless it came with some benefit.

Everybody knew how the Radio Demon went about relationships, and you weren’t any less wise, but it still hurt. You could convince yourself to be happy with just a friendship with the guy, but even that was impossible when any opportunity you had to get closer to him was met with that deranged grin. You couldn’t find yourself afraid of it, though, because alongside the swimming malice in his crimson eyes there was also a hint of… confusion or doubt, like a child learning something terrifying or life-changing. Of course, maybe you were just delusional.

Charlie’s hand brushed against your arm, and you realized you had just been staring blankly at the small spread of papers on the black wooden table in front of you. You blinked a few times, startled by the sudden tug into reality, but smiled once you realized what you had been doing. You sheepishly apologized before asking her to repeat her question.

“Actually…” She said slowly while holding her knees with her hands and rocking backwards. “It’s pretty late… you seem tired. Let’s call it a night?”

“Are you sure?” You asked, stifling a yawn. You hadn’t even noticed exhaustion creeping upon you, but it seemed to swing in full force when she mentioned it. “I know this is important to you.”

“And the comfort of my guests is more important!��� She stated proudly, standing up alongside her girlfriend. She held out a hand to you, which you took gratefully. You grimaced at the stiffness in your legs as you stood and placed a hand against your back as you craned your spine to crack it.

“Alright,” You sighed after Charlie urged you to get some sleep again. You waved her goodbye before her and Vaggie left the room, leaving you… and Alastor. He was getting up from the armchair just as you turned around, and you quickly tried to think of something to say, desperate for a conversation. Why was your heart beating so fast? You were going to embarrass yourself.

“You better run along, now,” Alastor said when he noticed you lingering. His voice being directed at you made goosebumps run up your arms. He had his hands folded together behind his back and he bent slightly at the waist to loom over you. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint our dear princess now, would we?”

“And you?” You asked back. You knew he didn’t really sleep, you were just hoping to make conversation. He narrowed his eyes slightly down at you.

“I’ve planned a trip to Cannibal Town,” Alastor explained with closed eyes, straightening himself to stand to his full height. He opened his eyes again to peer at you—it made you nervous to be the subject of his bright red gaze. “I have a dear friend I’ve been meaning to see.”

You nodded absently in response, Rosie’s face immediately coming to mind. You were good friends with her, and knew of the mutual connection the three of you had. You wondered briefly if you should go to her about your latest troubles. Before you could think of anything else to add to the current conversation, he bid you goodnight and briskly left the room. He seemed unnaturally hurried in his pace, but you didn’t think much of it. He had a tendency to just be a bit weird.

A breath that you didn’t even realize you were holding escaped your lungs after the large entrance doors creaked shut. You opted that yes, you were going to go talk to Rosie—tomorrow. You were growing more and more aware of just how tired you were as you stood in the silent room. Plus, maybe it would do some good to sleep on your emotions.

◈

Alastor couldn’t comprehend the mixture of emotions in him; he was mad, frustrated, but all at the same time… endeared by you. How could he feel so much disdain and hatred for someone, yet still have some feeling of care for them? He had been able to at least reach the conclusion that he did care for you, but that didn’t explain the pit in his stomach he got every time your gaze met his.

Rosie would know, surely, or at least be able to give some insight to why he was so conflicted. She was much more in-tune with emotions and mentality and all the type of stuff that Alastor had always been so quick to push away from his care. Plus, she was the only demon in Hell that he could even open a fraction of his mind to.

It was a quick trip to Cannibal Town, his legs carrying him faster than usual. He had given a suave wave and pleasant smile to the various cannibal ladies that always swooned by his presence; something that he had never really thought twice about, but now images of you and your own smile flashed in his mind’s eye when he waved. His eyes narrowed subconsciously at the experience.

The door to Rosie’s Emporium was soon being pushed open by his hand, and he lightly stepped in, hanging his coat up on a nearby rack. It didn’t take long at all for Rosie to realize she had a guest—and even faster for her to realize who the guest was.

“Alastor!” She said cheerfully. They shared a quick embrace before she beckoned him to sit with her at a table against the wall, already prepared to start talking. She knew he only showed up when he needed something.

“My, it’s been a minute,” She observed, leaning her head on her hand. It had really only been a week at most, but Alastor decided against contradicting her.

“Truly, my darling,” He simply agreed. “I have a question.”

“Well I didn’t doubt it.”

Alastor hummed, leaning back in the chair as he tried to form a coherent explanation. How was he to describe a situation he couldn’t even begin to understand himself? Rosie was ghostly silent as she waited, her pearly teeth only slightly peeking between the light smile on her lips.

“That one demon at the hotel—a mutual friend of ours—the one that's always hanging out with Charlie and–”

“I know them,” Rosie cut him off with a waving hand, urging him to get to the actual point. There was a new, sneaky curl in her grin as he spoke with a nearly undetectable stammer in his otherwise smooth voice.

“Well… for the longest time now, it’s like I feel… weird, around them. A weird feeling in my gut that I’ve never felt before. It enrages me, and I want nothing more than to just kill them and get it out of my mind, but, at the same time…” He trailed for a moment. He felt a little embarrassed, truthfully though he would never admit it, that he was practically rambling on about some random demon. He felt like a middle school boy.

Rosie’s hand had found its way to her mouth as he spoke, blocking what Alastor assumed was either a shocked open mouth or a wide smile she didn’t want to share. She inhaled sharply, composing herself, before placing her hand back onto the table.

“Well, I’ll be. I never thought I’d see the day that the Radio Demon…” She paused for a moment and pursed her lips, carefully thinking about the next few words as if what she was going to say would blow his mind into a million pieces. Alastor furrowed his brows and tilted his head to the side expectantly and confused.

“Alastor… do you have… a crush on them?”

A comical record scratch effect sounded from Alastor’s cane as his shoulders stiffened and smile tightened all at once. He looked almost offended at the idea, but at the same time there was an odd look of uncertainty in his expression.

“What? No.”

Rosie laughed aloud at the shocked and almost angry looking expression on his face, ears flattened to their fullest extent as he struggled to maintain his cheerful demeanor. His mind wasn’t exploded into a million pieces, but his whole self-perception was definitely damaged.

Alastor, although upset, thanked her for the help, excused himself, and stood quickly to leave.  He was thankful that Rosie was understanding and didn’t try to convince him to “talk it out” or anything. The only thing she said was an invitation to lunch at a local shop the next day if he wanted to talk to her more—she would be there just in case.

Truthfully, Alastor had already started suspecting the romantic feelings building inside of him before Rosie confirmed the idea; he had just refused to fully acknowledge or even begin to accept them.

He, Alastor—The Radio Demon—had no room in his soul for trivial things like romance. Even in life he had refused to pursue the experience. So why were you suddenly an exception to this? Why did you make his heart boil with a confusing mixture of love and hate; why did your presence make his chest feel heavier and why did you, of all creatures in Hell, make him nervous? Not even the strongest Overlords that had gone against him made him nervous. 

Alastor walked back to the Hotel at a snail’s pace, dreading the return and dreading the sight of you. Now that his suspicions of emotion were confirmed by Rosie herself, he wasn’t sure how his nerves would react. Would he finally snap in frustration at how you affected him and just kill you? Part of him hoped to, but another felt ill at the mere thought.

It was late when he got back, and to his luck you were evidently asleep. He paused for the briefest moment as he passed your hotel room door, eyes trailing over the knob before he caught his senses and hurried to his own quarters. 

The familiar tranquility of his personalized, swampy room with twinkling fireflies and light cricket noises helped him clear his mind as he found a cozy spot to sit and ruminate. Maybe he would go see Rosie for lunch tomorrow.

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part ii

[hollandorks]

haven

battinson! bruce wayne x f! reader

chapter fifteen

Summary: After the sudden deaths of her mother and grandmother, y/n is forced to return home to Gotham…and to the man who broke her heart three years ago. Back in Bruce Wayne’s inescapable orbit, she vows to get to the bottom of her former best friend’s new cold personality. But Bruce’s secrets aren’t what she’s expecting.

a/n: Will I remain posting regularly? That remains to be seen by everyone, myself included....Because every single time I say something, I end up accidentally not posting for weeks. Anyways, enjoy!

Series Masterlist

word count: 2.7k

Two nights later, all Bruce could think about was that Alfred had been right. 

He should have told y/n the truth while he had the chance.

“Where are you going?” 

A full day had passed since y/n found the picture in the elevator, and she half-expected Bruce’s voice to be a dream when she turned around. She hadn’t slept much, except for a brief few hours where her body literally had shut down and forced her into unconsciousness. Fear was her constant companion, but now, when she turned to see Bruce standing behind her with his arms crossed, anger cut through the fog of fear like a spear of flame. 

She mirrored his stance and crossed her own arms. “I’m going to let it slide since we’re all stressed, but try to boss me around again and see what happens.” 

Both of their jaws were clenched tightly shut. 

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. She could practically hear the words come out of his mouth, That’s not an answer. 

“I asked Gordon to come up,” she finally said, caving, though the anger still simmered below the surface. The nerve that Bruce Wayne had to barely be home, to barely care about her, and still try to boss her around all the same. She was this close to punching him in the face or pushing him down the stairs. Or maybe she would pour ice cubes in his bed next time he was asleep. “And if you’re going to bother me every single time I’m next to the fucking elevator, think again.”

Bruce relaxed marginally, completely ignoring her barbed comment–which was probably for the best. She had no energy left to really fight, anyways. 

Most of that energy had gone towards a preliminary article she had just submitted about the Gallo family. She hadn’t released any details about her involvement with them, merely reporting the fact that they were trying to make a move on Gotham. 

She had debated doing the article at all. Was it better to pretend like nothing was happening? Was it better to keep her head down and wait for it to resolve itself, whether because of Gordon and the Batman or through the Gallos finally getting to her? 

But then she realized that the people of Gotham deserved the truth, or at least as much of it she could get away with. She was already a target, but she didn’t need everyone else knowing that. 

So she had simply decided to send an article to print that Gotham was on the brink of another mob takeover, just like all of the business with Falcone and Maroni and everyone else who had corrupted their city. 

If only half of the city shared her views, y/n knew that they wouldn’t be happy with someone else trying to worm their way into their city. Gotham might be a shithole, but it was their shithole. 

The moment she had hit send, it had hit her. 

She didn’t want to be a sitting duck. She wanted to do something about it. She wanted those bastards gone. She wanted the work Bella Real and the Batman and cops like Gordon had done in the last year to stick–or at least have the chance of doing so. 

She had called Gordon, told him she wanted to talk over some things, that she needed company anyways. 

And now there she was, staring down the man who had broken her heart, waiting on Gordon to arrive on the elevator behind her. 

“Gordon and I are going to have a private conversation,” she said pointedly as the elevator doors slid open behind her. 

“Y/n,” Gordon said in greeting, but she still didn’t turn around. She and Bruce were still in the middle of their standoff. “Mr. Wayne. Good to see you again, at least under more…normal circumstances than last time.” 

She raised an eyebrow at Bruce. She could tell he wanted to argue, wanted to stick around and stick his nose even further into her business. But after a long silence, he inclined his head and said, “Detective,” before turning and disappearing back the way he had come. 

Once Bruce was safely out of earshot, she gave Gordon her full attention and said what had been on her mind the past couple of hours. Or, if she was being completely honest, the past several days.

“I want you to use me as bait, and I don’t want you to argue about it. I want you to help me actually figure out how to get rid of these motherfuckers.” She crossed her arms again for good measure.  

Gordon sighed, long and loud. She expected an argument or a lecture or a combination of the two. But instead, all he said was, “We better bring our other friend into this discussion.” 

–

“Absolutely not,” was the very first thing the Batman said when she laid out her plan. 

“Yeah, well, as I like to point out to certain other people in my life, you’re not the boss of me. I’m going to do something stupid with or without your help, because I am fucking sick of this. Alright? I can’t live like this.” She shivered as a particularly brutal gust of wind cut through her. 

They were on top of the signal tower. She and Gordon had decided together that it was easier to smuggle her out than it would be to smuggle Batman in. Besides, she didn’t want those two parts of her life mixing. God forbid Bruce find out what she was up to. She was arguing with him enough already. 

Not to mention the fact that she didn’t want to disappoint Alfred, or cause him any more stress than she already had. 

The smuggling had taken a willing female detective–a nice woman in her late thirties name Lori Ayers–trading places with y/n. They were relatively the same height and build luckily enough, and Detective Ayers was already assigned to the security on Wayne Tower. An outfit switch, a fake detective badge, and lots of praying later, and there they were. Y/n had asked Gordon and Ayers if she could have a gun, but both of them had practically shouted no in her face. 

Gordon held up his hands, ever the peacekeeper. “Listen, man, I’m not saying we should put her in any unnecessary danger, but–” 

“The whole idea is unnecessary danger!” The Batman cut in. His voice echoed in the darkness of the night around them. 

Gordon continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “–but all I’m saying is that we aren’t any closer to catching these guys. None of us are. So if we can do something we know will draw them out…why not do it?” Gordon gave her a wry look. “And, like she said, it’s probably better to have us for backup before she does anything stupid on her own.” 

Y/n gave Batman a triumphant look as if to say See? I’m right. 

She studied him while he worked his jaw in annoyance. Was he sick of looking out for her? Because she was certainly sick of needing to be looked out for. She wanted to end it. 

“Fine,” he said, the word a growl he spat out. She tried to resist pumping her fist in the air, she really did. He gave her a Look with a capital L that had her lowering it immediately. “But let me just–let me follow this last lead, alright? If it doesn’t pan out, we’ll make a plan. Give me tonight before you do anything stupid.” 

She nodded eagerly. “Great, fine. I needed to get out of the house anyway.” Gordon was also giving her a Look. “What?” she said a bit defensively. 

“You’re awfully upbeat for someone who wants to offer herself up for bait to the mob.” He raised one dark eyebrow above the frames of his glasses. 

She shrugged. “Well, I have cabin fever, so this helped my mood immensely. Plus, the end is in sight. It’s about to be over, one way or another.” 

Later, when she thought back to that moment, she would wonder if she had jinxed it. Or maybe she was simply jinxed all along, one thing leading to another, leading to its inevitable end. Leading to the only possible way it could play out. Her luck, ever since stepping foot back in Gotham–and even before then, ever since Alfred had knocked on her apartment door–had been nonexistent. 

“One last lead,” Batman repeated, holding her gaze steadily for once. Something ran through her like an electric current at that look. Like he was trying to tell her something. 

“One last lead,” she said, crossing her heart for good measure. “I promise I’ll be good.” 

Gordon chuckled like he didn’t quite believe her. “Alright, let’s get back.” 

“I’ll follow you,” Batman said, interrupting her thoughts of how she was going to get Gordon to sneak her past Bruce and Alfred both. She hadn’t told either of them she was leaving, and she didn’t want to think about what they would say to her if they found out. It would only make her life that much harder. 

Her ride back with Gordon was mostly quiet. 

“Where did you get this fake badge anyways?” she asked when Wayne Tower’s doors finally came into view. She toyed with it, noting all the ways it looked like the real deal. Maybe she could hold onto it…just in case. 

“Confiscated it from a kid caught forging all kinds of stuff, including badges she used to get classified materials.” 

She. Interesting. Sounded like somebody y/n would like to hang out with. 

She didn’t say any of that out loud, however. All she did was hum and put the badge back on her belt. 

“And no, I won’t give you her name,” Gordon said. Their eyes met and they both laughed in tandem. 

“Fine, fine. I might be able to find it on my own anyway.” She winked. 

They parked in an alley where Gordon or the other detectives on stakeout duty usually parked. As they stepped out into the cold air, Gordon’s phone rang. 

“Just a second,” he said, stepping further towards the mouth of the alley. “I have to take this. Don’t move.” He pointed at threatening finger at her. She held up both hands in surrender. 

He needn’t have worried–the sound of an approaching motorcycle reached her ears as Batman pulled into the alley behind them. The noise reverberated off of the building walls for a moment before abruptly shutting off. Gordon locked eyes with him, inclined his head, and then answered the phone while striding towards the street ahead. 

