#he in fact might actually be making things worse

[condemning-twitter]

First of all, and to get things straight: I am a biological woman, identifying as a woman and also identifying as a feminist. That being said, let's break this dumpster fire down.

What can be observed in this reblog chain is a bunch of self-identifying feminists (including radfems) stopping by the Tumblr post of a MINOR. Based on Tumblr guidelines, said minor might be as young as 13 years old and based on his own post, identifies as male. Furthermore, he is outspokenly leftist (statistically speaking, he is unlikely to have the mind of a misogynist). All of these can be found out by taking so much as five minutes out of your day to do some research rather than making snarky comments.

In his original post, OP expresses his concerns about the feminist movement and points out that man-hatred is actually counter-productive to a healthy pro women movement; And THAT is a legitimate concern and widely known issue.

While OP's message uses rough wording (to the point of other users framing his words as though he implied that the only natural response to unfair treatment is to exact unfair treatment on others) the core meaning holds true. Young children are IMPRESSIONABLE, in case you have ever wondered why young girls are so susceptible to grooming. Young boys are not deriving their behaviors from the void; they are being taught by someone. Who is that someone? Well, it depends on which group the boy in question feels most at home in.

Which one would you pick? The group that has piled or would be willing to pile roughly 100 hate reblogs on you for saying a slightly wrong thing or the group that is telling you that the other group is inherently stupid? One is invalidating you and offering an unsafe, unpredictable environment. The other is offering a validating and safe, predictable environment.

Teens are on a search for identity and connection. This usually causes them to search and find labels and groups to identify their own person by. Perhaps it doesn't ring any bells but "The child who is not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth" and this applies here as well. The group that doesn't accept you is the enemy by default. This is why misogynists WANT boys to believe that feminists are anti male or male sexists; if one group is alienating you, you are left with the groups that don't. Preferably, you will then seek out a group that validates your (perceived) experiences of alienization. And that is the first step. The rest is a pipeline. Once you have identified with a group, your mind is fertile ground for their rhetoric.

You think being mistreated is no justification for being a horrible person? Neither do I! And neither did OP. The problem is that there's a certain cause and effect at play that's driving men away from us and to misogynists like Trump and Tate. Not exclusively, but it sure fucking helps. And considering your reaction, all of you either seem oblivious to that fact or too self-absorbed in your frustrations to care.

"If mean words are turning you into Hitler 2 bla bla" rich words considering there are likely dozens of grown-ass adults piling on a minor on this post and none of them have been called out yet. But no. Bad experiences don't justify bad behavior. Surely.

Even if the alienization is only perceived, it can- Oh wait. It is not actually just perceived, is it? Responses are ranging from "we had it worse and are justified in our anger; you are not" to hopefully sarcastic "men don't even deserve to exist" statements that cannot even be read as sarcastic because everything sounds the same on the internet.

Anyway, even perceived alienization can change a person's political affiliation for the worse. No, this cannot always be prevented. You are not being asked to pander to anybody - you are being asked not to offer young boys to self-proclaimed "alpha men" on a silver platter.

I hate to tell you (actually, no I don't), but we are living in a society comprised of both women and men. Feminism is a joint effort and not a game of Trauma Olympics like what you guys are trying to pull.

Hating on men and claiming masculinity is evil is going to have the complete opposite effect as to what you intended.

Let me set the scene, there's a freshly 13 year old boy, he's been told his whole life that boys don't cry, boys aren't allowed to have feelings. He gets internet access, and what SHOULD be happening is that people tell him that's all wrong and of course boys should have emotions, but that doesn't happen. Instead what happens is he gets met with dozens upon dozens of people claiming men DON'T have emotions. This boy tries to fight back, he replies to a post and he says that it's not true, boys aren't evil and they can be sad and hurt sometimes. What happens? People bully him. They laugh at him for being sad, say he deserves it. They tell him all men are horrible and he's destined to be evil.

What do you think happens? Do you think he's going to put in the effort to be a good guy? Fuck no. He's going to assume that's his fate and be shitty, because he was never met with kindness and understanding, he was told his kind is automatically evil.

[chaifootsteps]

I don't get this fandom's fixation with insisting Blitzo is the one who views relationships as transactional when there's so many examples of him obviously wanting to have more than that. IMP is basically his attempt to make himself a new family with Loona as his daughter and M&M first as the people he wants to threesome with but more realistically, his friends

Stolas meanwhile behaves in a much more transaction based mindset where he assumes if he gives X he can get Y

he views his cheating on Stella as not counting as cheating because 'cheating implies a betrayal and [Stella] never gave two shits about [him]'. Even though the marriage was arranged and he never loved Stella either (he somehow forgot he burst into tears when he first saw her and was miserable about the whole idea?) he expected Stella to make an effort to love him because that's how marriages work. He didn't seem to appreciate that it being arranged would make his partner's feelings more complex and things might have gone better if he hadn't tried to play happy families with her, despite the fact he also had reservations about the arrangement and is gay so he should be able to empathize with Stella on some level

he assumes giving Via a trip to Loo Loo Land in the hopes of getting back their close bond but it isn't until he actually listens to her that any progress is made (and while on the trip he actively upsets her by harassing Blitzo right in front of her)

but the bigger example of course is Blitzo. he uses the book to get sex out of him, literally describing what they have as 'favors for favors' and 'transactional'

then he lowkey kind of does it again when he uses the crystal in the hopes of getting a romantic relationship in return

Stolas is so fixated on the idea of Blitzo as an object who just fulfils his desires that he punishes him whenever he has a life of his own to attend to (taking Loona for the jab) or whenever Blitzo points out his fantasies are not reality (replying to 'that's a romcom' with 'fuck you'). He's so committed to this that despite knowing Blitzo's insecurities he dances with someone else because that person is giving him attention and that's all that matters.