“So,” she said casually to Batman as he stood broodily in the shadows. “Think I could have been a detective in another life?” She struck a little pose in her smart, borrowed business suit and trench coat, imagining the fake badge glinting in the low light. 

Batman made a noise that could have been a scoff or a laugh. “Sure, except you would have been fired for repeatedly breaking the rules. And laws.” 

She laughed delightedly. “You’re probably right.” She definitely had chosen the only profession that suited her nosiness and penchant for getting into trouble, something Bruce had pointed out years ago. 

“I’m definitely right.” 

They were closer together than she expected, the toes of their shoes almost touching. She wasn’t sure how that had happened. It was if they had both been drawn in by the other’s gravity, invisible and inevitable. He stared down at her for a moment before, of course, turning his face away. 

“There you go again,” she murmured as she memorized the line of his jaw. “Scared to look me in the eyes.” She reached out and poked his stubbled cheek gently. He froze, but didn’t make a move to step away. 

“I’m scared for you,” he said in an equally soft voice that sent shivers over her skin. “I don’t want you to have to offer yourself up. I don’t like thinking that I might not be able to keep you safe.” 

Y/n felt each of his words sink into her like rocks in a deep lake, sinking down and down and down until they settled at the bottom, heavy in her stomach. She was staring up at him now, their breath mingling, and he was finally, finally looking back. 

She opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out. 

Instead, she did the next best thing. 

She stretched up onto her toes and kissed him. 

He went so still she immediately knew she had overstepped–and had overstepped badly. She quickly pulled away, face on fire, eyes straining to find anything to look at other than the rejection in his eyes. Stupid, that was so stupid. Just because he wanted her safe didn’t mean that he wanted her to kiss him. 

But before she got too far, his gloved hand caught her arm and tugged her closer. And then he was kissing her.

She inhaled deeply, her stomach doing somersaults in a way it had never done before. She was flying above Wayne Tower yet still somehow firmly rooted to the ground. It was like she could finally breathe again and yet somehow she was gasping for breath. His lips were gentle. One of his hands cupped her elbow while the other splayed across her upper back. She wished he had his gloves off, like that moment in another alley on another night. She wanted to feel his skin against hers. 

Then he was gone, a full step away. 

She couldn’t help it–her fingers traced her lips in a daze. 

They were staring at each other, both breathing slightly heavier than they had been before. 

“Alright, let’s go,” Gordon called from behind her somewhere. She couldn’t bring it within herself to care if he had seen or not. Her and the Batman were still staring at each other, in their own world, a seismic shift between them. 

“Goodnight,” she said, her voice low and raspy with want. 

“Be safe,” was all the Batman said as he watched her go. 

Gordon didn’t look at her like he had just seen them kissing, but she felt as if it were written all over her face. 

“Crime never sleeps,” he said to her as they walked the short distance to the doors. His head was constantly swiveling, searching for danger, and she knew a certain vigilante was watching from the shadows as well. 

Her entire body was electric, every nerve ending on fire, heat settling in her face and chest and lower, too. 

For once, she wasn’t wondering about who the Batman was. Her mind had been rendered totally blank by one kiss. She wasn’t even thinking about how he wasn’t Bruce Wayne, like every other kiss of her life. 

Instead it simply felt…right. 

She blinked and they were somehow inside. 

“Blake, can you escort Detective Ayers upstairs? I have to go to a crime scene.” Gordon gave Blake a long, searching look. Y/n knew that the moment the security guard looked up, he would recognize her. 

Sure enough, he did. His face did something complicated before he realized what Gordon said and stammered out, “S-sure. This way, Detective, um, Ayers.” He hit something on the computer keyboard, scrambling, having to hit whatever button it was a second time. 

“See you later,” Gordon said to her, the words full of meaning. 

She turned towards him and nodded. “Goodnight.” 

It felt stupid, pretending to be someone else in the lobby of her home, but they still didn’t know who had breached security two nights earlier. She knew it was better to be safe than sorry, but Blake knew who she was. What was to stop whoever worked for the Gallos from recognizing her as well? She imagined their pub, Maverick’s, covered in hundreds of stalkery photos of her. 

Gordon waved over his shoulder as she and Blake stepped into the elevator. As soon as the doors slid closed, y/n relaxed a bit. Everything was almost over. 

And she had kissed the Batman.

A smile grew on her face before she could stop it. 

When she glanced up, Blake was watching her. 

His upper lip and his hairline were beaded with sweat and he was much paler than normal. 

“Are you okay?” she asked, wondering if maybe he was sick. Something in her gut shivered with warning. 

“I’m so sorry–” he said, the words choked. “I’m so sorry. They have my sister.” 

That’s when she saw the glint of a needle in his hand.

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[topguncortez]

Happy grad!!!

Could you please write an angst writing with reader hurting swayman using the prompt "Why would you say that? " ?

Thank you!

Only Love Can Hurt Like This - J. Swayman

hockey masterlist || g's graduation celly

warnings: angst, issues with body image, online bullying, cursing, miscommunication, hockey inaccuracies

word count: 3.8k

synopsis: what was meant to be a cute video taken by the Bruins social media team, turned into a never ending cycle of rude online comments and threats. What's worse, is your fiancé's in the first round of the playoffs and he can read you like the back of his hand

Life with Jeremy Swayman was how one would think it would be. He was as charismatic and sassy as he was on the ice and in interviews. He cared for those he loved, he did everything in his power to keep a smile on your face. He was the type of boyfriend who would buy you “just because” flowers and cook your favorite meal when there was even the slightest hint of a frown on your face. He was the type of boyfriend who knew when your period was going to start, and would make sure to be stocked up on your favorite snacks and any supplies that you would need. He was the type of boyfriend who did his best to shield you away from the hate and the trolls that came along with being with a hockey player. 

Jeremy had seen first hand how hard some people could be on the internet. He did his best to ignore the comments and the tweets, but sometimes, drowning in your own despair after losing a game was much needed therapy. 

It was actually your idea to keep your relationship private. Jeremy was the type of person who loved out loud. He loved showing off the people he loved, wanted to boast about their accomplishments to anyone and everyone who would listen. He didn’t necessarily like being the center of attention. . . but he also reveled in it. But you were the complete opposite. You never were one to post about everything single thing you did on social media. You didn’t like to be the center of attention or have everyone’s eyes on you. For the first couple months of dating, you managed to fly under the radar, which was an accomplishment in itself, but one instagram story posted by your golden retriever of a boyfriend had boosted you from “internet ghost” to “who's the girl with Jeremy Swayman.” 

The speculation firestorm had started and it ultimately led to some tech-savvy fans finding your instagram and screenshotting all of your personal photos to post on their fan accounts. At first you found it kind of sweet, the captions on the fan accounts calling you beautiful and a queen, and “Mrs. Sway” (even though at that moment in time you had only been dating for three months). But then it all started to get weird, some people finding out your birth place, your parents names, where you went to high school, where you went to college. Then the hate accounts started to rise. The vile, awful comments about you and your appearance, how you are only with Jeremy because he’s Jeremy Swayman, and one fan went as far as commenting what apartment building you lived in. 

You had never felt so violated and at a loss what to do in your life. You loved Jeremy with all your heart. You loved everything about him. It nearly broke you in two to sit down with him, tears streaming down your face as you told him about what had been going on. You thought that he would break up with you, right there in then. If you couldn’t handle being in the spotlight, then you couldn’t be the one for him. You had been replaying in your mind how you would handle it when those five words would leave his lips. Except, the opposite happened. 

Jeremy wrapped you up in the tightest, most bone crushing hug he could muster, and cried as he tucked his face into your neck. He had no idea that his one silly instagram story of you singing karaoke at the bar would turn into a mess of this caliber. He felt horrible that his “fans” were saying awful things about you and had threatened your safety. A sick feeling arose in his stomach at thought of something happening to you because of his job. 

“I’m so sorry,” Jeremy sniffled, pulling away from you, “I never wanted this to happen, I just didn’t. . . please don’t leave me. I-I’ll say something or make a post- you can move in with me! I have a state of the art security so you don’t have-” 

“Wait,” You cut off his rambling, grabbing his hands, “Leave you?” 

“Yeah,” Jeremy said defeated, “That’s what you’re doing here right? I mean, I totally get it. You have every right to feel protected and safe and not have to-” You grabbed his face with both hands, and cut his rambling off with a searing kiss. Jeremy immediately reacted, his hands going to your hips, as you kissed him. 

You pulled back breathlessly, looking into those brown eyes that you loved so much, “Jeremy Ryan Swayman, I am not leaving you. Never in a million years would I think of leaving you. . . unless you-” And now it was Jeremy’s turn to cut you off by pressing a kiss to your lips. 

“Never,” Jeremy whispered against your lips, “Never ever. You’re stuck with me.” 

And for the past three years, that’s exactly where you have been. Stuck with Jeremy Swayman. You watched him grow as a goaltender and a player, which had to be one of your favorite things. He had gained so much confidence in the past three seasons with the Bruins. 

Since that day you broke down to him about the fans, the two of you had done everything you possibly can to keep your relationship off of social media. You deleted all your old social media, and made new private accounts. You and Jeremy moved into a new apartment together (he couldn’t stand the thought of someone finding out where he lived and putting you at risk, again.) Most fans had thought that you and Jeremy broke up, since your lack of presence on his social media, but the eagle eyed ones still spotted you at home games, sitting a couple rows up from the goalie net. Every so often a video of you at a game, down at the glass with Ully’s or Jeremy’s family would come up on your social media. But for the most part, the fans had completely forgotten you existed. 

That was, until the playoffs had rolled around. 

You were beyond excited for Jeremy and the Bruins to make another play-off run, after last season's heartbreak. You could remember the tear stained face of your lovable boyfriend as he walked out of the locker room and collapsed into your embrace. Brad and David did their best to console Jeremy, but he was in the state of mind to not listen to them. He was the goalie afterall, his one job was to block the other team from scoring and he failed. 

This year though, Jeremy and the Bruins were ready to make a run for the Cup. They wanted to go all the way, and were going to do all they could to get that Cup back in Boston. Though, Jeremy was excited for playoff hockey, he was also excited to see you in your WAG jacket. You opted out of getting one last year, not really feeling like you fit in amongst the rest of the wives and girlfriends of the players. You hated comparing yourself to them, but you couldn’t help it. You weren’t tall and skinny and blonde and a model like most of them. Hell, you were a third grade teacher, making not nearly a quarter of what Jeremy makes. You felt out of place amongst the WAGs. But this year was different, you had somewhat found your place, and you had the Ullmark family to thank for that. 

“Do you know what they look like?” Jeremy asked as he scrubbed the dishes after dinner. 

“No idea,” You shook your head, “Katrina and Rebecca handled all the design and stuff. I just had to go in and get measured.” 

“Your first WAG jacket,” Jeremy said with a dreamlike sigh, and looked over at you, that boyish grin on your face, “We should frame it after we win the cup,” You rolled your eyes, “No seriously! We can hang it next to my UMaine jersey. It’s poetic.” 

“Just another thing in this house with your name on it.” 

“Ahem,” He cleared his throat, pointing his finger at you, “It’s your name too.” 

A blush coated your cheeks as you looked at the diamond ring he had proposed to you with about three months ago. It was the most beautiful diamond that you had ever seen, a gift given to Jeremy from his grandma. The two of you had been waiting to tell more people about the engagement, but also wanted to wait until the season was over. If things could go Jeremy’s way, you’d be neck deep in the middle of wedding planning about now. 

“Soon,” You corrected, putting the last dish away. 

Jeremy dried his hands on a dish towel, before throwing it on his shoulder. He grabbed your hips, pulling you to him, “Soon enough,” He placed a kiss on your lips, “I bet you’ll look so hot in your WAG jacket. You already drive me crazy when you wear my jersey. Now you get your own custom made jacket with my name on it? I don’t think I’ll be able to keep my hands off of you.” 

You shook your head, patting his chest, “You’ll have to try, big boy.” 

Jeremy let out a groan as you walked out of his embrace. You put an extra swing in your hips as you walked to the bedroom, knowing he was watching your ass the entire way until you turned down the hall. 

— — —

It felt weird driving to TD Garden without Jeremy by your side. You had never been here without him, and felt a bit like a fish out of water as you parked in his designated spot, which was right next to Moa. You felt a wave of comfort roll over you as she smiled at you, getting out of her car to greet you. 

“You’re here!” She smiled. 

“I am,” You wiped your sweaty hands on your jeans, “Is this okay? Does my hair look okay? What about my makeup? I never put any on except for important events.” 

“You look great,” Moa said, and you could tell she was genuine. You had spent a whole forty-five minutes staring at your closet and another forty-five trying on different outfits. All Katrina and Rebecca had said was to dress your best for the photo shoot, and you weren’t entirely sure what that meant. Luckily, being a teacher, you had an arsenal of clothing for business casual. But you weren’t sure if your definition of business casual met their definition of business casual. 

“I’m nervous,” You mumbled, picking at your hands. 

Moa grabbed your hands, “I know. But there’s nothing to worry about! It’s just the girls!” 

“Yeah. . .” You sighed, as Moa threw her arm around you and walked towards the locker room where the rest of the wives and girlfriends were. 

The jackets were better than you could ever imagine. The brown leather looked simple and chic, with the logo on the front and the players’ last name on the back. You couldn’t help but feel a bit teary eyed as you ran your fingers over the stitching of your fiance’s last name. He was right, maybe you should frame it when the playoffs are over. 

Donned in your Bruins leather jacket, you and the other wives/girlfriends made your way to the plaza in front of TD Garden. The girls so naturally clumped together to take pictures, as you stood somewhat awkwardly in the midst of them. It wasn’t until Katrina pulled you to stand next to her, and wrapped her arm around your shoulders that the tension in your body eased. An easy smile arose on your face as you posed with the girls in different locations. 

“Moa and Y/N, can we get a video of you two doing the Ully-Sway hug?” One of the social media interns asked. You eagerly nodded your head, getting pulled by Moa. It was easily one of your favorite traditions in Bruins hockey, watching your bubbly, happy fiance hug his best friend after a winning game. There was something about watching two grown men, donned in goalie pads, throw themselves at one another and spin around in circles that brought a warm and fuzzy feeling to your belly and a bright smile on your face. 

You didn’t even think twice as you recreated your fiance’s famous hug with Moa. Laughter filled the air as you hugged her tight and spun in a circle. You didn’t even think twice when you got the tag on tiktok, watching the video in comparison to Ully and Sway’s over and over. You didn’t even think twice when you sent the link to the tiktok to Jeremy asking “who did it better?” You didn’t even think twice as the Bruin’s comment section was filled with fans tagging you and asking if you were back and how they knew that they saw you at games. 

You didn’t even really think about the video being on social media, until the hate comments started rolling in. 

The video hadn’t been up for more than 24 hours when the trolls and the “fans” started spewing their hateful words that you had tried so hard to fight off for the past three years. You tried your best to not pay attention to the comments as the video spread across tiktok and onto instagram and twitter. But the innocent video of two friends recreating their husbands iconic hug, turned into fans posting pictures and videos of you leaving TD Garden with Jeremy, or out on a run by yourself, or even some of the photos the WAGs had tagged you in. The pictures didn’t necessarily bother you, as much as the comments did. 

“She’s still with him!” 

“Duh, gotta play the part to get the cash.” 

“Dying for one of the WAGs to give her a makeover.” 

“How well do you think she sucked d for the jacket????” 

“I thought we got rid of her” 

“It’s nice to see a midsized wag” 

“Since when did puck bunnies become wags” 

“Living every puck bunnies dream” 

“I miss his old gf, she was prettier” 

“She's probably for the team” 

“He will realize soon when she leaves him if he doesn't get the cup” 

“And how many more does he have in other cities?” 