And when Blitzo doesn't respond to the crystal with what Stolas wanted to get out of the interaction - a romantic partner - Stolas dips immediately. He doesn't explain himself and he doesn't make any attempt to keep Blitzo in his life. It's incel logic at its core - he doesn't want Blitzo in his life even as a friend, despite the fact he supposedly likes him, because ultimately he doesn't actually see Blitzo as a person. he's an object who is supposed to fulfil the transaction Stolas is still unconsciously setting up

worse than that is Stolas has fooled himself into believing he's the good guy who was doing good things for him out of the kindness of his heart. he reframes exchanging his book for sex as 'supporting him', reframes humiliating him in front of a crowd by sexualizing him as 'letting everyone see how much [he] likes [Blitzo]', talks about his passive aggressive texts trying to get Blitzo to still come over on the full moon as 'wanting to spend time with [Blitzo]' even though those nights were probably going to end with Blitzo feeling like he had to sleep with Stolas, again

tl:dr but so far Via is the only person who can break her end of whatever exchange Stolas views an interaction as being without him getting pissy about it, since he tries to empathize with her even when he repeats the exact same mistake 5 minutes later. he doesn't care Stella was forced into marriage too since he expected her to play house because that's what he was doing, and he cares so little about Blitzo despite saying he thinks highly of him that not only does he not want his friendship, he's happy to ghost him after their fight in full moon then for a full month going into ghostfuckers. Blitzo didn't give him what he wanted and Stolas doesn't actually care about his feelings, so Blitzo may as well not exist

This fandom, and increasingly Viv, don't seem to have the first clue what Blitzo is or what his problem is or what he wants. He just does things in whatever order, according to what makes Stolas look better.

[blindmagdalena]

Related to the last ask about Gilded Cage, and reader finding out about Billy/what happened to Becca. How would you go about reader finding out Homelander is a rapist? Not just in that verse, but in any fic?

The only time I've seen this play out is a Homelight fic where Annie knows about what happened to Becca. But she sort of "forgives" Homie or rather choses to ignore it, because she also finds out that (in that particular story, not in canon, obviously) he was repeatedly sexually assaulted as a kid. So, she doesn't justify it, but sort of understands why he did it.

Besides that, I can't think of any story where Homie's s/o found out about what he did. Do you think it would be the end of the relationship? Would reader gaslight herself into thinking it wasn't really rape, as many women (sadly) do? I would love to hear your thoughts about it!

it's a tough topic and i don't begrudge people who choose not to address it. it's also honestly just kind of a difficult thing to work in unless homelander himself freely admits to it (won't happen) or someone like butcher tells them.

there's also a lot of dub/noncon fics where it's just. kind of a moot point. if the relationship evolves from that in the first place, they can't really "find out" that he's a rapist. they've got firsthand experience. and yeah, in that case there usually is a ton of gaslighting and rationalizing going on. this is kind of what's going on in Gilded Cage right now where feelings are developing despite the fact he's keeping her against her will, and she still doesn't know if he's done something like this (or worse) before. which... we know he has.

but i do have lots of fics where the reader has no idea the extent of his damage and what he's done, and they would be properly horrified. Guilty Pleasures is a good example of a fic where i believe this revelation would end the relationship for SURE. she would not be able to reconcile that.

honestly you could take any one of my lighter/consensual fics and follow them up with the events of The Breakup / You Let Me Complicate You, which could just as easily have been about finding out that he's a rapist. it turns into a situation where the reader wants out, and he's simply not going to let them go.

the level of consent in Say It is also extremely questionable. basically noncon early on. would the reader here be shocked to learn he's done this to someone else? no. and she's already pretty well given into his corruption by this point.

whereas the reader in Don't Fret Precious (I'm Here) is a total loon, and would very readily excuse his actions. might actually be jealous because she's just. my ultimate yandere homelander simp. but she's definitely an outlier lol

ultimately it depends on the type of story you want to tell, and what kind of person you're writing against him. it's up to the author if that particular s/o believes the information at all, or if they let themselves believe that it's a terrible lie, and that their hero would never do that. or... maybe it makes perfect, horrible sense to them, and they either can or can't live with that.

i do think it's an interesting (albeit brutal) topic and one i'm open to exploring in the future! i can see myself going down any number of these potential avenues, depending on the vibe/character personality i'm working with.

[colorful-bees]

Putting on my shipping goggles for a quick sec but Jacq and Volo as a ship is genuinely interesting to me. And not even in the sense of like, "I want to see them together," more of just a general, "If the idea of romance was thrown into this, what would that look like?" Like, I can't actually imagine Volo and Jacq as a Thing. What I can imagine is Jacq having a little crush on Volo (I've seen their interactions with my own two eyeballs; I can totally see the way Jacq acts around Volo as someone who has a crush) and Volo, being himself, having a very interesting perspective about it.

It's pretty well established that Volo only views people as a means to an end and that he doesn't want to form genuine connections with people. He probably can't fathom the idea that someone would like him in that way without it being a trick. It's how he views friendship; it's how I imagine he would view someone having a crush on him as well.

Volo wouldn't even be flattered at Jacq's feelings, he would only see it as a ploy to get something out of him. The idea that someone would ever like him either platonically or romantically is foreign to him; it's all a matter of who can use who first. While Jacq is being wholly genuine about it, Volo would and could only ever look at it like Jacq wants something from him. He wouldn't know what but just by nature of how Volo thinks, that's the conclusion he would go to.

I don't even like the idea of them ending up together, that's just not where I see something like this going. I just need the unrequited little schoolboy crush from Jacq but the reason it's unrequited is because the guy he's crushing on doesn't know that humans can like each other as people just because they can.

[moeblob]

Impulsively shoving a guy's hand in your mouth after having the thought "oh just like when my little sister used to prick herself on a rose thorn" and then immediately being treated like a pet who ate something they shouldn't have? Wonderful. Thank you, Thane.

(also not pictured is Thane apparently trying to scrape your tongue with his hand BEFORE pouring the holy water down your throat because NO. BAD.)

[stagefoureddiediaz]

I feel so itchy and skin crawly looking at this picture

Like that is Eddie covered in bees (shudder) I’m assuming during the call at the perfume launch thingy where we’ve seen him running with his bee net on!

It’s also making my brain itch!!

[freshairforrabbits]

WIP Wednesday

Totally not doing this as an excuse to see other people's writing (/no pressure but also I am a greedy little cretin who devours people's writing like delicious treats)

This is for 'pretty boy snuff film' and probably long as hell for a wip snippet, but fuck it.

Tags: Max Patel PoV, themes of death, nothing too wild but it is pretty boy so y'know Jake's doing rough as fuck and everyone's struggling

For all that Max understands about the demons that continue to gnaw on his brain each night between the RDA's thundering fistful of bullets and hellfire, he knows that this one is going to haunt him.

The way he leapt out of the Samson, made his way across the rocks on Norm's blue heels, only to watch as Jake was sliced up under that flashlight beam.