You were sitting at your vanity, fighting with your inner thoughts when you should’ve been getting ready for the first game in the playoff series. It was a big night for Jeremy, and all you wanted to do was get dressed in your outfit that you and Moa had gone shopping for and wear that beautiful brown leather jacket with your future last name on it. But you couldn't bring yourself to do it. You couldn’t bring yourself to take your hair out of the curlers you had begrudgingly put in your hair, or start your makeup routine, or even get dressed as you sat in one of Jeremy’s dress shirts and panties. Jeremy was singing loudly along to his pre-pre game playlist in the bathroom, not paying any mind to the war that was going on in your head. 

The comments had gotten worse since some of the wives posted pictures of everyone in their jackets. Some fans had found your new instagram account, tagging you in the comments. You felt horrible that their nastiness was being left on other people’s posts. It made you feel as though they were growing to resent you, as no one had reached out and invited you to sit in the box, until Moa did this morning. It took all your strength to not break down and cry, knowing that you had been left out of planning of something, when you finally felt like you had made it “in” to the group. 

The comments were also taking a toll on yourself image. You took longer than necessary staring at your naked body in the mirror, analyzing every stretch mark, scar, and blemish on your skin. You pulled and pinched at your belly, your hip dips, your chin, and your thighs. All the places you had been insecure about the most, the fans seemed to figure out and make comments on. It was truly amazing how the comments could drive so deep into your heart. 

“Baby!” Jeremy’s cheerful voice sounded out as he came out of the bathroom, dress pants on his perfectly chiseled body. You clenched your jaw, fighting back the anger. Normally, you’d be drooling over the sight of his perfect abs on display, his pants low on his hips, but right now it made you angry. Sure, he followed the meal plan that his trainers gave him, but he’d also have his cheat days. But you’d never know looking at him. You’d never know that this man could pack away a dozen donuts like it was nothing. But you felt like you'd pop the button in your jeans if you even ate one. 

“Babe?” Jeremy asked, catching your attention, “What’s wrong? Why aren’t you dressed?” 

You blinked, looking down at your makeup brushes laid out in front of you, “I got distracted.” 

Jeremy wasn’t buying it for a second. He knew you like the back of his hand, and could sense something was off from a mile away. He walked over to you, kneeling down in front of you and grabbing your hands, “Honey, look at me.” 

You glanced at him, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill. You had been trying everything that you could to hold back from breaking down. Tonight and this playoff season was too important to Jermey and the team that you couldn’t be breaking down in tears over some stupid people on the internet. But the way Jeremy was looking at you, searching your eyes for any idea of what was bothering you, the flood gates broke. 

“I’m sorry,” You sobbed. 

“Oh honey,” Jeremy cooed, pulling you into his strong arms. Your body shook as you cried, his hand on the back of your head, whispering sweet nothings into your ear and running a comforting hand over your hair. Hearing you cry made his heart break, and tears well up in your own eyes. He tried so hard to make sure that you never had a reason to cry like this, and he felt like he had failed you. When your sobs had been reduced to sniffles, Jeremy pulled you back gently, his hands cupping your face and brushing away the stray tears. 

“Please,” Jeremy pleaded, “Tell me what’s wrong? And don’t lie to me. I know something’s been bothering you for a few days now. Please tell me, so I can fix it.” 

You shook your head, a sad smile on your face, “You can’t fix this.” 

“Well, I can try.” 

You let out a shuddering breath as you grabbed your phone, opening up your camera roll and showing him the screenshots of a series of comments from several different posts. Jeremy’s eyebrows furrowed as he looked at them. You watched as he went from confused to angry to sad. He looked up at you, his brown eyes wet with tears. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice was barely above a whisper. 

You shrugged, wiping your nose, “Cause you’re busy and it’s the playoffs and I shouldn’t be bothering you with this-” 

“Bothering me with this stuff? Why would you say that? You’re not bothering me with anything,” Jeremy shifted closer to you, “You are my life, Y/N. You are my everything. For better or for worse. In good times and bad. I might not be able to fix all this, but I will do everything I possibly can to make it better.” 

The tears fell even harder as you looked at him. He looked torn to pieces that you had kept this from him, and it made you feel horrible. You thought you were protecting him by not bringing this up, but it had made you feel even worse going through all this alone. 

“I just feel. . . I feel like I have fucked everything up,” You admitted, “They’re leaving comments on the girls’ posts, and on the Bruins’ page. I mean, it makes sense that the girls didn’t want to invite me to the box tonight.” 

“What?” Jeremy’s eyebrows rose in confusion. 

“They didn’t invite me to the box,” You said, your voice sounding small. 

“No, baby, no,” Jeremy shook his head, running hand down his face, “I. . .” He sighed, “I let it slip at practice that I proposed.” 

“Jer!” 

“I’m sorry!” Jeremy exclaimed, “I know, I know you wanted to wait until after the playoffs to say something, but. . . you sent that video and Ully said something about “our girls look good” and I said “you mean our wives,” He shook his head, “Ully told Moa and Moa told Katrina and Katrina wanted to surprise you with a small engagement type party in the box.” 

“It was supposed to be a surprise?” 

Jeremy nodded, “It was supposed to be a surprise. I didn’t know that all this other stuff was going on, but I promise! I promise. . . they weren’t leaving you out, baby.” 

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” Tears welled up in your eyes again, and this time Jeremy was confused, “That’s the nicest thing anyone has done for me.” 

Jeremy felt his heart flutter in his chest, as he wiped a tear away from your cheek, “I’m sorry I let it slip and didn’t tell you about the surprise,” He grabbed both of your hands in his, “And I am so sorry about the things they are saying, but none of it is true. It is the farthest thing from true. You are my everything. You are the reason I wake up in the morning, the reason I smile, the reason I get out on the ice every day. You are the reason for everything. And nothing is going to change that.” 

“You don’t care that I don’t look-” 

“I’m not even going to let you finish that sentence cause that’s just ridiculous,” He shook his head, “I want you. I will always want you. Even when we’re 80 years old, and I’ve taken one too many pucks to the head and can’t wipe my own ass, I will want you, as long as you will have me.” 

“I’ll want you too,” You said, a tearful smile on your face, “And you’ve taken one too many pucks to the head now,” He chuckled, bringing your knuckles up to his lips. 

“I’ll keep taking pucks to the head if it means that it makes you smile.” 

“As long as you have all your teeth.” 

“No promises.” You rolled your eyes and playfully shoved him away. Jeremy stood up, and gently tilted your head up so he could place a kiss on your forehead, “Fuck what they say cause nothing matters. The hate they spew is because they’re jealous and miserable in their own lives. What matters is you and me. As long as we are happy, they can just fuck right off.” 

You smiled up at him, “I’ll always be happy with you.”

tagging: @roosterdobson cause you're the reason I'm obsessed with a man who catches rubber pucks for a living

[pomefioredove]

please, PLEASE write a rollo x reader fic where rollo wakes up from a nightmare about his brother and where there to comfort him PLEASE 🙏🙏🙏🙏

let it be known that the only reason I started playing this game was because they added frollo. rollo is like a cryptid in the HoND fandom

summary: nightmares and comfort type of post: fic characters: rollo additional info: romantic, established relationship?, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu, not proofread, rollo vaguely implied to have ptsd because I do and am a scholar in trauma nightmares ^-^

There's a certain point at which bad dreams and reality melt together.

Where the line blurs, and you can't be sure where the nightmare ends and you begin. They so often feel one in the same.

Rollo is familiar with bad dreams.

At one point, he thought there would be a solution. Something to hold them back, to release him from their sticky grasp. He journaled, for a while, but all that brought him was grief.

It happens like clockwork.

Four or five nightmares in one rest, for one to two weeks, at the same time every year. He keeps track of them. How could he not?

They culminate on a certain day, one he dreads in and of itself, and then slowly, painfully die off, leaving him wounded and alone.

It's dreadful.

And it's worse that he knows exactly why they happen.

You had once asked him what keeps him up at night, as a sort of conversation starter when you were first getting to know each other. What a strange question to ask someone, and in such a light-hearted tone.

He told you he sees no use for excess sleep when he can be diligent, instead.

Sloth is a vice, he said. Detestable.

You seemed to accept that as an answer, much to his relief. The truth was far too ugly for someone as pure as you to shoulder. He was only protecting your feelings, after all. And perhaps his.

Rollo hoped, for your sake, that you wouldn't notice. He was still getting used to the idea of sleeping beside another person, and the very last thing he wanted was to burden you with all of what he is.

To put it plainly, he didn't want to scare you off.

The first few nights were easy enough. Nasty imagery wrapped up in otherwise normal dreams, those of which could hardly be considered nightmares.

He'd wake up in a cold sweat, and toss and turn until he could manage to fall back asleep, never stirring you.

This time is different.

He wakes, not quite jolting, but certainly thrashing himself back into the present moment like an animal caught in a trap.

His eyes snap open, and there's nothing but darkness, his breathing, and the uneasy feeling of his stomach. It takes a moment for him to adjust to his surroundings.

You're still asleep. Thankfully.

He liked to keep some distance between the two of you, anyway. Rollo had to ease himself into the idea of being physically close with someone without being utterly repulsed.

The only reason he'd entertained the idea in the first place was because it's you, you, pure and good, who would never do anything to discomfort him, you, who even now, sleeps like an angel in his bed.

There's something unclean about that thought, although it's not your doing.

Rollo gets up, careful not to disturb you, and paces around the room while he tries to get ahold of reality. He reminds himself of the date, the time, his full name, anything that will shake the lingering terror coursing through is body.

He does not cry. He hasn't since...

Well. Never mind, that.

Now is not the time to make a fuss. He's not a child, he's not fragile, he can handle his own nightmares without needing someone to tuck him back in.

The dream was so terrifyingly, disgustingly real, though.

The nightmares which aren't nightmares are the worst sorts of dreams, because he instantly feels silly for scaring himself over something so mundane, even if that looming sense of dread and fear still makes him feel ill.

This one was but a normal conversation, with...

...He didn't want to remember it.

The point was more so that it felt so utterly real that waking up like this, having it fall apart around him like the rotting pages of an old book, was like having his head dunked in freezing cold water repeatedly.

Not a pleasant feeling.

He paces, back and forth, in front of the now-dead fireplace, trying to regain his bearings.

He's quiet; he so often is; and yet, still, roused either by the sound of his footsteps or the heavy, uncomfortable feeling in the air, you wake.

The sound of your voice nearly scares him.

Rollo turns to you, eyes wide as you sit up, drawing your knees to your chest. "What?"

"I asked if you're okay," you repeat, turning to the space beside you to check the time. "It's two in the morning."

His answer is immediate, as calm as he can muster, although there's a faint crack in his voice on the last word. "I'm well. I was just thinking,"

"Thinking? Now?"

He nods, and turns back to the mantle. His arms are crossed over his chest, acting as a sort of armor, protecting him.

You tilt your head to the side. "Did you have a bad dream?"

He hates how perceptive you can be, sometimes. It takes him a moment to think of a suitable answer- is it worth telling you the truth?

"I have bad dreams all the time," you say. "Like... all the time. Weird ones, too. It's nothing to be embarrassed a-"

"I am not embarrassed," he snaps, whirling around on his heels to face you. His tone softens when he sees the perplexed expression on your face. "I was just trying to tire myself before returning to bed. I didn't want to disturb you."

You shake your head. "I wouldn't have minded if you did. I understand... do you want to talk about it?"

He's silent, looking away again, which is enough of an answer to you.

"Then will you at least come back to bed?"

Rollo supposes he should. He doesn't want to risk worrying you any further. That would only stir up more questions.

He settles himself in bed, lying flat on his back with his arms crossed over his chest, more cadaver than human. You always found that position so amusing, for whatever reason, and even now you can't contain a laugh.

"Are you cold? You're shaking,"

Damn it. He is. He hadn't even noticed... and though his tremors aren't from the temperature, he agrees with you anyway.

"Yes. It's rather cold tonight,"

You hum a small note of contemplation and inch closer to him. "May I?"

Rollo's face immediately turns red, although he can't help but indulge himself... just this once. For your sake, anyway.

He nods.

You come closer, resting your head on his shoulder and putting an arm around his waist in the most comfortable position you can manage while he's lying like this.

Your body is warm, soft, comforting... all things that would normally repulse him, but it's you...

He pats the back of your hand with one of his in a reassuring, though awkward gesture. As much as he expected to feel his heart pounding even harder at your closeness, there's something quite... safe about the embrace. He can't deny it.

"Good night," you murmur, already half-asleep.

He closes his eyes, allowing his body to relax... just the tiniest bit.

"Good night,"

[kerubimcrepin]

Crepinlore and the 30-50 random games 90% of fandom has never heard about

This post, like everything else about this blog, is very self-indulgent. I discovered many things, during its making. I shall begin with something you likely have literally never heard about, and go to more popular things from there:

KROSMASTER ARENA 3D

Krosmaster arena online was a video game it seems nobody played, and honestly, I am mentioning it here because I fear that if I don't document it, it will disappear, and it will turn out that it was simply a vision I had, as if in a David Lynch movie. Evaporating, like tears in rain.

I don't think anyone ripped/tried to rip/found a way to rip the models from it — and considering the fact they're pretty... mobile ad-core, not much may have been lost.

Anyway, here's Keke beating the shit out of some guy.

Wakfu Les Gardiens

Joris appears in the quest "The Tree of Life" of this game, which, as far as I'm aware, was updated in time with Wakfu episodes.

Even back then, Ankama knew that 1. Joris is very sus and 2. you cannot let him get close to you during a battle, or it's OVER.

It's all very cute.

There is some interesting I have to say about this sprite, actually!

An alternate version of it exists, made as a concept for the Dofus MMO. I am assuming it was Juien Druant elaborating on the ways Joris might look in the game. The first two designs are: baby Joris (probably not used because he looks too young to be a 200 year old man...) and Welsh & Shedar 60yo Joris. They were combined to make the iconic Dofus MMO-era 200yo Joris design.

I'm quite sure that this sprite references the Les Gardiens one very heavily.

One More Gate: A Wakfu Legend

The first game in this list that actually has implications for real lore, and yet its plot is literally "it was all a dream that Oropo was having while inside the Eliacube"

For this reason, the events of this game are not entirely reliable — but are probably based in some way on the memories Oropo has.

The main contribution this game has to Crepinlore is a third Crepin, who might be an ancient ancestor of the brothers, whom Oropo met and remembered, some sort of cousin, or he might be based entirely on fiction, and inspired by Kerubim (though ehhh I severely doubt Oropo would care so much about him that he'd hallucinate a guy like him within Eliacube's fake world).

I really want to headcanon that the events of the game are based on something he really experienced, waaay before forming the brotherhood. But that's just my brain disaeses.

Here we can see the store itself.

Krosmaga

I saved the best for the last — Krosmaga.

A video of the casts of Dofus and Wakfu beating the shit out of each other

There are characters besides Atcham, Joris, and Kerubim in this game — Julith, Jahash, Lou... But I choose to concentrate on my favorite three ones. Or I will die fr.

If this Ecaflip gives the impression of constantly having a bad hair day, it's precisely because he doesn't have any! Brother of Kerubim Crépin, Atcham is fiercely jealous of the man he considers his worst enemy. And how could he not be, when not only does he occupy the prestigious position of Ecaflip's favorite son, but also displays his dense, silky fur without any modesty or sensitivity?

Here are his three forms:

I'm.,. unwell about the white one. I have to draw Atcham in a Bontarian getup one of these days.

They're really giving a fight to this Joris costume recolor from a Christmas event in one of the MMOs... (Now I want to see Kerubim in red too!)

On topic of Joris,

Adopted son of Kerubim Crépin, Joris is a curious and mischievous little boy. His favorite pastime is listening to the childhood adventures of his beloved "Papycha". And when he's too busy serving customers in his antique store, he's off playing with his best friend Lilotte! An avid boufbowl player and fan of Khan Karkass, Joris also hopes to become a star of the horned ball. While his destiny may already be mapped out on the stadium pitch, his origins are much less clear… But the good thing about not knowing where you come from is that you can imagine anything! For the little boy, there's no doubt: his parents were great boufbowl players, and it doesn't matter if it's true or not!

Here are his alternative forms:

I LOVE THE WAY HIS ADULT SELF IS DRAWN IN THIS GAME... I'm insane.