Max's stomach had done a sudden colorful tango so violent he felt all the blood drain from his face when it exposed every inch of his friend's condition. Jake's arm thrown up to shield a face that was gaunt, limbs thinner than Jake had been even that first day in the avatar, skin wrapped tight as shrinkwrap stabbed through with more stripes of ferocious, pulsing red than dark blue. Max pinpointed what looked infected, what was half-healed, the hypertrophic ridges of the oldest wounds stitched by too much collagen, electrical burns stretched up from Jake's neck, to his chin, his cheek— all with a practiced eye, second nature.

Signs of atrophy, Jake's ankles shaking. Wobbling across the jetty's slick rocks far more than they should with each heavy-footed step, tail swinging listlessly without acting as a counterbalance, burns on the tips of Jake's ears, chunks cut out of pinna the way Max once notched cloned cattle ears back in undergraduate research labs. Pupils slightly different sizes under the harsh light Max cuts across Jake's frame just to be sure it's him because Jake's familiar-unfamiliar silhouette backlit by all those stars is moving the way hordes of the undead in old films do, bioluminescent freckles dulled as well. A blood curdling paranoia grips Max, mind firing illogical cylinders that he quickly places under control with a swift self-assurance that this is the man he's known for years and not some strange, warped imposter wearing Jake's skin.

Jake's skin….skin smeared with bruising like an impressionist painting, a deep gouge in Jake's upper lip. This small upside down triangle carved through the flesh exposing the barest hint of teeth. Leaving a deep trail of grey-pink slashed all the way up across his left cheek, through his brow. Jake falls to his knees as he hands off that RDA soldier, the enemy he clutches to his chest as if she's a daughter. A smile, desperate and stained in the warm clutch of eclipse's dark.

Jake's knees crack rock again because Max is a little too caught up in the mixture of relief, trepidation, the pound-thud of his heart as he presses the comm button on his mask and lets Neytiri know they found him. Inadvertently blinding Jake under the white sting of the flashlight in his hand with the movement, again. Against all odds; it's him, it is, he's alive, a given definition of safe.

Her voice cracks back through on a sob that is quickly wiped out the way Max has heard her smear her emotions into nothing for the past six months. After losing Neteyam, after losing Jake, after High Camp came under fire and they were forced to fight, to flee with their tails between their legs to the reefs of the Eastern Sea, the rest of the Omatikaya splitting off to New Kelutral. Families fractured and communities shattered on repeat.

Stumbling across First Reef like a miracle, setting up a base of operations with the rattle of death in their bones. After Max found her in Awa'atlu with Jake's rifle in her hands, field stripping the weapon with a jagged clumsiness that comes from burnt palms still healing, cleaning it as her bow sat gleaming in front of the marui's waxflower hearth fire–

She hasn't been the same, tackling the world with a bite to her fangs, a cold glint to her eyes, a ferocious protectiveness extended out across every blue body under her charge as a resistance leader with her face broadcasted across the metal snare web of the RDA's influence; Kill On Sight. Throwing herself into her work as healer and warrior without a proper night's sleep left to take. Her children watched carefully by the village, the aytsantu— Wanted, Marked for Death, targets painted on them, too— when she's not around, they grow cold and distant in their own ways, but he knows they're all trying desperately to cling to what they have left. Sometimes it feels like that's all they can do in-between the days that rumble with the apocalypse.

Rutal of the Ta'unui, Saeyla of the Omatikaya, sometimes even Ronal and Tonowari, many more coming together; all watching over the children. All coming together to make sure Neytiri eats, sleeps, and takes care of herself, Rutal especially, they seemed to be the one to get her to step away from her self-destructive path the most. Of all of them, Rutal was the one who managed to calm Bob down, Jake's ikran snapping at the others, drawing blood in a frenzy that first night after the explosion, when Bob had to practically be dragged away from circling the wreckage of the drilling rig over and over, screeches turned to whistled whines.

It only stood to reason Rutal would wind up being the one to eventually get Neytiri to sit down at the Metkayina mo'ara for a few hours to redo all her braids– shorter than they used to be when she was forced to chop off the parts that had burnt, the ones she cut in mourning.

And the scientists, they were trying their best. Him and Norm spent many a quiet day showing Tuk videos of her dad, letting her place the prettiest shells she found on the shrine near the BioLab's aluminum shack living quarters beside the rest of the numerous offerings for the deceased. The lost, the ones they have never been able to find. Pictures hung in homemade frames of lovingly crafted wood, beads, flax, symbols from their own beliefs, their gods carried over to this new world. Jake's photo rests there, one of his entire family, something taken back at the old settlement near Hell's Gate. Kiri, Lo'ak, Spider placing their own offerings, exchanging out the old fruits, the sweet meats, participating in something they don't have to, but sharing in it nonetheless.

Kiri always staring with a distant look, ears twitching as if she could hear something. Grace and Trudy and Sylwanin placed right by Jake, Tsu'tey's visor beside them.

Neytiri only stopping by with fresh bruises and scuffs from the latest guerilla fight as she would gather Tuk up in her arms, the girl tucked up under an Olangi saddle blanket, laying on a floor cushion that's too small for her by the shrine, curled around a holopad paused on the next video of her dad's human face. Neytiri lingering by the offerings, her eyes tracing a line across the ever increasing number, low tables built from driftwood to add to the space they had, she would cast a look towards Max as he picked up the holopad, shutting the screen off. Every time she had something like death wreathed around her shoulders as she then dipped her head, turning to duck through the airlock. Tail low, ears back.

Death chasing them relentlessly, change forcing their hands. To see Jake sprung back from the grave and not just his voice crackling through the comm is a haunting in itself, striking Max like a puncture wound, hurting in a way that doesn't make sense, horrifying in a way that he can't compute. Because death has its fangs sunk in Jake's neck, that much is obvious, holding him like a palulukan ready to make her kill. Untold fallout from something mapped across Jake's body, but all they have is what they can only guess.

And more, so much more, a rattling, wheezing of fluid in Jake's lungs that Max could hear through every second of Jake's sudden twist into begging as Norm held Jake up. Jake cowering, something that wrapped talons around Max's throat and made him seize in place at the sight as Norm locked panicked eyes with him. As Jake went from curling in, clutching at Norm's hand like a lost child with his eyes rolling, wide and seeing nothing, to blinking, shaking his head with a rough jerk, snarling, shoving Norm off. Snapping just like Bob had.

Wounded, with only threats spinning in his gold eyes.

Tagging @this-world-of-beautiful-monsters @kayjaydee17 @adrixagr and anyone else who sees this who wants to share their work! (Again no pressure!)

[multishipper-baby]

Thinking about soulmate AUs for my OCs because I'm in a romantic mood rn

[krysmcscience]

Did somebody say Bill shouldn't be allowed to swear? I think somebody said Bill shouldn't be allowed to swear. Thanks to that, have these retooled The Good Place jokes:

The "powers that be" can refer to either the Theraprism staff, the Axolotl, or just. Ya know. Disney in general. Or all three! Whichever you think is funniest. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

The "party" Bill's referring to is Weirdmageddon, of course. He was quite the ashhole to everyone back then.

Ford has probably gotten pretty good at the 'tune out your psychopathic ex with dank memes' challenge.

It must be very cathartic to be able to make Bill shut up whenever you want with just the press of a button. I'm sure Ford doesn't abuse this ability at all.

Oh, sure, 'Not now,' he says, before he immediately backs out of the newly-made hole in the Theraprism wall. 🙄

Don't worry, Bill doesn't get far.

also yeah i know this one doesn't have an attempted swear - i just wanted to use the joke because of the massive stink-eye involved in it because it makes me laugh

⬇️ More goofs beneath the brief ramble if you wanna skip it lmao⬇️

Why is Ford even there, you might ask? Well, he either decided he preferred to watch Bill suffer in person over being distantly and repeatedly harassed with the same evil desperation book for the rest of his life, or he got roped into some kind of contrived community service for 1.) all his many counts of interdimensional thievery, and 2.) his ignoring all the very clear warnings to NOT summon Bill in the first place (which I like to imagine is also illegal). Theraprism staff were just like, 'Wait, this guy matters to Bill? Ooh, we can USE that! It might be the only thing that can help him want to get better!' It is not considered that throwing Ford at Bill so soon after Weirdmageddon could instead make them both WORSE - in new and altogether special ways! :D

Anyway, I'm calling it the Community Service AU, and I am most likely not going to do anything else with it beyond appropriating these silly Good Place jokes. So, feel free to adopt the concept if y'all wanna??? Just make sure that Bill is still not allowed to swear, no matter what, full stop. It's gotta be a real linguistic corkblork of a situation for him, is all I'm sayin'.

Finally, have these bonus Good Place jokes, but with Handyman!Bill this time:

'Opposite tortures' doesn't sound so bad...at least until it's an all-powerful chaos entity known for torture saying it.

you may think i forgot mabel's cute pink cheeks but the truth is that i did in fact forget but then immediately stopped caring which makes it okay, SHHHHHHH

And, finally:

lmao this is shit

True facts, if you cram Season 1 Eleanor Shellstrop and Michael into a singular triangle shape, they turn into Bill Cipher. This is science, look it up. Or don't, and just trust the source that is me, bro.

Anyway, I should be in bed, y'all have fun with these, I guess. Tune in after like a week or so and maybe I'll have an addendum to my comic about how Bill was drawn naked for karaoke night. Because him actually being naked was not the only thing I considered as a plausible explanation. XD

Also if you see any inconsistencies or errors in any of these comics, No You Do Not :D

Also also, reblogs are rad as hell and I appreciate every single one, just don't repost, please and thanks. Every time a repost is made, an artist somewhere cries. :,)

[northstarshine]

makokuu brainrot has entirely encapsulated my brain. i want to put them in a jar and shake them around. i need to dissect these guys and figure out just what the fuck is going on in those dumbass heads. they're so smart but also so stupid for each other. except makoto maybe. he's not that smart

simultaneously love and fucking despise them (positive)

i like imagining that makoto and kusuke are tangentially Aware of each other’s existence due to both being extremely famous people, but that neither care enough to actually look into who the other person is. so one day they meet at some event (maybe they’re giving kusuke a nobel peace prize and makoto is there for Reasons or something. or maybe kusuke is designing the pyrotechnics they’re using as special effects in makoto’s new movie) and get to talking and realize. oh my god. this is the most annoying, abrasive, creepy weirdo i’ve ever met. i hate this guy. then they go home to cyberstalk google each other and realize their siblings are friends and immediately begin having some of the craziest celebrity beef of all time. nobody can figure out why celebrated british scientist Dr. Kusuke Saiki is suddenly shit-talking japanese pop idol Mugami Toru to the press, and furthermore, why Mugami Toru seems to hate him just as much, if not more.

then one day, seemingly out of the blue, they get photographed kissing at a private expensive resort by paparazzi and the media lose it

[gay-dorito-dust]

How’d they react to you calling them bro or dude whilst in a pre-established relationship…(platonic/romantic)

Dick: he’s insulted.

Gutted.

He will try to give you the silent treatment for such a shameful thing but ultimately fails as he ends up being the one pawing at you for attention.

‘Do you still like me? Or did you just run out of cute nicknames to call me?’ He’d say one night as your both cuddling in bed together. ‘If it’s the later then I can help you find something, just please spare me and don’t call me dude or bro anymore.’

He’d rather you call him Richard-wait, no he hates that even more because to him you’re not meant to use his fully name, only cutesy nicknames that’d make a grown man sick to his stomach. Nothing else would suffice other than Dickie bird, handsome, babe, hunk, honeybun or anything that wasn’t his name.

He’s go mad or would act delusional and say that everything was fine when everyone could tell that it wasn’t. People who know him have personally came to you and begged you to stop calling him dude/bro because he kept talking their ears off about how his beloved partner is torturing him, which ends up torturing them even more upon hearing about his relationship issues.

Dick would even consult Hayley on what he did wrong, only for Hayley to look at him with those big, big eyes of hers. This was not her level of expertise unfortunately. (Head empty, no thoughts. She can’t do her abc’s guys it’s a real tragedy.)

Jason: ‘I just had my tongue down your throat just now and you had to go and ruin the mood by calling me bro. What the fuck.’ - Jason at some point.

It’s a whole mood killer for him to be honest.

He’s calling you things like chipmunk or sweetheart but here you were calling him dude and bro. He knows for a fact that he’s well and truly out of the friend zone because the shit you’ve done together isn’t platonic in any sort of way.