And now, last but not least: Kerubim.

Judging by his adventures, Kerubim seems to have had more than 9 lives! From small-time opera rat, to Bontarian police officer, to lawyer: the least we can say is that during his youth, the man Joris calls his Papycha never stopped working! So much so that today, the owner of the antique store Aux Trésors de Kerubim takes advantage of his free time to purr quietly in his armchair, or to tell his adopted son about his past adventures. Past? Well, not quite! Because when the terrible witch Julith arrives to retrieve Jahash's Ivory Dofus, and seems intent on attacking Joris, the old tomcat doesn't hesitate to get in her way. With Kerubim, there's no age limit to being a hero!

Once again, it is confirmed that the store's name s literally "Aux Trésors de Kerubim". Sorry, I'm insane about the name of the show being the name of the store.

And his alternative forms:

He's beautiful.

[curetapwater]

Can people stop tagging fandom posts with every conceivable fandom/character tag regardless of whether it's relevant?? It doesn't give your blog "reach" it just makes me dislike your post for clogging tags with irrelevant stuff. You're not "working the algorithm" you're creating spam. If I look up a certain topic I expect to find posts about that topic. Tumblr search is broken as it is, please don't make it harder by diluting the decent tagging function.

[perenlop]

I like the drama the “someone has to stay” great glacier arc brings but man it’s very distracting how they never even address anyone you may have recruited to paradise after the fact

[arolesbianism]

Thinking abt how much I love oni's writing again... In particular, "a seed is planted" continues to be one of if not my favorite logs because despite the troubling details and implications that come with it, it's the one thing in the entirety of the decaying corpse of gravitas that genuinely leaves us with a grain of hope (a seed if you will) and makes oni as a whole a lot more bitter sweet as while earth may not have survived, the dupes did, and after their horrible origins and the shit that many of them went through, in due time they'll finally get to just live, they're free now, and even if Olivia's sleep is end of a tragedy, the world will keep moving forward with or without those who've been lost

[ketchuppee]

During the 2008 recession, my aunt lost her job. Her, her partner, and my three cousins moved across the country to stay with us while they got back on their feet. My house turned from a family of four to a family of nine overnight, complete with three dogs and five cats between us.

It took a few years for them to get a place of their own, but after a few rentals and apartments, they now own a split level ranch in a town nearby. I’ve lost track of how many coworkers and friends have stayed with them when they were in a tight spot. A mother and son getting out of an abusive relationship, a divorcee trying to stay local for his kids while they work out a custody agreement, you name it. My aunt and uncle knew first hand what that kindness meant, and always find space for someone who needed it, the way my parents had for them.

That same aunt and uncle visited me in [redacted] city last year. They are prolific drinkers, so we spent most of the day bar hopping. As we wandered the city, any time we passed a homeless person, my uncle would pull out a fresh cigarette and ask them if they had a light. Regardless of if they had a lighter on hand or not, he offered them a few bucks in exchange, which he explained to me after was because he felt it would be easier for them to accept in exchange for a service, no matter how small.

I work for a company that produces a lot of fabric waste. Every few weeks, I bring two big black trash bags full of discarded material over to a woman who works down the hall. She distributes them to local churches, quilting clubs, and teachers who can use them for crafts. She’s currently in the process of working with our building to set up a recycling program for the smaller pieces of fabric that are harder to find use for.

One of my best friends gives monthly donations to four or five local organizations. She’s fortunate enough to have a tech job that gives her a good salary, and she knows that a recurring donation is more valuable to a non-profit because they can rely on that money month after month, and can plan ways to stretch that dollar for maximum impact. One of those organizations is a native plant trust, and once she’s out of her apartment complex and in a home with a yard, she has plans to convert it into a haven of local flora.

My partner works for a company that is working to help regulate crypto and hold the current bad actors in the space accountable for their actions. We unfortunately live in a time where technology develops far too fast for bureaucracy to keep up with, but just because people use a technology for ill gain doesn’t mean the technology itself is bad. The blockchain is something that she finds fascinating and powerful, and she is using her degree and her expertise to turn it into a tool for good.

I knew someone who always had a bag of treats in their purse, on the odd chance they came across a stray cat or dog, they had something to offer them.

I follow artists who post about every local election they know of, because they know their platform gives them more reach than the average person, and that they can leverage that platform to encourage people to vote in elections that get less attention, but in many ways have more impact on the direction our country is going to go.

All of this to say, there’s more than one way to do good in the world. Social media leads us to believe that the loudest, the most vocal, the most prolific poster is the most virtuous, but they are only a piece of the puzzle. (And if virtue for virtues sake is your end goal, you’ve already lost, but that’s a different post). Community is built of people leveraging their privileges to help those without them. We need people doing all of those things and more, because no individual can or should do all of it. You would be stretched too thin, your efforts valiant, but less effective in your ambition.

None of this is to encourage inaction. Identify your unique strengths, skills, and privileges, and put them to use. Determine what causes are important to you, and commit to doing what you can to help them. Collective action is how change is made, but don’t forget that we need diversity in actions taken.

[pearwaldorf]

I hate that you can't see a tweet thread anymore if you're not logged into Twitter (as a gesture of disrespect I refuse to call it by its rebranded name). Here is a copypasta of a thread from Dan Olson, a Canadian documentary filmmaker, expanding upon camera quality, the guilt trips Somerton used to goose his Patreon subscriptions, and how the best tools will never make up for lack of dedication or patience. I have added clarifications in [[double brackets]] where I feel it is necessary.

START OF THREAD

Okay, so, back in April I snapped at James in reply to a tweet that was linking to this video (which James has since delisted but not deleted) and I want to talk about the full context of that but I don't want to make a video, put your beatdown memes away. [[The video has since been deleted. I can see the title of the video is "Maybe the end (not an April Fool's Day thing".]]

The first bit of context is that I initially got keyed into James to fact-check his claims about indie filmmaking in Canada. As a filmmaker the entire Telos venture was immediately obvious as a juvenile fantasy dreamed up by someone with no idea how to make a movie.

Just wild claims about their plans that weren't worth debunking because they bordered Not Even Wrong. But in watching one of these pitch videos I noticed that he had a $4000 current-gen camera in the background as a prop, and that seemed both pretentious and weird.

You don't use your best camera as a prop, you use your second best camera as a prop. So being an obsessive weirdo I needed to know, and I watched his BTS stuff until I spotted his main rig, a $6000 camera with about $1000 in accessories.

Now, these in isolation are unremarkable because his Patreon at the time was bringing in ~$8000 per month, his channel was a full on Business business, and so investing in some professional equipment of that level is maybe a bit indulgent but justifiable.

What was weird is that he doesn't shoot multi-cam, doesn't shoot outdoors, doesn't shoot on location, and in a studio the two cameras kinda really step on each others' toes. Basically if you already have one and don't need a B cam there's no reason to get the other.

Again, on its own, this says nothing, it's just indicative of poor financial decisions, maybe impulsive purchasing, Gear Acquisition Syndrome. Biblical sins, but not crimes.

Paired with the constantly inflating fantasy scope of the Telos films it was clearly an expression of a very, very common bad filmmaker habit of "if I just get the right gear then my movie will basically make itself" Buying stuff because it feels like progress.

At the end of February he tweets "I want to start shooting anamorphic" and then three weeks later in March he posts the worst, out of focus, under-exposed "I just got a new lens!" video I've ever seen, showing off his trash-covered bedroom.

Based on what's available for his cameras and the lead time, that's enough time to get a Laowa Nanomorph or Sirui Saturn from B&H but not enough time to get a Great Joy from the UK or a Vazen from China. And with the flaring blah blah blah, $1300 lens.

Again, [gear acquisition syndrome] is not a crime and these lenses are budget options. Bit of a pointless impulse purchase since he only used it for the Showgirls video. But this is what he was doing just a few weeks before that above video came out: effortlessly impulse purchasing lenses.

James has (had?) a habit of regularly, aggressively driving viewers to Patreon by claiming that videos were getting demonetized. While tacky, it is something a lot of queer YouTubers have dealt with, so there's precedent there. But people were noticing he did it a lot.

Mid-March he humble brags about needing to work so hard to make 6 videos in April because he has over-booked sponsorships.

Then March 29th James posts this whole incel screed on Twitter about how sex work should be "subsidized as a mental health service."

[two image descriptions.

1. "For the majority of people sex (and human contact) can be imperative to a healthy state of mind. A kind and talented sex worker can make someone feel wanted for the first time in their life. I know sex workers who have pulled people back from suicide just by being there for them." 2. "Not only should (sex work) be legal, but it should be subsidized as a mental health service."]

He spends several days getting absolutely *roasted* for this, just dragged across the pavement and read for filth, and doubles down in the replies the whole way.

So this is the context immediately surrounding James waking up on Friday, and posts the above video and the below tweet.

[image description: "We just got the lowest Patreon payout we've gotten in well over a year. Like, a "maybe we need to rethink things" kind of amount... NOT an April Fools Day thing btw. But I don't know if we'll be making videos much longer."]

Now, this unfolds in kinda two directions. The first is that I'm convinced he was just lying about this income shock in the first place.

There's a million theoretical edge cases about what maybe happened and if maybe he just misunderstood the data or saw a glitch and panicked, maybe one of those happened, I don't believe it, I think he just lied because he was salty about getting dragged and felt owed a win.

A big tell to me is that he doesn't blame Patreon. He says he doesn't know what happened, but let's be real, Patreon screws up all the time, they're the first people anyone blames if anything confusing happens, just as a reflex action, even if it's completely not their fault.

The only reason to not blame Patreon is if you already know that it's not their fault and that any investigation on their part might reveal embarrassing details.

Instead he indirectly blames his viewers for not watching enough, not sharing enough, and not turning on auto-renew.

So regardless of the unknowable truth, this segues into the second, far more offensive direction of the messaging itself. "I don't know if we'll be making videos much longer." "Maybe the end" He explicitly framed this as an immediate existential threat to his channel.

In the video he is vague about everything, leaves a ton of hazy room for plausible deniability on how long the channel can keep going, but the messaging is "I need more patrons right this minute or my YouTube channel is over."

He repeatedly evokes all the "fun stuff" they had planned that would never see the light of day if this didn't turn around right away.

And his audience received this message loud and clear. Tons of people making far, far, far less than him left very heartfelt messages about digging a little deeper to subscribe or up their pledge or unsubscribe from other channels to move their pledge to his.

1200 new patrons in one day.

Since I simply don't believe the income shock was real in the first place that would put his post-"Maybe the end" Patreon income at around $10,000 per month. US. Add YouTube income, he's spent the last seven months making around $18,000 per month.

I have seen creators scale back their capabilities to the bone purely to keep making videos for the love of just, like, making stuff even as their funding evaporated and they needed to go back to a desk job to cover their bills.

You'd have to be so outstandingly reckless with your finances as a channel that a one month spook leads immediately to "channel over, sorry about all the fun stuff we won't get to do with you, our patrons, specifically because you, our patrons, aren't giving us enough money"

And not a spook where you then spend a couple weeks crunching numbers. Oh no. A shock so violent where less than two hours later you're weeping on camera about the channel being over.

Three weeks later he brought a brand new Sony FX6v for $8000 CAD to add to his pile of cinema cameras despite the fact that he was, but scant moments earlier, in such a precarious position that a single bad month would kill his channel.

He stole your money, and for that I'm profoundly sad and angry. That's why I snapped at him in April. I'm sorry I couldn't give you the full context then, and I'm sorry if that anger upset you.

END OF THREAD

[generalsmemories]

Admiral, the general is touch-deprived.

✧ jing yuan x gn!reader

✧ based on the ask: "Please do one if you haven’t where Jing Yuan is severely down bad for reader and makes it known to everyone and they are just done with him"

✧ content: established relationship, fluff, make-out scene, humor, mentions of other characters

✧ a/n: where did almost 100 of you come- bless this ask for making me write needy jing yuan i love you. not beta-read again anyway buckle up this is another one of unfiltered shame for my love for one mere general with a silly thunder lord that he nicknamed shin-kun in the jp dub because the official title was way too long for this old man.

this was written in a google doc on the phone since I'm on vacation so I apologize if the formatting is messier than the first post 🫡

There's tension in the air.

"... As for Stargazer Navidia, there seems to be another onslaught of mara-struck cloud knights making their way within the area in the next few days. I'll appoint Lieutenant Yanqing to lead a few troops there by the next hour, but be sure to send a messenger cycrane if the situation gets too out of hand or you need to divide the troops up to cover more ground."

You hear a loud "Yes!" as you flip over to the next page, quickly scanning through the documents contents, purposefully ignoring the tension in the air, muttering the details lowly to yourself with a furrowed eyebrow.

It's the sort of tension you wish everyone just ignored, even though it's more difficult than it sounds.

Perhaps being fed up with your avoidance of ignoring the elephant in the room, one of the captains of the Knights loudly cough into the air before meekly addressing you, "Admiral [Name]?"

"Yes?" you look up with a smile, cocking your head to the side. A small gesture to ensure the captain that they have your full attention which makes the knight before you quickly glance to the side and away from you, although that didn't help the pair of eyes boring a hole into the side of his head, "The general…" he starts, coughing once again while glancing back and forth at you and the weapons displayed at the seat of Divine Foresight, "... Would very much like your attention, it seems."

As if on cue, the arms that were wrapped around your waist squeeze a bit tighter than normal. The sudden pressure makes you let out a grunt of surprise while Qingzu lets out another exhausted sigh. Meanwhile you glance down to lock eyes with Jing Yuan, who very much is staring at you with a small pout evident on his lips, "Oh so my darling has finally acknowledged my existence?" he jokes with a grin, meanwhile you merely stare down back at him with a neutral expression before resting your left arm carrying the paperwork on his gray head. The general uses the opportunity to nuzzle his face into your waist, playfully biting into an exposed part of your skin from where his hand had wormed itself underneath your shirt, making you squirm away from him, to which he immediately grabs your back into his hold.

"If you haven't noticed dear, you're practically leeching onto me to the point I can't even stand at my usual side, that is to per say in front of the desk and not literally quite next to you and within your arms." You whisper to him gently. Flicking his forehead before whipping your head around to address the Cloud Knights before your husband can say anything in his defense.

You ignore the looks of disbelief on some of the soldiers' faces.

"I apologize for the awkwardness this position may cause, I can only hope for your understanding being that I've been away from the Luofu for a few months helping Marshal Fua with some matters at her fleet. I've only recently come back." you explain, gesturing Qingzu over to hand over the paperwork to her before waving your hand with a guilty smile, "You're all dismissed, please be safe out there."

"Lady Fu Xuan, how may I be of assis-"

"Are you two arguing or something?" Fu Xuan interrupts before you can even finish your sentence which leaves you staring wide eyed at her with your mouth agape, "Pardon? I'm not quite sure who you're referring to-"

"The general. I'm referring to general Jing Yuan, who else would I be referring to? He sits around the seat of Divine Foresight like a kicked puppy. Which makes it even harder to get any information in OR to him because he's not even mentally present! Can you fix him? Wonderful! Let's make haste to the seat."

You're not even allowed to finish your cup of tea or give an answer before the divination commissioner grabs you by the forearms and drags you out of the teahouse.

"Jing-" you haven't even taken one step into the seat of Divine Foresight before you're surrounded by the familiar scent of your husband. A gentle hand placed by your head while an arm is tightly wound around your waist. You can practically feel the smile of utter glee on Jing Yuan's lips as he buries his face into your hair.

"Darling, I thought you had the day off today?" he mutters into your hair, sounding a bit too happy to have you in his arms again to the point he's ignoring the death glares from Fu Xuan besides you, the divination commissioner just wanting to do her part of keeping the Luofu afloat.

"I was having my day off, before Lady Fu Xuan here dragged me out because someone didn't-" you struggle free to nag at him, but your husband merely smiles softly at you before lifting your chin to give you a quick kiss, "Now that you're here I feel more energized than ever, let me finish the paperwork for today and I'll join you, we can even play a round of starchess." he suggests.

You can practically sense Fu Xuan roll her eyes in disgust, able to hear her mutter about a "lovesick fool" before walking past the two of you, Jing Yuan merely grabbing your hand to lead you towards the seat.

So much for a day off.

You can't breathe.

"Jing-" another press of his lips onto yours as you find yourself pressed on the wall beside the door, "Yanqing-" you manage to breathe out when finally able to pull a tiny bit away from him. Pressing your hand over whatever surface of his face you can reach to try to shove him away, your other hand occupied with bracing itself against the wall.

Your husband ignores your literal hand on his face, somehow having more strength to still slant his lips across your own despite your efforts, the hand he has behind your head pushing you further against him while he shoves a leg between your own to keep you still, "Train-"

There's a rather loud set of knocks on your bedroom door followed by an exasperated sigh coming from behind it, which makes you freeze but Jing Yuan ignores it, sliding his tongue over your teeth while you resign yourself to slam your fist repeatedly on his back to get him to back off.

"General! I know you missed [Name] a lot during the months they were away from the Luofu, but you know that today is supposed to be a training day!" Yanqing shouts from behind the door, and you feel sorry over the realization he's aware of what's happening beyond it.

Feeling sorry enough for Yanqing whose probably already waited 15 minutes before knocking at the door, you muster whatever little strength you have left against your husband's addictive lips to grab his ponytail and yank him off and away from you.

Jing Yuan merely grunts in irritation, looking at you with a glare and swollen lips, but you ignore him. Opening the door before Jing Yuan can grab you again and giving Yanqing an apologetic look, "I tried-"

"It's better than last time, at least." He points out to which you merely sigh before opening the door wider, "I'll give you more pocket money this month, how's that for compensation?" You suggest, shoving your husband out the door before he do anything else, Yanqing smiling in triumph at your generosity.

"You're the best! Give me extra if I manage to land a few hits on the general?"

"5 more than usual and I'll give you an extra thousand." You settle, tapping Jing Yuan on the shoulder. Your husband turns around to face you with a hum, and you lean in to peck him on the cheek, gliding your lips over to his ear, "If you're a bit nicer to him today you'll also get a reward."

Needless to say, there were two very happy boys onboard the Luofu at the end of the day.

[murdrdocs]

INTERVIEW 014

with. mike schmidt

includes. visual filming + auditory recording, GN!reader (mentions of lingerie but no explicit anatomy), begging, facials, oral (f and m receiving)

→ kinktober masterlist

mike schmidt has a thing for filming.

he’s obsessed with you, sometimes spending time in silence admiring you because he can’t really believe that you’re his. he’s a bit of a loser (affectionate) and an outcast (self afflicted), so he thinks you’re out of his lead. which is why he likes to document your time together as much as he can.

he has a couple of old cameras, just a little under a decade older. they work perfectly fine though, and he always has to take a picture of you with his polaroid or film you for just a few seconds whenever you’re together.

most of the documented content is innocent. you dancing around the kitchen while you help prepare dinner for the three of you (abby is singing in the back of that one). you standing in front of the mirror fixing the final touches on your dallas cowboy cheerleader costume with an infectious grin on your face. you mumbling in your sleep while your head rests on mikes chest.

but a solid amount of the content is mature, hidden away on discs and polaroids and cassettes in a closed box tucked away in a messy corner of his closet.

this content is audio recordings of you begging for mike, your voice high and breathy. he remembers that night, your hands in his hair that was slightly too long at that point. he was between your legs, his mouth just inches away from where you were trying to get him. it felt good for him to have the upper hand in that moment, a cocky smile on his face as he started to bask in the newfound power. it was one of the first times he realized how much he affected you, and he instantly wanted to record it. what the two of you ended up producing was fifteen minutes of you pleading and moaning and borderline sobbing as mike got you off with his tongue.

there’s a few discs, labeled with the date in either of your handwriting (mikes borderline scrawl and your neater script), housing content of mike fucking you slow, thrusts long and deep. he’s usually the one holding the camera, lenses at you as you’re on your knees with pretty doe eyes or above him bouncing and grinding with your eyes pinched closed. there’s some times, though, when you take the camera from him, met with nearly no resistance because these are the hours where he’s limp to your delicious torture. when he’s so wound up that just the first few licks from you has his grip loosening around the object, allowing you turn the lens on him, capturing his rosy cheeks and curly hair sticking to his forehead and his brown eyes watching your every move.

then there’s the polaroids, the only evidence that frequently makes voyages outside of the old shoe box whenever you’re apart. he has pictures of you with your hands over your face, but a smile clear beneath your palms. these were the ones taken first, before you’d gotten into the videos and cassettes. you were shy then, only giving the camera glimpses of your new lingerie set, which was usually the incentive for mike pulling the camera out in the first place. there’s pictures from when you’d gotten more confident, there’s photos of you post-sex, a loopy lopsided smile on your face, arms thrown over the parts that mattered but you were bare otherwise.

then there’s the ones that are completely debauched. the ones he hesitates to take out in fear that he’ll leave them lying around somewhere. his favorite of the small bunch is of you sitting on his bed, legs spread and bent at the knee, palms pressed into the mattress behind you. your pose itself is almost innocent, a grin on your face as you stare at the camera. you’re clothed too, for the most part, wearing underwear that covers what needs to be covered. but it’s the white spurts that paint your skin that makes this particular picture so raunchy. along your chest, in the center of your underwear, and — his favorite spot — all over your pretty little face, breaching into the baby hairs around your face.

[yeoldenews]

While we’re on the subject of names, is there an explanation for how traditional nicknames came about that are seemingly unrelated to, or have little in common with, the original name?

ie- John/Jack, Richard/Dick, Henry/Harry/Hank, Charles/Chuck, Margaret/Peggy/Daisy, Sarah/Sally, Mary/Molly, Anne/Nan, etc

I am actually over a week into researching a huge follow-up post (probably more than one if I’m being honest) about the history of nickname usage, so I will be going into this in much, much more detail at a hopefully not-so-later date - if I have not lost my mind. (Two days ago I spent three hours chasing down a source lead that turned out to be a typographical error from 1727 that was then quoted in source after source for the next 150 years.)

As a preview though, here’s some info about the names you mentioned:

The origins of a good portion of common English nicknames come down to the simple fact that people really, really like rhyming things. Will 🠞Bill, Rob🠞Bob, Rick🠞Dick, Meg🠞Peg.

It may seem like a weird reason, but how many of you have known an Anna/Hannah-Banana? I exclusively refer to my Mom’s cat as Toes even though her name is Moe (Moesie-Toesies 🠞 Toesies 🠞 Toes).

Jack likely evolved from the use of the Middle English diminutive suffix “-chen” - pronounced (and often spelled) “-kyn” or “kin”. The use of -chen as a diminutive suffix still endures in modern German - as in “liebchen” = sweetheart (lieb “love” + -chen).

John (Jan) 🠞 Jankin 🠞 Jackin 🠞 Jack.

Hank was also originally a nickname for John from the same source. I and J were not distinct letters in English until the 17th Century. “Iankin” would have been nearly indistinguishable in pronunciation from “Hankin” due to H-dropping. It’s believed to have switched over to being a nickname for Henry in early Colonial America due to the English being exposed to the Dutch nickname for Henrik - “Henk”.

Harry is thought to be a remnant of how Henry was pronounced up until the early modern era. The name was introduced to England during the Norman conquest as the French Henri (On-REE). The already muted nasal n was dropped in the English pronunciation. With a lack of standardized spelling, the two names were used interchangeably in records throughout the middle ages. So all the early English King Henrys would have written their name Henry and pronounced it Harry.

Sally and Molly likely developed simply because little kids can’t say R’s or L’s. Mary 🠞 Mawy 🠞 Molly. Sary 🠞 Sawy 🠞 Sally.

Daisy became a nickname for Margaret because in French garden daisies are called marguerites.

Nan for Anne is an example of a very cool linguistic process called rebracketing, where two words that are often said/written together transfer letters/morphemes over time. The English use of “an” instead of “a” before words beginning with vowels is a common cause of rebracketing. For example: the Middle English “an eute” became “a newt”, and “a napron” became “an apron”. In the case of nicknames the use of the archaic possessive “mine” is often the culprit. “Mine Anne” over time became “My Nan” as “mine” fell out of use. Ned and Nell have the same origin.

Oddly enough the word “nickname” is itself a result of rebracketing, from the Middle English “an eke (meaning additional) name”.

I realized earlier this week that my cat (Toe’s sister) also has a rebracketing nickname. Her name is Mina, but I call her Nom Nom - formed by me being very annoying and saying her name a bunch of time in a row - miNAMiNAMiNAM.

Chuck is a very modern (20th century) nickname which I’ll have to get back to you on as I started my research in the 16th century and am only up to the 1810s so far lol.

[joelsgreys]

fall into temptation | three

Post Outbreak Joel Miller x Preacher’s Daughter! Reader

series masterlist l previous chapter

summary: Of all the women to catch Joel Miller’s attention—it just had to be one of the goddamned preacher’s daughters.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. JACKSON ERA. SLIGHT PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION OF READER, mentions of her hair which she can put up into braids as well as her style of clothing. despite the nickname Joel gives her, it does not speak to her body type or size. AGE GAP (reader is in her 20’s and Joel is 56). several mentions of religion and religious symbols, reader has a father and two sisters, all who come with names, reader gets put into a a very uncomfortable situation, insecurity, anxiety, Seth is an asshole, protective Joel, he threatens to break someone’s jaw which is a warning in and of itself. SMUT. loss of virginity, reader is inexperienced but not totally clueless, oral (both m and f receiving), risky unprotected p in v sex (please wrap it up), lots of praise and pet names (baby, babygirl, honey, you know, the works), Joel gets a teensy bit rough, creampie, hint of aftercare, ends with a cliffhanger, but also not really if you think about it?

MOODBOARD FOR AESTHETIC PURPOSES ONLY, NO MENTION OF RACE OR BODY TYPE.

word count: 10k

a/n: it was not my intention to post this on jesus day, but here we are. this took forever and a day considering the second part was posted back in september, but i am so so proud of myself for finally completing a wip i could cry. i did a bulk of the editing while i’ve been sick and in all honesty i probably should have asked someone to beta for me because i think i coughed out like 90% of my brain cells this week, but i think it turned out okay. ish.

Somehow, even over the volume of the live music, you could still hear their hushed, astonished whispers.

“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

“Is that Joel Miller with Pastor John’s daughter?”

“What’s she doing holding his hand?”

“He’s got to be at least twice her fucking age—”

Throat bobbing anxiously, you glanced up at Joel.

His shoulders were squared back, his head held high. 

Solid. Steady.

Joel couldn’t seem to care less about the bewildered stares, the judgment that was being flung his way. Not once did he seem to waver. But you?

Oh, you were already starting to crumble underneath it all, on the verge of falling apart right before everyone’s prying eyes. Shame sat heavily inside of your chest, the weight of the feeling suffocating you, making it harder and harder to breathe as it prevented air from reaching your lungs.

It had nothing to do with Joel. Of course it didn’t. It had all to do with you and with who you were. Their beloved preacher’s sweet, innocent young daughter. 

His youngest daughter. 

Suddenly, the whispers were no longer whispers.

“Oh God, she’s not going home with him, is she?”

“That’s not right! Someone should say something!”

“Pastor John would never allow something like this.”

“Poor thing’s naive—she doesn’t know any better.”

Hot, stubborn tears of frustration glazed over your eyes and threatened to spill. It was as if you were a child who didn’t know any better, a gullible, clueless little girl with nothing in her brain who needed to be rescued—saved from the bad, bad man before he did bad, bad things to her.

Had it been anyone else, no one would have batted an eye. No one would have noticed, let alone cared. But it was you that Joel Miller was leaving the bar with in the middle of the night and it was you whose hand he had clasped in his own. That is what made it wrong. That is why it was a problem.

Everyone’s concerns had nothing to do with him at all, they had everything to do with you. You, you, you. You were the sole reason why it was a problem, the reason why he was being perceived as the Devil himself, horns out as he dragged the poor little unsuspecting angel down to the fires of Hell.

“Joel?” Overwhelmed, you instinctively reached for his arm with your free hand. Cold and trembling, your little fingers curled tightly around his bicep, digging into the firm, bulging muscle through the thick corduroy fabric of his sleeve. You whispered his name again. “Joel—”

“S’alright, babygirl,” he reassured you quietly over his shoulder. He gave your hand a comforting squeeze. “S’alright. Just keep your eyes on me, sweetheart. I’ve got you. You just keep on lookin’ right at me, okay?”

Nodding, you inhaled deeply and focused on him. Only him. The broadness of his back and his shoulders. Tufts of hair that curled over the collar of his shirt. Only him. He’s what mattered. He’s all that mattered.

“Almost there,” Joel murmured, squeezing your hand again as the door came into view. “Breathe, baby. We’re almost there. I’ve got you. You’re alright. Ain’t gonna let anythin’ bad happen to you. Promise I’ve got you.”

It wasn’t until his fingers wrapped around the old, brass handle that you finally exhaled the breath you had been holding out in utter relief, though it was very, very short lived. Just as Joel pulled the door open, you felt a hand wrap around your arm. Dry, slender fingers dug into the soft flesh above your elbow as an attempt, and a feeble one at that, was made to tear you out of Joel’s grasp.

The music stopped and the bar fell silent. Everything and everyone came to a sudden standstill, freezing mid dance, mid drink, mid bite, mid gossip.

Shocked, you glanced over your shoulder. “Seth?” you squeaked his name. “What—what are you doing?”

Seth didn’t acknowledge you. His focus was on Joel.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Miller?”

Joel’s anger couldn’t be seen, but it could be felt. So palpable you could have wrapped your fingers around it. It radiated off of him and loomed over the entire bar like an incoming storm cloud. Threatening. Dangerous.

“Where are you taking her?” Seth demanded, his other hand curling around your wrist as he tried, but failed, to snatch you from Joel’s side once more. “Let the girl go! You let her go right now, you hear?”

Caught in between the two men, you nervously turned to look at Joel. Nostrils flared, jaw clenched, seething eyes that did the talking for him. His message was loud and oh so abundantly clear.

If Seth didn't take his hands off you, he wasn’t going to have any hands.

Not after Joel Miller was through with him.

Blazing heat flooded your face. As if it couldn’t possibly get any worse, everyone had now gathered around you to watch the tense encounter, eyes wide, brows raised and jaws practically on the weathered, hardwood floor.

Tommy Miller stood among the crowd, subtly shaking his head, his lips pressed together in a tight, thin line of disapproval as he glowered at his older brother. Would he be looking at Joel like that had it been Esther in your place? If she was the one he was taking home? Would any of this be happening if it was her instead of you?

“Seth.” Uttering his name, you shifted your attention back to him. You sounded calm and collected, despite feeling anything but. Joel’s hand in yours was the only thing keeping you steady and grounded. His touch was the only reason you hadn’t yet spiraled into a state of panic. Clearing your throat lightly, you spoke again and tried your hardest not to waver. “Please let go of me.”

Still fixed on Joel, he spat, “I’ll be damned if I let him take you anywhere.”

“He’s not taking me anywhere, Seth.” Without thinking, the words came tumbling out of your mouth—loud and clear for everyone in that room to hear. “He isn’t forcing me to go with him. I’m making the choice to leave with him. Out of my own volition. Please let go of me.”

Finally, Seth looked at you. His old, worn features were twisted in disbelief. “What?”

You swallowed dryly. Part of you wanted you to shrink away, curl into yourself. Instead, you straightened your posture, forced yourself to stand a little bit taller. Willed yourself to have a backbone for once in your life.

“You heard me,” you said, lifting your chin in defiance. Several onlookers gasped in surprise at your rebellion. Where had this insolence come from? “I’m choosing to leave with Joel. Now, please let go of my arm.”

Behind you, Joel stood silent and still. 

Watching. Observing. Waiting.