Thinks Roy had set you up to call him dude or bro behind his back. (He hasn’t)

Jason is petty and will get his own back by referring you as ‘just a really good friend’, ‘buddy o’ mine’ or even worse than both of those; ‘chum.’ 💀

When you go low, Jason was more then willing to go to the depths of fucking hell to the point it had become a game to see who’d call out just how stupid this all was, and at the both of you for ever thinking that this was an excellent idea in the first place.

You’ll probs get punished…I’m just going to leave it there and let your minds guess what that ‘punishment’ was exactly.

Damian:

As much as Damian hates it when you call him Dami, he hates it when you call him dude or bro even more, if that’s even possible.

Damian hates it when you call him dude or bro. He’s not your dude or bro, he’s your partner and he expects no less then darling, my heart or my beloved.

So you calling him dude or bro is more than enough reason for him to give you the silent treatment.

‘Until you learn that I am your partner, I won’t want to be anywhere near you if you’re going to keep calling me your bro or dude. It is a disservice to who I actually am to you.’ He says with a huff and beckons Titus to follow, only for the Great Dane to be left confused as to why his human parents were at a disagreement over something silly.

Also Titus, Ace, Jerry, Alfred the cat, Goliath and BatCow are children of divorce because I said so.

So it’s bests that you apologise while you still can because Damian can hold a grudge unlike any other. Even if you didn’t, you’d still crack first before Damian and quickly put an end to calling him dude/bro.

He just thinks being called a dude/bro when in a pre-established relationship is an insult.

He can take a joke but not when it’s aimed at his relationship. He’s well and truly devoted to his relationship -if we’re to completely ignore the whole being Robin thing- that it might as well be an insult towards him too at this point.

[yanderenightmare]

part one

TW: nsfw, dubcon, blackmail

fem reader

As promised, you receive the pictures in the mail while the payment is forwarded almost emmidiatly. You don’t know which makes you gawk more, the photos of you or the numbers.

You also get an email—an invitation. The photographer is asking you to dinner. Or, asking is putting it nicely—which he most certainly didn’t. It’s phrased like a notice from your boss—matter-of-factly, he’s picking you up at eight, wear something nice.

You think about declining, but then you think about your friend again and how you don’t want to cause her any trouble. A free dinner isn’t really all that bad, is it?

It’s worse, actually.

“You should have told me you didn’t have anything to wear. I would have lent you something,” is the first thing he says when you get in his car. He hadn’t opened the door for you or anything, just sat in the driver’s seat waiting.

And though your cheeks burn with embarrassment, you think you’re foolish for it. You hadn't really dressed to impress him, after all—something you might as well tell him, “Maybe I just didn’t feel like dressing up. You didn’t exactly leave a good impression last time we met, so I don’t believe I owe you anything.”

He scoffs with a grin—face turned towards the road as he starts driving. “You have a lot more bite without your friend.”

“She has too much respect for you.” You cross your arms and look out the window. 

“That’s for sure.” You hear him chuckle, but he doesn’t offer any more of a response. You’re glad to spend the rest of the drive in silence.

You feel underdressed at the restaurant. You hadn’t thought he’d take you somewhere so nice. Most of the other couples there are dressed as if for a gala, while you’re dressed as if you’re going to an office party.

He hasn’t tried too hard himself. But still, he fits in—fat watch on his wrist, kempt hair, neat shoes, dress trousers, and a silk shirt with one too many buttons undone—a nauseating skinny chain beneath the collar as well as the hint of a chest tattoo. You bet it’s one of those dumb tribal inks, probably with some mundane Japanese characters he doesn’t know the meaning of.

“Is this where you undermine all the models desperate for your recognition?” you sigh as you sit down.

“We haven't even gotten our menus, and you’re already causing a scene?” 

He’s the one who was rude the moment you got in the car. In fact, he was rude the minute you met him. “Might as well speed this along.”

He chuckles—his smile genuinely amused instead of angered the way you’d imagined—the way you’d remembered from last time when he sent girls crying. “You know, for a face like that, you have one hell of a tongue.”

He orders wine by the name with ease and swiftness before returning to what he was saying.

“I like that. Most models are dull, but not you.”

“I don’t agree. And I’m a model,” you snip, showing no interest in his flirting.

 “No? Didn’t you see the pictures?” Your attitude doesn’t seem to deter him—rather, it only seems to egg him further on. “I have them all mounted on my walls at home—you should come see.”

This makes you falter. Looking at him from across the table with rounded eyes. “On your walls?”

“Framed.” He smiles, finally having broken through—he only intends to take it further. Not that what he was saying wasn’t true. “I just couldn’t help myself. I consider it my best work.” 

The look on your face is something between disgusted and uncertain—speechless in a sense.

It makes him laugh again. “Does anything flatter you?”

The wine comes. He’s poured a glass for testing.

“Not when spoken by men like you.”

His grin grows as he swirls the liquid around, smelling it like a phony.

“That’s a shame,” he says before taking a sip. He nods to the waiter, and you’re poured a similar glass. Meanwhile, he looks at you. “I’d like to flatter you—I’d like to spoil you even. You seem like you deserve it.”

You sip your glass. “No need.”

“I’m not so sure about that. You currently work at a diner, right?”

You gaze at him from atop your glass, brows furrowing. “How do you—”

“I didn’t.” It’s a lie, of course, he’d searched you up and gone over every little detail he could find. “It’s clear from the looks of you—”

“Fuck you,” you snap, putting your glass down a bit too harshly, enough to make a little wine slip and spill.

He doesn’t mind it. “Oh, I want you to,” he says instead. “After I pay for dinner and drive you back. We can fuck right under my favorite portrait of you.”

You’re stunted by his crude words, but only for a second. “How about we skip dinner, and you go fuck yourself.” 

His smile doesn’t drop, even as you get up to leave. “Settle down, sweetheart.”

“Make me, jackass.” 

You’re on your way to go, but his next words have you halting. 

“Either you humor me, or I make sure your friend never models in the country again.”

You turn around to look at him. You don’t really know why you’re so surprised. The card he just pulled is the very reason you agreed to the dinner in the first place. But an incentive is very different from outright blackmail, and suppose you just hadn’t really believed he’d take it that far.

“It’s my impression you don’t want that,” he continues.

You sit back down. He tops your glass off.

“I could make her big, you know?” he offers while pouring for himself as well. “Really speed her career along—set her up for life. I’ll do the same for you, too, of course.” 

He swirls his wine, lifting it as if to make a toast.

“And all you gotta do is come back home with me.”

You don’t have the words.

“You won’t be disappointed,” he promises. “I’m good at it.” As if that’s your concern. “You’ll never want to fuck anyone else again.”

You hate how right he is. 

You’ve never cum sooner or harder before in your life, not with anyone else or on your own. It’s like nothing you’ve ever experienced—so good, you’re screaming—moaning out in echoes throughout his giant penthouse, bouncing off the marble floors into all unlocked rooms, creating a cacophony of your undeniable pleasure.

He’s on his knees beneath you as you lean with your back against the window overlooking the city, barely able to stand as he buries his face between your soft thighs, canting his chin up while lapping hard at your slit and clit. His hard stare set on your face and the way you throw your head back while cumming in his mouth—your hand tussled in his hair, yanking on it hard enough to make him growl.

Your legs and feet give you little support. It's his hands that keep you up as you slide further and further down the floor-to-ceiling window until you’re almost about ready to drop your weight completely.

But he’s made you come undone three times by then, and just can’t wait any longer. 

He’s spun you around before you know it, making you face the pretty lights of the city skyline—his mouth hot on the shell of your ear, “I told you so, didn’t I?”

Your breath fogs the glass with your panting—knees wobbly, only standing thanks to the thick arms he’s got supporting you, each with a tit in their hand, giving them rough squeezes as he starts pounding away at your womb—hard enough to make the city lights blend in with the stars. 

“You won’t wanna fuck anyone else again.”

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Shigaraki, Dabi, Aizawa, Shinso, Overhaul ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Naoya, Toji ♡ HQ – Tsukishima, Kageyama, Iwaizumi, Sakusa ♡ BLLK – Reo, Rin ♡ AOT – Levi ♡ DS – Akaza, Sanemi

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[whetstonefires]

I will say I have no real problem being okay with Chrestomanci being a positive figure who also believes in spanking for extreme misbehavior (iirc the thing Cat gets hit for is having supposedly committed assault on one of the servants and Gwendolyn was also getting spanked for something that could probably get her sent to jail) because the setting is a pseudo-edwardian one where it would be sort of weird if he didn't consider that an option on the table, and he is at no point intended to be read as a flawless person.

In fact, the plot of Charmed Life is in many ways Christopher Chant mishandling the interpersonal situation until it escalates to murder and insurrection.

The physical chastisement explicitly was the wrong thing to do, and achieved the opposite of his aims, and he apologizes later, albeit very casually.

The plot of Lives of Christopher Chant, his origin story, is even more emphatically the story of Christopher making bad decisions about who to trust and communicating very badly, until everything reaches a crisis point. Conrad's Fate also features Christopher largely making situations worse.

He's good at his job and generally means well on the whole, but he's very intentionally written as kind of a dick who's capable of charm but not actually good with people, and is used to getting his way.

On the other hand, the backstory book was written later and one of the few ways his parents didn't fuck up was they never hit him, and no one at his boarding school did either, which retroactively makes the ear-boxing scene in Charmed Life more bizarre. I think he gets hit once in the whole book. Outside of being killed; the cricket bat incident doesn't count.

Also there is internalized sexism in it, sometimes it really pops, but the recurring motif of very fake very pretty extremely controlling women as her main style of female villain is also very much a realistic depiction of what the most effective female abusers act like, and how they get away with it. I'm partway through T. Kingfisher's new A Sorceress Comes to Call that's built around such a villain for the same reasons.

(There are male villains in Jones' books built on the same model, like Uncle Ralph, doing the same things but with slightly different tools because gender affects your practical options in a gendered society.)

Which I think is very appropriate for children's fiction? Children are the people most likely to experience this form of abuse and need perspective on it.

Because a lot of Jones' work is in the same category as like, Steven Universe, where if you forget the intended audience is under the age of thirteen and it is largely concerned with the kinds of life experiences you have as a child, you will have trouble reading it in good faith.

The bit I always struggle with is the bigtime of-her-generation belief that the ideal male love interest is about ten to fifteen years older than the heroine, apparently so he can be masculinely high-handed and confident and mildly condescending, and it's justified by the difference in life experience rather than just his being a prick, a strongminded woman can believably live with it.

And like, this formula is not dead; Naomi Novik has at least two instances of this kind of 'ship in work published since Jones died, although with massively larger age gaps because the annoying men are magic. But it's not usually pursued with intensity anymore outside of contexts where the power difference is being fairly explicitly eroticized, so when you see women of her generation upholding it as aspirational in normal contexts, it is very uncomfortable from a modern feminist perspective.

seeing ppl holding up Diana Wynne Jones as a more progressive alternative to JKR when u know the Terrible Secret (that 1 instance of egregious homophobia) but there's no point bringing it up bcos it's in 1 single instance in a book that's out of print so who gives a shit but also like. you know.

[yandere-daydreams]

tw - unhealthy relationships, obsessive behavior, somnophilia, implied non/con, mentions of knots.

Puppy!Yuuta, who catches your eye the second you step into the shelter, despite the fact that he’s not at all what you were looking for. You need a service animal, and as cruel as it feels to say, hybrids of undeterminable origins with less-than-stellar past homes aren’t known to be very consistent, let alone trainable when it comes to such a high-stakes job. You were supposed to meet a pure-bred, highly recommended husky hybrid whose previous owner was no longer able to take care of him, but it was over for you as soon as you saw those big, dark, watery eyes – nearly hidden entirely by overgrown hair and jet-black ears that seemed to droop even lower whenever you threatened to look away from him. You’re already a lost cause by the time you ask a shelter employee for his name, and the paperwork’s signed within the hour. He leaves with you the same day, eyes on the ground and tail wagging a mile a minute.

Puppy!Yuuta, who was always meant to be someone's spoiled pet. He's shy, at first, scared to talk too loudly or cling too tightly or do anything that'll get him sent back to the shelter (no matter how clear you make it that that's a non-option), but it only takes him a few days to warm up to you, a couple weeks to come out of his shell, just under a month to start sleeping in your bed and trailing you around your apartment. He almost trips over himself when you ask if he'd like to wear a collar, and soon enough, he's more akin to a second-shadow than a dog. He does have some aggression issues, particularly when it comes to human men, but he's an angel with other hybrids, and when he bows his head and pouts, you really can't help but forgive him. With a life like the one he must've had, you can't really blame him for being so quick to bear his teeth.