He wanted nothing more than to intervene. Rip you out of Seth’s hands and shatter each and every last bone in all ten of his fingers for putting them on you. Had Joel not realized that this was probably the first time in your whole, entire life you’d mustered up the courage to use your voice, he would have easily given into the urge. He wanted to protect you. He needed so badly to protect you. Yet, he knew you weren’t helpless or incapable of standing on your own two feet. He knew you deserved the chance to stand up and speak for yourself after a lifetime of being silenced, a lifetime of being forced to stay in your place, seen but never heard.

“Seth, let go of my arm,” you repeated. It was no longer a polite request. It was a demand.

He scoffed. “Do you honestly think I’m going to let you leave with somebody like him? You think I’m just going to stand back and let him take advantage of you?”

Oh, you hadn’t liked that insinuation, not one bit. 

It caused something inside of you to finally give way.

Snap.

The blood in your veins boiled, ran hot enough to make you feel like you were about to burn from the inside out. “Joel isn’t taking advantage of me! It isn’t like that,” you seethed, furiously. The quiet, well mannered, obedient good girl everyone in Jackson knew was gone. And she could stay gone. In your periphery, you could see Leah elbowing her way through the sea of people to the front of the crowd with an incredulous look plastered on her face. She stood there beside Tommy, who appeared to be just as incredibly bewildered by your outburst. “Don’t treat me like I’m some child who doesn’t know any better! I’m an adult and I’m old enough to make my own choices, okay?”

For a moment, you had forgotten it was Seth standing there in front of you.

“I’m capable of making my own decisions! I don’t need you to dictate my life. I don’t need you to tell me what is and isn’t good for me—controlling what I should and shouldn’t believe in.” Your voice trembled as emotions you’d been suppressing for years bubbled their way up to the surface. Amidst the chaos, you could feel Joel squeeze your hand again, as if silently encouraging you not to lose your nerve. He was your anchor, the only person who could keep your world from capsizing. You knew he wouldn’t let you drown. Not even God, who you had always been forced to believe was your pillar of strength, had ever made you feel this protected. Safe. “I don’t need you to tell me how to live and much less when it’s the end of the world.”

It wasn’t Seth you were addressing.

It was your father.

Your father, who controlled every last thing, from what you would eat to the way that you dressed and how you wore your hair.

Your father, who refused to let you have a mind of your own, who simply could not bear the mere thought of you thinking for yourself.

Your father, whose love felt like shackles, heavy, rusted metal restraints that had been digging into the flesh of your wrists for far, far too long.

“You need to let me go now,” you said, swallowing back the lump in your throat. Once more, you caught Leah from the corner of your eye, your heart lurching in your chest when you noticed her desperately trying to wipe at her eyes with the back of her hand. She was the only person in the room who understood how you felt. Her rebelliousness only ever masked the pain of knowing her father’s love came with terms and conditions—and the fear of knowing what would happen if those terms and conditions weren’t met. For several weeks, you’d gotten a taste of what she went through everyday, how her fear of putting her foot down led her to run around in secret and live a double life. “Just let me go.”

Seth firmly shook his head. “No! I’m not letting you go anywhere with him. I don’t know what the hell he did to you, but he’s clearly got you all fucking brainwashed.”

That was fucking enough. Joel stepped in, lowering his voice as he said, “Y’know, I’ve just ‘bout lost count of how many fuckin’ times she’s asked you to let her go now and it’s really startin’ to piss me off.” Raising an eyebrow, he laid his offer out on the table. “Here’s the deal. You let go of her right now and I won’t shatter your fuckin’ jaw into pieces. That seem fair enough to you?”

“No.” Seth gripped your arm even harder, prompting you to let out a little yelp as his nails dug painfully into your skin. Though it’d been accidental and he hadn’t meant to hurt you, it didn’t matter. He’d just set off the ticking time bomb that was Joel Miller.

Furious, Joel snatched a fistful of his shirt with his free hand—the other still held yours. Gentle, despite being mere moments away from beating someone to within an inch of their life.

“Joel! Stop!” Tommy’s voice broke through the tension as he approached. His footsteps were slow—careful and cautious, as if he was afraid to make any kind of sudden movement. “Joel. Hey. C’mon now, let’s not do this, alright? Ain’t gotta handle things this way. We can talk it through. No need for anyone to wind up bleedin’ in the fuckin’ infirmary tonight, so just take a breath and let him go.”

Blatantly ignoring Tommy’s attempt to keep the peace, Joel tugged Seth forward, yanking him closer. “Listen to me and listen to me good ‘cause I ain’t gonna fuckin’ say it again. You’d best take your fuckin’ hands off her right now unless you wanna spend the rest of the night sweepin’ up your teeth off the floor of your own fuckin’ bar,” he threatened, his tone enough to send a chill up anyone’s spine, even your own.

“You wouldn’t dare, Miller.” Somehow, Seth managed to keep a straight face, but you could see it so clearly in his eyes and in the tremble of his lower lip—oh, he was terrified of Joel and rightly so. “Not in front of all these people. Not in front of your brother. That wouldn’t be a smart move considering you’re already on thin fucking ice for what you did to that boy’s face, now would it?”

Joel tugged him closer. “Test me,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Go on. Fuckin’ test me.”

His challenge was immediately met with a pathetic look of defeat. Seth dropped your arm and he was released.

“S’what I fuckin’ thought.” Without another word to the man, Joel whirled around and roughly pulled the door open, leading the way outside. As you both descended the building’s old, creaking wooden steps, you began to shiver and he suddenly remembered he’d left his jacket behind inside the bar. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders. “C’mere, my little dove,” he murmured as he tucked you against his side for warmth. “I’ve got you.”

The first thing he did was light the fireplace.

“Should start warmin’ you up, sweet girl,” he’d said to you over his shoulder. He tossed a log into the blaze as you sat perched on his couch rubbing your bare arms with your hands. “M’gonna go upstairs and find you a blanket, alright? You stay put.”

“Okay,” you’d mumbled, knowing there was no point in telling him not to fuss over you.

Even with the soft, fleece throw blanket he had draped around your shoulders and the warmth of the flames in front of you, you continued trembling. Subtle, but he’d noticed it, felt it when he had sat down beside you and pulled you close against his side. “Oh baby, you’re still shakin’?” That was when he realized you weren’t cold. Frowning, Joel rose to his feet and disappeared down the hallway. He came back to the living room a minute later with a glass of water in his hand. With a small, labored grunt, he dropped to one knee in front of you and held it out. “Here.”

“No, thank you.” You shook your head. “I’m not thirsty.”

“Maybe not, but I’m kinda worried you could be in a bit of shock, right now,” he stated, the creases in between his brows deepening as he observed you for any other physical signs of distress. Carefully, Joel lifted the glass to your lips, gently coaxing you to take a drink. “C’mon, darlin’. Think you can be a real good girl for me and at least take a couple sips? Hm?”

Sighing softly, you nodded and did as he asked of you, taking a small sip of water. It soothed your dry mouth and throat and you took another one. Maybe you were thirsty after all.

“Little more, now. Little more. That’s it. That’s my good girl.” Once he was satisfied with how much you’d had to drink, Joel set the half empty glass down on the oak coffee table behind him. He turned back to you, placing his large hands on either side of your thighs below the hem of your dress. He started tracing soft, soothing circles into your skin with his thumbs. “M’real proud of you for standin’ up for yourself back there, sweetheart. Took a whole lot of fuckin’ courage to do that, y’know.”

You glanced down at your hands in your lap. “Mhm.”

“Baby. Hey. Look at me.” One of his hands abandoned your leg and he reached up, delicately taking your chin between his thumb and index finger. He tilted your face upwards, his worried gaze meeting your own. “Talk to me. M’right here.”

“That—that was a lot,” you admitted meekly, shoulders sagging as the adrenaline started wearing off and your body slowly came down from the peak hormone rush. “It was a lot.”

Sighing, Joel’s hand fell away from your face. “Yeah, I know it was a lot, babygirl. I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“No.” You were quick to cut him off. “Don’t be sorry.”

His chest heaved with another sigh, this one deeper, heavier, bearing the weight of his guilt. “Well I am,” he said. He planted his hands on either side of you on the couch and lightly shook his head. “Didn’t even fuckin’ think twice when I pulled you outta that fuckin’ supply closet and took your hand in front of all those people. I was so fuckin’ hellbent on showin’ everybody you were mine that I didn’t even stop and think ‘bout what all it would mean for you. It was selfish of me. Real fuckin’ selfish. And I’m sorry, little dove.”

“Do you regret it?” you asked, quietly.

Joel chuckled in spite of himself. “M’pretty sure I’m the one who should be askin’ you that question, darlin’,” he remarked. “Tell me. Do you regret it? Do you regret me pullin’ you outta that closet?” He momentarily paused. There was a stutter in his heartbeat when you dropped your gaze away from his, silence your only reply. “Do you regret me takin’ your hand in front of everyone?”

Of course not.

You wanted to be his and you wanted everyone to know it. There was no regret, none. 

Still. 

The consequences that you would undoubtedly have to face in the morning were overwhelming. Daunting.

Surely, by then, your father would know about you and Joel. When he came downstairs right after sunrise and he discovered you weren’t in the kitchen helping Lydia prepare breakfast, he would question where you were and make some kind of remark about how you should not be sleeping in this late. He would tell her just how irresponsible it was for you to ignore your duties and obligations to him and the family. Sloth was one of the seven deadly sins, after all. He would make her trek upstairs and wake you, and when she did, your sister would find your bed empty.

Meanwhile, there would be a knock at the front door.

No stranger to having members of the congregation show up on his doorstep when they were in need, be it of prayer or comfort, your father would answer it only to find someone, not in need of solace, but who felt that it was their responsibility and moral obligation to inform him that they had seen his youngest daughter leaving The Tipsy Bison with Joel Miller in the middle of the night, hand in hand.

He wouldn’t believe them.

“Now, that is simply not true,” he would say, offended that anybody would have the nerve to show up at his door and accuse you of something so vile. “That’s not possible. I know my daughter and she would never do such a thing. It must have been someone else that you saw with him. Someone who looked like her, perhaps.”

Then, Lydia would descend the staircase and tell him you weren’t in your bedroom. “She must have gone up to the main street as soon as she woke up,” she would suggest with a shrug, not yet privy to the events that had taken place the night before at the party you and Leah had snuck off to. She never had to worry about you, the good one. “I did notice we were running pretty low on eggs. Sugar, too. She probably wanted to be the first in line at the pantry to—Papa? What’s the matter?”

The color would drain from your father’s face when the realization slowly sank in. No, you weren’t out on the main street picking up eggs for breakfast and sugar for his tea. You were lying up in Joel Miller’s bed—defiled, impure, and with the curse of Eve on your flesh. Even after dedicating his entire life to making sure you did not stray from the path of righteousness, he had failed. You had fallen into temptation. 

There was a chance he would have mercy on you. All you had to do was beg and plead for his forgiveness—and more importantly, for the forgiveness of God. “Vow to atone for your sins,” your father would say, his gaze fixed on the Holy Bible in his lap. He probably wouldn’t be able to look at you, not after what you had done. “Repent. And swear to me, child, that you will never so much as glance in that man’s direction ever again.”

No. That’s not what you wanted.

You wanted Joel and the freedom to be with him. 

But that freedom came with a high, high price.

You were willing to pay it, but you’d be lying if you said you were prepared to navigate the consequences. Then again, was there really any way for someone to prepare themselves to be shunned by their own father?

“I can take you home,” Joel offered quietly, the sound of his voice taking you out of the future and bringing you back into the present.

“What?”

“I can take you home,” he repeated himself. “I can take you home right now if that’s what you want, sweet girl. Won’t give you any kinda grief ‘bout it.”

Confused, all you could do was stare at him.

“Listen to me, baby. You mean a lot to me. More than I can even begin to explain,” Joel reassured you before any kind of doubt could find its way into your mind. “I want you to stay with me. There’s nothin’ on what’s left of this fuckin’ earth I want more than for you to stay here with me. But what you want matters to me a hell of a lot more than what I want.” He reached up, lightly stroking your cheek with his thumb. “If you decide you wanna go home and go back to your family—back to your old man—then that’s where I’ll take you. Okay?”

Your father would give you an ultimatum. But Joel? He was giving you a choice. And he’d respect that choice.

“I wanna free you from your cage, my little dove. But I think we both know you’ve gotta make the choice to fly outta there on your own.” He lightly swept his thumb over your quivering bottom lip, his eyes meeting yours as he whispered, “Door’s wide open for you. What you do next is all up to you.”

“I’m afraid, Joel,” you confessed. A tear slipped from the corner of your eye and rolled its way down the side of your face. He was quick to wipe it away, along with the others that followed. “I do want out of my cage. I really, really do. But I’m terrified. All I have ever known is my family and my faith. I have never been apart from my father and my sisters.”

His expression softened. “I know you’re scared. Can’t promise you things will be easy, but there is one thing I can promise you.”

“What’s that?” you questioned, then waited with baited breath.

He gingerly cupped your cheek in his large palm. “I’ve got you,” he swore to you, just like he had done so back at the bar. “If you decide to stay, I promise I’ll take real, real good care of you, alright? For the rest of my life, I’ll take care of you. You won’t ever have to worry ‘bout a thing with me by your side. Swear it on my life.”

Warmth blossomed in your heartspace and finally, you stopped trembling. Lifting a hand, you curled your fingers around his wrist as your gaze fell to his mouth. “Joel?”

“What is it, darlin’ girl?”

“Kiss me. Please.”

With a gentle nod, Joel’s other hand found your hip, the warmth of it seeping through the cotton fabric of your dress. Leaning in, he brushed his lips against yours. It was a chaste thing, soft and innocent until you grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him closer to you. “Babygirl,” he mumbled against your lips. He deepened the kiss, sweeping his tongue through your parted lips and into your mouth. He tasted like bold bourbon and citrus beer. There was a faint hint of tobacco too—you recalled him admitting to you one night in the church house that while he wasn’t all that much of a smoker, at least not like he used to be when living in the zones, he would occasionally partake in the habit if he happened to come across a pack of cigarettes while out on patrol, pairing the nicotine with a drink. He tasted delicious. He tasted delicious because he tasted like yours.

You sank back into the worn, supple brown leather of his couch, tugging him forward so he sank in with you. Over you. Releasing your near death grip on his collar, you managed to wedge your hands in between your bodies and began to claw furiously at the buttons of his shirt, your fingers shaking out of pure desperation to feel him. It wasn’t until you were halfway down that he finally noticed what you were doing and leaned back, catching both of your wrists.

“Baby, wait,” he panted, shaking his head. “Don’t think now’s a good time for that—”

“Joel, please,” you pleaded, the intense ache between your thighs almost too much for you to bear. “Please. I want it. I want you.”

“S’been a rough night for you.” Joel’s voice was hoarse—strained, like he was aching just as much, if not more. “You’re real emotional right now. Vulnerable. Last thing I want is to take advantage of you at a time like this.”

You frowned. Had Seth’s words gotten into his head?

“You’re not taking advantage of me.”

“Darlin’ I just don’t think we should—”

“Joel, please,” you begged him again. “I was so good for you, was I not? Wasn’t I patient, just like you asked me to be?”

His lips thinned into a tight line. He wouldn’t be able to resist much longer. You, his beautiful little temptress of Eden.

“I waited for so long,” you reminded him. “I’ve been so, so good for you. Please, just make me yours already. I don’t want to think about anything else right now. I just want to be with you. Please, Joel. I need you so badly it hurts.”

Christ.

No man could stand it. No man could possibly have the strength to deny you.

With a look of utter defeat, he folded. Before he could say another word or make another move, your greedy mouth was on his, and you kissed him with fervor, with urgency, as you finished the task of unbuttoning his shirt. Pushing it off of his shoulders, the corduroy fabric fell into a crumpled heap behind him, nearly knocking the glass of water off the coffee table. You broke away from him and shamelessly marveled at his mouth watering form—you admired the way miles of smooth, tanned skin stretched over his wide shoulders, broad chest and soft, soft belly. Arousal pooled between your legs and you reached out and raked your fingers down his chest, and over his stomach, going lower and lower, following the trail of coarse, dark hair that led you to his brown leather belt. You clumsily started fumbling with the brass buckle until he caught your hands once more.