Puppy!Yuuta, who's more than ecstatic when you mention still needing a service animal. He might not be qualified on paper, sure, but he's already constantly at your side, constantly worrying about you - it'd just feel wrong to go out and get another hybrid for a job Yuuta is more than capable of. He says he likes that idea of being able to take care of you, too - like you take care of him. You want to ask him not to be so sappy, to think of a slightly less sentimental way to say it, but when he's so happy and so, so proud of himself, it's hard to be even that strict.

Puppy!Yuuta, who cums untouched the first time you comb your fingers through his hair. You don't seem to notice, and he does his best to hide his face in your lap, to bite back the little, pathetic whimpers that crawl up his throat whenever you scratch at the base of his ears. He doesn't want to scare you, to be so needy so suddenly when you've been so kind.

Puppy!Yuuta, whose one and only flaw is that he can't seem to stop riffling through your dirty laundry. He can't be left alone for more than an hour without stealing one of your oldest, most threadbare shirts or worse, claiming a pair of your underwear as his newest chew-toy. You really should chastise him for it, but it's such an awkward thing to talk about, and he has such a sweet face - it's hard to believe he could ever do anything deliberately wrong. You've resigned yourself to just trying to limit the damage and salvage the less damaged items, even if those mysterious stains are a little hard to get out.

Puppy!Yuuta, who wishes he didn't have such a big, bulky knot. It's too thick and too heavy and seems to swell up whenever he gets even a little hard. If he didn't have a knot, he'd be able to actually thrust into you, rather than just fucking his fist over your sleeping body and imagining how tight you'd be, how pretty you'd look, how nice it would be to make you feel as warm and as soft as he feels because of you. He does what he can with his tongue, but you don't seem to like waking up with his saliva soaking everything between your thighs, and he always gets too excited when he tastes you. If he has to rut against your thigh that desperately again, he's afraid you might wake up and scold him.

Puppy!Yuuta, who can't wait until he works up the courage to mate with you properly. He knows it's still too soon, that it'd scare you to do it so abruptly, that he doesn't deserve it yet, but soon, he'll be able to to step up and take care of you as something more than just a pet. He's not there right now, but one day, he just knows he'll be the perfect mate for you <3

[itneverendshere]

it's all you're good for, right? - r.c

pairing: bitchy!pogue!reader x rafe

rafe knew you wouldn’t take his disrespect lightly.

you never did.  

he’d expected you to blow up the second he pulled that ignoring shit at the dinning. he was ready for it—your texts coming in hot, maybe you showing up at his house, ready to tear into him like you always did when he pushed too far. he'd never say it out loud, but a part of him almost liked it, the way you’d get all fired up, spitting mad. it was hot.

but you didn’t call. not a single text. you didn’t show up to the party that weekend, and when he tried to hit you up, just looking for a booty call—because fuck, he was so hard thinking about you—it went straight to voicemail. he stared at his phone like an idiot, calling again. blocked.

you? block him? nah, that wasn’t supposed to happen. rafe was the one with the power here, or at least, that’s how it used to be. it was always this push and pull, but he was the one pulling the strings, right? no fucking pogue was ever going to order him around. right?

wrong. the next weekend rolls around, and there you are at one of his parties, looking good as ever, laughing with your friends like nothing happened. and still, not even a glance his way. for two weeks now, you’ve been completely ignoring him, and it’s starting to get under his skin. more than it should.

he watches you from across the yard like a fucking creep, sipping his drink and trying to act like he doesn’t give a fuck, but inside, he’s low-key losing it. he half-expected you to walk right up to him and give him hell like you always do. but no, you’re just... doing your own thing. 

but what’s really making his head spin is what you're wearing. the outfit is pure trouble—skin-tight and leaving almost nothing to the imagination. a barely-there black mini skirt, riding up just enough to make his jaw clench, paired with a tiny top that’s more like a bralette than an actual shirt. it’s low-cut and clings to your curves, thin straps barely holding it in place, and the way it hugs your body?

yeah, he’s fucked. the way the skirt moves when you walk, teasing just enough thigh? it’s like you knew he’d be watching.

he hates how much it turns him on.

every guy at the party notices. he can see the way their eyes follow you as you move through the crowd, laughing, like you don’t even care. but it’s the way you’re ignoring him that’s really pushing him to the edge. normally, rafe loves the attention despite the look of disgust he always greets you with when you show up. loves knowing you’re secretly going to end up in his bed. but tonight? he’s not so sure and it’s killing him.

by the time he corners you, all he can think about is tearing that outfit off. the silent treatment? that shit was way worse than anything you could've said. 

“alrigh’, i get it,” he starts, throwing his hands up like he’s already done with this conversation. “jesus christ.”

you just blink up at him, completely unfazed, like he’s not even worth a reaction. his words might as well be bouncing off a wall. the fact that you’re standing there looking so fucking good, and acting like he doesn’t even exist, is messing with his head more than anything you could’ve said.

he’s pissed, yeah, but more than that, he’s desperate. desperate for a reaction. for anything. but you just brush past him, your body touching his for the briefest second, like you’re doing it on purpose just to make him snap.

rafe stands there for a second, blinking in disbelief. did you just really blow him off like that?

before he even realizes it, he's following after you, shoving through the crowd like a man possessed.

“are you serious right now?” he hisses when he catches up, grabbing your wrist lightly but firm enough to make you stop. the emotion in his voice is undeniable, and everyone nearby is pretending not to watch the little scene. “you're really just gonna walk past me like that?”

karma’s a bitch.

you finally turn to him, but the look in your eyes isn’t anger—it’s indifference. that cold, detached stare that fucks with his head more than any of the shouting matches you’ve had in the past. you pull your wrist free with ease, like his grip is nothing.

“’m over it,” you say coolly, like you’ve already moved on from the whole thing, “whatever this is? it’s not worth my time.”

that does it.

he’s used to the back and forth, the fire between you, but this, you acting like you don’t care at all—it’s new, and it pisses him off more than he thought possible. he steps closer, dropping his voice lower so no one else can hear.

“bullshit,” he says, eyes narrowing. “you’re pissed, i get it. but don’t act like you’re done with me. you aren’t.”

the smirk that curls on your lips is almost cruel.