“Slow down, my little dove,” he murmured. “No need to rush this. We’ve got all night.” He stood up and held his hand out to you. Time blurred a bit—maybe it was your nervousness mingled with the eager anticipation of what was to come, but there seemed to be a small gap in your memory, a blank space that spanned from the moment you rose off the couch until the moment you found yourself standing in his bedroom where you were about to answer to the call of the flesh.

Dropping your hand, Joel switched on the lamp on his bedside table and kicked off his boots before taking you into his arms. “C’mere, honey.” He nuzzled your cheek with the tip of his nose as he spoke, the scruff of his beard tickling your cheek. “Couple’a rules, sweet girl. I do somethin’ that you don’t like, you tell me. You want me to stop, you tell me to sto—”

Without waiting for him to finish his sentence, you slowly lowered yourself down onto the floor and knelt at his feet with purpose, as if kneeling before an altar, a sacred, holy space. Though you felt anxious, you were eager to worship. “I haven’t forgotten about what I said earlier tonight,” you cooed, noticing the mild look of surprise on his face. “I said I’d make it up to you and I intend on keeping my word.”

All the blood in his body rushed south to his cock and it strained painfully against the crotch of his jeans. “Baby, I—” Again, he was cut off, only this time by the sound of his own groan when your hand brushed up the front of his thigh and over his growing bulge. He glanced down, his heart thrumming painfully hard against his sternum as he watched you reach for his belt buckle.

With all your might, you willed your hands so as not to tremble. It was self-explanatory, what you were about to do, but your total lack of experience sowed seeds of doubt into your mind—you wanted to make him feel good, just like he had made you feel good outside of the church house during services. Just how you knew he would make you feel tonight.

Hand still over his buckle, you pressed the tenderest of kisses to his bulge through his jeans. Then, turning your head, you rested your cheek on one of his thick, blue denim clad thighs and peered up at him through your eyelashes with a small, nervous smile as you confessed what he already knew. “I’ve never done this before.”

Oh, how sweet and endearing you were. Joel reached down and smoothed your hair back and away from your face, tucking it behind your ear. “S’alright, honey,” he crooned, grazing the silkiness of your cheek with his index finger. “I’ll walk you through it. Teach you how to be a real good girl and suck my cock just the way I like it. That what you want, my little dove?”

His filth made your cunt clench hard around nothing.

Slowly lifting your head off of his thigh, you pulled your bottom lip between your teeth and managed a clear, consenting nod as your hands fumbled with his buckle, the clinking sound of metal ringing loudly in your ears. You undid the button on his jeans and pulled down his zipper, your throat drying when you saw the outline of him, his size intimidating even behind the cotton fabric of his faded, black boxer briefs.

With a harsh swallow, you glanced up at him, silently asking him for his permission to continue.

Such a polite little thing, Joel thought to himself. “Go on, sweetheart,” he encouraged.

You tugged his jeans down to the middle of his thighs and hooked your index fingers underneath the elastic waistband of his boxer briefs, pulling them down and freeing his cock. There was a deep, swooping sensation in your belly as you watched it slap up against the lower part of his abdomen. After many nights of sitting in his lap, feeling him through his clothes, grinding your cunt down onto him, you thought you’d at the very least had an idea of what you would be in for, but oh, how wrong you had been. He was so much bigger than you could have imagined, and your stomach swooped again when you realized he was not going to fit. Anywhere.

Licking away the dryness of your lips, you take him in one of your hands, feeling the heaviness of his length in your palm. He was so long and so, so thick.

“Oh fuck,” Joel hissed the curse through gritted teeth, his hips jerking forward involuntarily as your touch sent a charged jolt of electricity shooting up the length of his spine. He looked down at you, his pupils blown wide with arousal. Christ. You hadn’t even done anything to him yet, but seeing you sitting so prettily at his feet was almost enough to make him come on the spot.

Delicately wrapping your hand around him, you found yourself almost in awe at the way your fingertips barely, just barely, touched. The sheer size of his cock dwarfed your hand, and made it seem so much smaller than it really was.

“You’re so big,” you murmured, echoing your thoughts. You licked at your lips again, suddenly feeling ravenous, an appetite that had seemingly come out of nowhere making you salivate. The tip of him was flushed red, slit already glistening—how badly you wanted, needed a taste. Never, ever, did you think you would be down on your knees for anything but prayer, but there you were, starved and desperate to bite into the forbidden fruit.

“What’re you waitin’ for, darlin’ girl?” he croaked.

“Permission,” you replied, sweetly.

“Go right ahead, baby. S’all yours—I’m all yours.”

Yours.

Yours, yours, yours.

Finding your first push of courage, you leaned forward and so carefully swept your tongue along the tip of his length, collecting the slight saltiness leaking from the slit and getting your first delectable taste. With your hand still wrapped firmly around his base, you looked up, your eyes locked on Joel’s face as you flicked your tongue up against the rigid underside of his cock.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” Joel groaned, all of the muscles in his stomach already pulling taut when he felt you dragging your tongue in a slow, purposeful lick along the length of him. “Babygirl.”

“Is that good?” you asked him, sounding hopeful. “Am I doing good?”

“Doin’ so, so fuckin’ good for me, sweetheart. Look so fuckin’ pretty down on your knees for me.”

Pleased, you wrapped your mouth around the head of his length, pressing forward and taking him in as far as you possibly could—which, in all fairness, wasn’t very far. At least not as far as you would have liked. Another groan tore itself from the depths of his chest as your plush, plump lips sealed around him, your tongue warm and wet on the underside of his cock. Moving both of your hands to rest on the sides of his thighs, you began to move your head back and forth, following what felt most natural to you. The nerves you initially felt slowly but surely dissipated, vanishing one by one with every curse, every tremble, every sharp breath.

Joel resisted the urge to buck his hips forward, fought the desire to feel himself at the back of your throat. He needed to be gentle, so careful with such an innocent, pliant thing who had much, much to learn. “Sweet little fuckin’ mouth feels so good around my cock, baby, just like I fuckin’ knew it would. Y’think it can take more of me, little dove? Hm?”

You hummed, the vibration intensifying his pleasure.

“Yeah? Y’trust me?”

Your reply came in the form of a muffled, “Mhm.”

Joel reached down and cradled the back of your head in the palm of his hand. He carefully guided you further onto his throbbing length, slowly feeding you one inch at a time. Your fingers dug into the denim of his jeans. He was much more than a mouthful for you, and you could only take about half of him before he hit the back of your throat, prompting you to gag around him. Drool dribbled out from the corners of your mouth and down the sides your chin, dripping onto your lap.

“Oh fuck, sweetheart. Yeah, that’s it. Little more now, honey,” Joel encouraged. He bucked his hips forward, his head slipping further down your throat. Just when you felt like you were about to choke, he pulled out and you tried your hardest not to cough and sputter as you took in a much needed, precious breath of air. He gave you a few seconds or so to finish catching your breath as he shoved his jeans and boxer briefs further down his legs. He stepped out of the articles of clothing and kicked them somewhere off to the aside, standing before you completely bare. “Open up.”

Your absolute devotion to him bred sweet submission, so as worried as you were that you wouldn’t be able to handle it, you nodded obediently and very willingly did as you were told. 

He guided himself right back into your waiting mouth, pressing deeply. You tried to relax your jaw, reminding yourself to breathe in and out through your nose. Tears streamed down the sides of your face as you did your best to forestall another gag. “Little bit more,” he said, thrusting his hips in a slow, steady controlled rhythm. He advanced even further into your mouth—trusting he wouldn’t suffocate you, nor push you too far past your limits, you opened up wider. He moaned, “Yeah, baby. That’s my good girl. That’s my good fuckin’ girl.”

With a bit of newfound confidence, you hollowed your cheeks and sucked him. You swiped your tongue along the thick, prominent vein on the underside of his cock, earning yourself more of his sweet, sweet praise.

“Fuck, yeah, suck me off, sweetheart. This pretty little mouth was fuckin’ made for sin,” he breathed, guiding your head back and forth with a firm, but gentle hand.

You moaned, the noise muffled around his length. Slick soaked through your panties and coated the insides of your thighs. With another moan, you tightly squeezed your legs together, inwardly reminding yourself that patience was a virtue.

Noticing the way you had shifted, Joel moved his hand from the back of your head, lightly curling his fingers around your jaw. He pulled you off of his cock, a loud, lewd popping sound bouncing off the sage green walls of his bedroom. “C’mere, baby.” He grabbed your arms, effortlessly hoisting you up to your feet.

“What’s wrong?” you questioned him worriedly. “Did I do something wrong?”

Chuckling softly, he brushed a finger along the strap of your dress. You could do no wrong, his perfect, perfect girl. “Of course not, sweet girl. You did so fuckin’ good for me,” Joel reassured you, lightly tracing along your collarbone with his finger and making your flesh erupt in goosebumps. He leaned forward and feathered a kiss onto your lips, murmuring against them, “Are you wet, little dove?”

Before you could even process the query and generate some kind of coherent response, he dove his opposite hand between your thighs, cupping your warm heat in his palm. At this, your weak knees buckled, prompting you to reach out and grab onto his arms to hold steady and keep yourself from falling into a helpless heap on the floor.

“Oh, honey. You’re soaked. That what sucking my cock does to you?” he cooed. He peppered another kiss, this one onto the corner of your mouth. His voice lowered another octave. “Poor little thing. She needs me, don’t she? Needs me to take care of her?”

You whimpered. “Yes.”

“Manners, babygirl,” he reminded you, skimming your cheek with his nose. “Yes, what?”

“Yes, please.”

Humming in approval, Joel withdrew his hand from in between your legs and guided you backwards towards his bed. “Sit,” he commanded gently, bidding you to let go of him. “Arms up.”

Reaching for the hem of your dress, he took great care in pulling it over your head, then discarded the vibrant yellow material over his shoulder, leaving you in nothing but your cowboy boots and thin, cotton white panties. Without a word, he knelt before you and pulled off one boot, and then the other, setting them both aside. He hooked two fingers underneath the elastic waistband of your underwear, coaxing you to lift your bottom off of the bed, just long enough for him to pull them down and slide them down your legs. He was so tender in the manner in which he undressed you.

“Fuckin’ beautiful, beautiful girl,” Joel praised. His dark gaze dragged down the length of your body as you sat before him wearing nothing but the delicate, gold chain around your neck. The holy cross nestled between your supple breasts gleamed in the light of the lamp on the nightstand. He would leave it on until your decision was made, set in stone. “My pretty little dove.”

“Joel.” You whimpered his name, hands curling around fistfuls of his dark blue sheets. You were drenched now, in dire need of some relief. If he didn’t touch you where you needed him most, you would surely lose your mind.

Desperate, you leaned back slightly onto his bed and parted your knees, your folds glistening as you showed him just how badly you needed him.

Joel groaned, almost visibly salivating at the sight. The blazing heat in his eyes sent ripples of desire coursing through your body, straight to your throbbing core.

You opened wider. “Please.”

“Christ, babygirl. Already soakin’ the sheets.” Sliding a finger up along the seam of your pussy, he grazed your clit, the touch light, but somehow still enough to make your hips arch off the mattress as white-hot pinpricks of pleasure danced their way up your spine. He lowered his head and leaned in, your sweet scent drawing him in like a moth to a flame. Just when you were about to start pleading him for more, he dipped his face into the apex of your thighs, his mouth finally, finally, meeting your wet heat.

“Oh!” you gasped, your head falling back. “Fuck!”

Against you, his lips curled upwards into a wicked grin. He’d never heard you curse before, not until now.

Joel took his time devouring you, savoring the essence of your cunt with each broad stroke of his tongue. Sealing his lips around your clit, he flicked the swollen, sensitive bundle of nerves over and over again, eliciting from you some of the sweetest noises that he had ever heard in his entire life. In preparation for what you both knew was to come, he pushed one finger inside of you, the invasion causing you to fist his sheets even harder. He then slipped in a second finger, groaning in sheer, carnal bliss at how your walls squeezed them, at the mere thought of them squeezing his cock in the same manner. How was it that you felt so much tighter this time around?

“Oh God.”

You shouldn’t be saying His name. Not like this.

Not when something this sinful was being done to you.

Hungrily, Joel lapped at you, curling both of his fingers in an upwards motion to hit the perfect spot. He knew you were close, felt it in the way that you squirmed and writhed. Draping his arm across your hips, he pinned them down onto the bed, holding you still as he chased your high as if it were his own.

“Joel,” you chanted his name over and over again in a fevered prayer. Releasing the sheets, your hands found his hair, tangling themselves in his curls. Your head fell back, and you cursed at the ceiling of his bedroom. “Fuck, fuck, fuck Joel—”

Pushing onto his mouth, you came, moaning his name so loudly you were certain the whole neighborhood was getting an earful.

Joel pulled back, his beard and mustache slicked with your spend. “S’right, honey,” he crooned, his digits still buried to the knuckle as he helped you to ride out your wave of ecstasy. Eventually, when he pulled them out, you tried closing your shaking legs. He tsked and shook his head, wrenching them open further. “No, no, baby. Keep those pretty thighs open for me. Wanna see her.” He admired his work, his cock twitching at the sight of your pussy, swollen and shining, and ready to take him.

Like earlier, there was another brief skip in time.

Mind still in a haze, you hadn’t even realized that he’d risen to his feet and guided you further up onto his bed, not until you were lying on your back with your head on his pillow and he was hovering over you, his hard length brushing against one of your messy, inner thighs when he settled himself between your legs. 

Your heart began to pound in a mingle of both fear and excitement.

Joel’s eyes met yours. His pupils were blown so wide, there was not one, single trace of brown anywhere to be seen. “Y’absolutely sure about this, little dove?”

Your response came without hesitation. “Yes. I’m sure.”

He pressed a kiss to the underside of your jaw. Your submission was a gift, and he would cherish every last second of your surrender to him, savor it for as long as he possibly could. His lips, soft and warm, skimmed along the column of your throat, leaving a trail of fresh goosebumps in their wake.

If, by some chance, you decided that you wanted to go back to your father and to your faith, Joel didn’t know how he would find it in himself to let you go, not after this. Of course, he would have to let go, though.

The last thing he wanted was to help free you from one cage just to stick you right back into another. While he was no stranger to loss, he had to admit to himself that to lose you would be a knife to whatever was left of his heart.

Shoving the thought out of his mind, he reached down and gripped the base of his cock, pumping it in his fist before running the leaking head along your puffy lips, coating himself in your wetness with the hope it would ease some of the pain you were bound to feel. “Ready, babygirl?” he asked you, lightly teasing your entrance. “Might hurt a bit. M’gonna go slow. Just need you to relax for me, alright?”

“Okay.”

“I’ve got you,” he promised.

You nodded, saying softly, “I know.”

Though he knew he had all of your trust, Joel could still sense your anxiousness. He reached out for your hand, lacing your fingers together with his own as he gingerly pressed forward and eased himself into you, taking the very innocence you had been taught your entire life to preserve, one slow, careful inch at a time.

“Oh—Joel!” You cried loudly at the initial stretch, your pretty face scrunching in discomfort. Tightly slamming your eyes shut, sparks flew behind your eyelids when he finally bottomed out. The burning sting in between your thighs was too overwhelming, almost impossible to cope with. He felt so enormous within you, you could have sworn he was in your belly. Another broken cry fell from your lips and he swallowed it with a comforting kiss.

“Jesus Christ,” he hissed against your lips, a thin sheen of sweat coating his brow, neck, and chest. He wasn’t sure where he found the strength, but he suppressed his urge to thrust. Instead, he dropped his face into the hollow of your neck and waited, giving you the chance to adjust to him. He mumbled against your skin. “Doin’ so good for me, sweet girl. Y’know that? You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good for me.”

Even in discomfort, you preened at his praise.

He squeezed your hand, and after a minute, he gave an experimental thrust of his hips—and then another and another before he ceased his movement once again. He was so big and you were so deliciously full of him.

Eventually, the pain subsided, and you found yourself asking, no, begging for more. “Move.” Your other hand found itself cupping the side of his face, coaxing him to lift his head and allowing your gazes to meet. Your soft, plush thighs parted further to help accommodate the breadth of his hips. “Please, Joel. I need you to move—I need you to fuck me.”

Surely, you would be the death of him.

He drew his hips back with cautious, tender care, then advanced in the same manner to fill your precious cunt all over again. He did it over and over, your pleasured moans encouraging him to begin picking up the pace. He drove his cock in and out of your weeping pussy, the slapping of flesh against flesh, the lewd, wet squelch of you around him inspiring him to fuck you harder, faster. And the noises you were making?

There was something oh so beautiful about your cries, sweet raptures of submission as you laid there beneath him, all too graciously taking everything he had to give you like the good, good, good girl you were for him.

“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart,” Joel rasped. “Look at you—look at the way you take my fuckin’ cock, honey.”

And you did.

Glancing down, your gaze fell between your bodies and you watched in awe, openly marveled at the way Joel slid in and out of your cunt, how he knocked hard so deeply inside of you, driving himself as far as he could possibly go.

“Fuck Joel, I’m gonna—” You tried warning him as the pressure in your belly neared its peak, but you tumbled over the edge before you even had the chance to finish your sentence. Arching up off off the bed, you pressed your chest against his, your fingers squeezing his own so hard you feared you might break them.

“That’s it babygirl, let go,” he grunted, speeding up his thrusts. “Squeeze my fuckin’ cock—just like that. Good girl. My perfect, perfect girl.”

You didn’t quite get the chance to let the praise sink in.

Joel pulled himself out of you, and with ease, he flipped you over onto your belly. His hands gripped your hips and pulled them up off the mattress, his fingers moving to firmly knead the fleshiest part of your ass. He leaned over you, the head of his cock nudging at your hole. “Y’think you can handle a little bit more, sweetheart?” he whispered the question into a tumble of messy hair, the delicate scent of the lavender shampoo you used to wash it filling his senses. “Answer me, little dove.”

“Yes,” you replied breathlessly with a nod. “I can.”

With a satisfied hum, Joel sank into you, this second stretch not quite as overwhelming at the first, but still intense. “Relax,” he murmured, hunching further over your quivering back. He pressed a kiss onto the top of your head and then leaned down to brace his hands on either side of you. “Need you to be sweet for me just a bit longer, okay, baby?”

“God,” you whimpered when the heaviness of his balls came to rest on your sensitive clit.

It was the second time you’d uttered His name.

Joel almost grinned at the irony. He found his rhythm, groaning in gut-deep satisfaction with each snap of his hips—each smooth stroke in and each smooth stroke out.

“Oh fuck, sweet girl.” Heaven was indeed a real place, and Joel Miller was buried in it to the hilt, right at this very moment.

He was getting closer and closer.

Maybe it was your eagerness to help him reach his own release mingled with the pride you knew you would feel once you did that gave you a second wind, a fresh, new burst of energy. You planted your hands firmly on his pillow. Rolling your bottom lip between your teeth, you curved your spine and pushed back onto Joel with purpose, meeting his thrusts halfway as you rode his aching length to the satiation that waited for him at the end.

“There’s my girl,” he rasped. “Oh fuckin’ Christ—”

No way he could live his life without you now.

He needed you.

He needed you so much more than you needed him.

Joel slipped an arm around your shoulders, across your chest.

“Oh!” you gasped as he then yanked you back, pulling you flush against him. The rough crash of your back against his chest, combined with the angle in which he was fucking you knocked the wind out of your lungs.

His lips were at the shell of your ear. “Stay,” he panted, his breath hot against your cheekbone. He wrapped his other hand lightly around your throat. Relentless, were his hips now—his movements had become frantic. Desperate. “Stay with me, baby.”

Even as you fought to catch your breath in the position he had you in, you picked up on the fact that he wasn’t asking you of it, nor was he demanding you of it.

He was begging you.

Him, the most feared man in this town. Begging you?

“Joel,” you choked.

“Please, my little dove,” he pleaded, turning your head towards him. His mouth was then on the corner of your own, his beard roughly scratching the soft and delicate flesh of your cheek. “I need you, babygirl. Stay with me. Please, just fuckin’ stay with me.”

Your hands curled around his wrists. “Yes, I’ll stay,” you moaned. “I’m yours, Joel. I’m all yours. I—I’m not going anywhere. I promise. I’ll stay with you.”

A low, guttural sound rumbled through his chest. Joel firmly took hold of your cross, and without so much as a warning, he ripped the chain from around your neck and tossed it somewhere over his shoulder. He heard it land on the hardwood floor with the tiniest, faint clink the moment he spilled into you, ropes of warm release coating your fluttering walls. Curses and groans spilled from his lips and into your neck. Your cunt clutched at his pulsing cock, greedy for every last drop of his spend she could get.  

Once you were filled, you both collapsed beside each other on the bed, heaving to catch a steady breath.

“Y’okay, sweetheart?” Joel managed to ask, his chest still rising and falling rapidly.

Exhausted, all you could do was nod and utter, “Mhm.”

He exhaled an amused huff through his nose. “C’mere.” He reached for you and pulled you against his side. He draped an arm around your shoulders, holding you as close to him as was possible. “Y’did so good, honey.”

Your mouth curled into a small, contented smile.

Several minutes had passed by, and despite telling him that you were too tired to even think about moving, Joel made you get up and use the bathroom, and while you did so, he ran a clean washcloth under warm water. “Here, darlin’. Let me clean you up,” he’d said, his lips meeting your forehead in a loving token of affection before he sank down onto one knee and ran the damp cloth along the insides of your thighs. He took extreme care when he wiped at your swollen folds, knowing you were still sensitive to the touch. “There we go. All done, now.”

Not long after, you were both back in his bed, wrapped up in his sheets.

Yawning, you nuzzled into bare his chest, your eyelids feeling heavier and heavier with each and every second that ticked by. You’d started drifting off when you heard his voice.

“Baby?”

“Hmm?” you answered sleepily, eyes still closed.

“Did you mean what you said?”

“Mean what, Joel?”

There was a brief pause. “Y’know, when you said you’d stay with me.”

Snuggling closer to him, you mumbled, “Mhm. Of course I did.”

“S’not gonna be easy,” Joel murmured into your hair.

“I know.” You yawned. “But I have you.”

“You do. You’ve got me—and I’ve got you, babygirl.”

“Mm. I know that too, Joel.”

You felt him kiss the top of your head and then fell fast asleep in his arms.

The sun bloomed over the Grand Tetons.

Your father would wake soon, that’s to say if he wasn’t up already.

The nerves began to set in.

Joel must have sensed it. “Breathe, baby. S’gonna be okay,” he soothed, squeezing your hand.

With one of his warmer, heavier jackets that normally didn’t see the light of day until winter season draped around your shoulders, the two of you made your way down the road and towards your house. Or better said, towards your father’s house. Because after what you were about to do, that yellow and white cottage would no longer be a place you could call home.

He led you up to the porch. “Y’sure you don’t want me to go in there with you?” he asked, quietly.

You could have laughed. You almost did.

“Do you believe that to be a wise choice?”

“No, I reckon it ain’t the best idea,” Joel admitted with a sigh, raking his free hand through his unkempt, salt and pepper hair. He looked up at the house, then back at you. “Look, little dove. No matter what happens in there, just know that everythin’ will be alright. M’gonna take care of you. For the rest of my life, I’ll take care of you. I’ll try my hardest to be everythin’ you need.”

“You already are, Joel,” you said, your gaze earnest.

His chest swelled with warmth.

Truth be told, Joel didn’t know how he had managed to defy the odds—how he, of all people, had managed to make his way into that sweet, innocent, beautiful little heart of yours, but somehow he did, and he would not take this responsibility lightly.

He brushed your lips with his and promised, “Gonna be waitin’ right here, okay?”

“Okay.” Inhaling deeply, you willed yourself to let go of his hand and took a step back. You then started up the porch steps on wobbling legs. When you made it to the top, you glanced over your shoulder at Joel, who gave you a subtle nod of encouragement. Exhaling slowly, you reached for the knob with trembling fingers and turned it, opening the door. You stepped inside, your heart dropping into your stomach when you saw your father sitting there at the foot of the staircase, as if he’d been waiting for you. He had been waiting for you. Fully dressed, he sat on the second to last step with both hands folded on his bible in his lap, a rosary clutched between them. “Papa?”

He said nothing. Instead, he silently observed you—his eyes glazed over the men’s jacket and the short dress you were underneath it, the disheveled, loose hair and kiss swollen lips. Your holy cross nowhere to be seen.

“Papa.” You swallowed harshly and shifted your weight anxiously from the heel of one boot to the other. “We, um—we really need to have a talk.”

He peered around you, catching a brief glimpse of the man standing outside, waiting for you at the foot of the porch.

He cleared his throat, lightly. “Yes, child. I suppose that we do.”

Nodding tightly, you turned around and slowly closed the door. Joel’s words rang in your mind over and over, giving you the push of strength you knew you would need.

I’ve got you.

divider credit goes to @saradika 🤍

[tyunniez]

sugar

oc x bttm m reader // smut

" my, look at you~ " your eyes flickered up to gaze into ji woon's eyes. " xin hui made a real mess of you, huh? " the teasing tone in his voice made your tip stickier than it already was.

seeing you tied up, a vibrator shoved up your ass with your own underwear stuffed inside your mouth was certainly a sight to see.

he slowly approached you while loosening up his tie, a hungry look in his eyes.

a low moan escaped your mouth as he dragged his finger down your exposed cock, making sure to run his finger nice and slow to feel all the veins around it.

" i wonder how many times have you cum, yn? by the looks of it not that much hm.. " what he said was indeed true.

xin hui being the fucking sadist he is decided not to let you cum even once, ripping away that sweet sweet release as soon as you were nearing it.

" poor baby, don't worry i'll help you, okay? " ji woon grinned while slowly stroking your cock. a choked grunt muffled from your mouth, tears brimming your eyes as you could feel your release soon.

" ah-ah, not now though. let's see how long you could last, sugar. " ji woon ripped his hand away from your aching cock, a look of betrayal clear in your eye. since when did this bastard become a sadist too?!

ji woon ran his hand all over your thigh, purposely caressing your inner thigh to get a reaction out of you. meanwhile, his other hand toyed around with your hard nipple, mouthing and sucking on the other one.

" mmh yn.. come on, cum already... " he whined while sucking on your adam's apple. his hand that was roaming your thigh now held onto the vibrator, pushing it in and out of you slowly.

this caused your pupils to go wide. a loud muffled moan flew past your mouth as you tried to close your legs, which failed knowing that ji woon was literally between them.

he started slowly, dragging the silicone toy in and out of you. your eyes rolled to the back of your head as you try to process the amount of stimulation you are receiving.

ji woon however got impatient and immediately sped up with no warning whatsoever, shoving the toy inside your abused hole before pulling it out only to shove it back in again.

strings of moans and whines muffled in your mouth as you try to beg ji woon to slow down. he on the other hand only sped up, seemingly desperate to see you cum untouched.

you feel the coil in your stomach about to break as your thigh began shaking. " that's right, cum for me yeah? " ji woon whispered into your ear, trailing kisses down to your chest.

you shut your eyes as your cum shot out of your cock, loads after loads coming out seeing as if there was no end to it. you bucked your hip as a way to ride out your high, the orgasm itself so intense causing tears to come streaming down.

" look at you, cumming untouched. how cute~ " he teased while lapping up some of the cum that landed on your stomach which led to him sucking the one on your cock.

the sheer overstimulation made you almost pass out but not before a harsh slap to your thigh woke you up.

" hey now, we're not done yet! "

this is absolutely filthy my gawd. btw the two oc (ji woon n xin hui) are actually from a fic i made a long time ago. should i post it here lolz?

[jewishvitya]

I remembered this essay from years ago when I was unlearning what I knew of Israel and zionism and I couldn't find it again, and now I see it in a Shaun video, with the source.

Ze'ev Jabotinsky, "The Iron Wall." I downloaded it from the Jabotinsky Institute.

These are the titles he gave this essay:

I said that Zionist leaders explicitly talked about Zionism as a colonialist movement. This is an example of what I was talking about.

Some quotes:

There can be no voluntary agreement between ourselves and the Palestine Arabs. Not now, nor in the prospective future. I say this with such conviction, not because I want to hurt the moderate Zionists. I do not believe that they will be hurt. Except for those who were born blind, they realised long ago that it is utterly impossible to obtain the voluntary consent of the Palestine Arabs for converting "Palestine" from an Arab country into a country with a Jewish majority.

My readers have a general idea of the history of colonisation in other countries. I suggest that they consider all the precedents with which they are acquainted, and see whether there is one solitary instance of any colonisation being carried on with the consent of the native population. There is no such precedent.

He's saying openly: no land was colonized with the consent of its indigenous population. So we have to do it without that consent.

Every native population in the world resists colonists as long as it has the slightest hope of being able to rid itself of the danger of being colonised.

That is what the Arabs in Palestine are doing, and what they will persist in doing as long as there remains a solitary spark of hope that they will be able to prevent the transformation of "Palestine" into the "Land of Israel."

He said that any zionist who depends on the Arab population accepting a Jewish state on their lands, might as well withdraw from zionism because that's impossible.

Zionist colonisation must either stop, or else proceed regardless of the native population. Which means that it can proceed and develop only under the protection of a power that is independent of the native population – behind an iron wall, which the native population cannot breach.

And then he says that this Iron Wall is the British Mandate and the Balfour Declaration - they're the power that stops Palestinians from resisting us.

He says that despite this, zionism is moral and just, so justice must be done, zionism must move forward. He just wants to be honest about what it takes. He wants to discourage talks of an agreement to avoid signaling to the British that they must try to reach one between us and Palestinians. Just stop them from fighting us, we'll colonize the place.

Zionism was openly colonialist until this language was no longer politically useful.

Editing because I was kinda shocked by the response this got, in several moments. When the slavery of US founders was brought up to dismiss this whole thing. When First Nations reservations were brought up on the same list as the United States as equivalent to Israel, because I said I oppose the existence of a country that prioritizes one ethnic group at the expense of others, and I support democracy that protects everyone equally.

But another thing that's still nagging at me is the idea that this whole essay can be dismissed based on semantic arguments, like sure this uses the word colonialism, but is it actually the colonialism that we talk about and oppose? And what if this word is only used to appeal to the British for support?

This isn't the the first time that prominent zionist thinkers talk about zionism as a colonialist movement. I saw it in old publications, things like magazines, I'd be posting them too if I found them again. I did my own deconstructing years ago, I don't remember where I found all my sources.

I do remember that they talked about the two concepts together - the idea that we're here to colonize, and that we're here to come home. So nowadays there's the arguement that people can't colonize their own homeland, but to them there was no contradiction. I saw it again looking at Herzl's diary last night.

I say I define colonialism through actions and tactics, through the harm that's done to the victims of colonization. Because if we knowingly repeated the actions of colonizers and used the help of an imperial force to conquer a land, having a historic connection to it shouldn't absolve us.

Jabotinsky didn't write to the British in this essay. He wrote to other zionists who wanted to aim for something more collaborative with Palestinian Arabs. And it's true that word choice can mean different things in the context of the time, but there's a reason I chose those quotes. What is he actually saying in this essay?

Consider colonization throughout history - the native population never agreed, so we must do the as colonizers did in the past.

Palestinians will never agree to a Jewish state - so we must do it by force. We should use an imperial force as an "iron wall" to prevent them from resisting. Stop talking about an agreement because then the British will try to reach one instead of holding them back and letting us do our thing.

He's comparing the zionist movement to other efforts of colonization, to talk about emulating them.

This isn't a game of semantics. I'm not just bringing this up just because he used the words.

What he's describing - conquest by force, preventing a Palestinian state, forcibly creating a Jewish majority - is what happened. And it's still what's happening.

This is the branch of zionism that went into practice and founded Israel.