“watch me.”

you turn and walk away, leaving rafe standing there. he knows he should let it go, but every time he tries to convince himself of that, the way your body looks in that outfit, the way you shut him down so easily, keeps replaying in his head.

and instead of walking away, he’s right back where he started, chasing after you like he can’t stand the idea of not having you anymore.

before you even get two steps away, he snaps.

his patience has run out, and all that pent-up frustration? yeah, it’s got him seeing red. he doesn’t even think about it—just moves. his hand wraps around your arm, and in one swift motion, he’s hoisting you up like you weigh nothing, slinging you over his shoulder.

“what the fuck, rafe!” you shout, your fists pounding on his muscular back, but he doesn’t stop. eyes burning, jaw clenched—he doesn’t give a shit who’s watching. not his friends, not anyone at the party. right now? he’s too pissed off and turned on to think straight. 

you wriggle in his grip, your legs kicking, but he holds you tight, marching through the party like it’s no big deal, even though everyone’s definitely staring. he’ll deal with the fallout later.

“put me down!” you’re practically growling, and maybe under any other circumstances, he would’ve listened. but not tonight. tonight, he’s done playing nice, done pretending like he’s not obsessed with you or your body, done trying to act like he’s got control over this situation when clearly, you’re the one pulling all the strings.

his grip on you is tight, and possessive, and you’re too furious to care about how turned on you secretly are. he doesn’t stop until he reaches his room, kicking the door shut behind him with one solid thud. the sound of the lock clicking is loud in the tense silence. then, he throws you onto his bed, like you're nothing more than a ragdoll.

you bounce once, staring at him with wide eyes.

“what the fuck is wrong with you!” you snap, sitting up on the bed, glaring at him.

he’s pacing now, running his hands through his hair, wild-eyed, like he’s trying to calm himself down but can’t. he turns to you, his face twisted in frustration, like he’s been holding something in for way too long. and when he speaks, his voice cracks just enough to show how on edge he really is.

“you!” he explodes, pointing at you like you're the only thing in the room. “you’re what’s wrong with me!”

his pacing slows down, and suddenly he stops. he turns back to you, both his hands shooting up to his temples, fingers pressing into his head.

“you get in my fucking head,” he admits through gritted teeth, jabbing his fingers into his temples like he’s blaming you for every thought he's had for weeks. “i can’t think straight because of you. every fucking time, you crawl into my head and just—won’t—leave.”

instead of letting his little meltdown get to you, you lean back on your hands, with a bratty scoff. “how is that my fucking problem?” you snap, crossing your arms like you couldn’t care less about his breakdown. “that’s on you, not me. maybe you should try, i don’t know, leaving me alone.”

rafe stares at you, his chest heaving, his jaw clenched tight, “you think this is a joke?” he growls, stepping closer, closing the gap between you two, his presence almost suffocating. “you think you can just sit there and act like none of this is your fault?”

you give him a fake sweet smile, leaning forward just enough to be in his face, “maybe you shouldn’t have fucked me in the first place, hmm? god forbid your friends find out you’ve been slumming it with a pogue.”

it’s the fake docility in your smile that makes him want to break something. he steps even closer, his breath hot and heavy as his eyes lock onto yours, blue and furious.

"that’s what this is?" His voice is low, almost a growl. “you seriously don’t get it, do you?" he leans in, his face inches from yours, his expression almost daring you to keep pushing. "this—whatever the fuck this is between us—this isn’t about them. it’s about you." his hand shoots out, gripping your chin, forcing you to look at him. "don’t act like you didn’t know what you were getting into from the beginning."

you yank your chin free, rolling your eyes, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much he's getting to you. “right. you ignoring me at the dinner? guess i was supposed to just sit there and take it, huh? maybe you wanted me to be a good little bitch and not make any noise.” 

you might be pissed, but you're not just angry—you're hurt, and that fucks with his head more than he cares to admit.

rafe huffs, running a hand through his hair in frustration, looking away for a second before turning back to you. “what the fuck do you want from me? huh? you want me to call you my girlfriend? you want me to fucking introduce you like this is some kind of relationship? be fucking serious.”

"be fucking serious?" you repeat, "you gave me a 200$ tip, you fucking asshole!" you shove him hard in the chest, catching him off guard. “like ’m some kind of fucking whore!”

rafe's eyes widen as he stumbles back a step, “wait—what? no, no, no. that’s not what it meant.”

you glare at him, shaking your head in disbelief. “of course, it fucking was!” you shout, shoving him again, harder this time. “what else would it mean, huh? you throw money at me like it’s supposed to make everything okay, like ’m some kind of... some kind of pogue you can pay off and keep quiet.”

he looks stunned, his mouth opening and closing like he’s trying to figure out what to say. “that’s not—fuck, that’s not what i meant. i wasn’t thinking about it like that, okay? i was trying to help you!" he blurts out, his tone defensive, like he can’t believe you’re twisting his intentions into something they weren’t.

you laugh, but it’s sharp, biting. “help me?” you stare at him like he’s lost his mind. “oh, please. shut the fuck up. why would you ever want to help me, rafe? be real.” he tries to speak, but before he can you’re already stepping back. “if you want to fuck me, just get on with it. i need to leave. so, make it quick.”

what?

“is that what you think this is?” he doesn’t move to touch you, but the tension is strong enough to feel suffocating. “you think ’m just here to—”

“to fuck me? yeah. that’s what this has always been about,” you cut him off, “and you know what? it’s okay. let’s not drag it out. do what you do best—take what you want and leave me the fuck alone.”

he’s not ready to admit that this feels more than just a hookup. he’s not sure if he will ever get there. rafe’s chest heaves as he stares at you. he’s done trying to explain himself. 

“fine,” he snaps, stepping closer until his chest is almost brushing yours. “if that’s what you want.” 

your breath catches in your throat, but you don’t back down. not when you're this annoyed. “yeah, it is. stop wasting my time.”

in one swift motion, rafe pulls you to him by the waist, with his usual roughness that makes you drip between your thighs. his lips claim yours with a bruising force. it’s not soft or sweet—this is raw, messy, all tongue and teeth. his hands are everywhere, gripping your hair, your ass, pulling you flush against him like he can’t have any space between you. you’re both moving with frantic, desperate eagerness, like this is less about desire and more about proving a point.

“is this what you want?” rafe snarls against your lips, breaking the kiss just long enough to yank your top over your head, throwing it somewhere in the room. “to get fucked stupid and leave? that it?”

you let out a breathless laugh, but it’s overflowing with venom. “that’s all you’re good for, right?”

so much for making peace.

TAGLIST: @drewstarkeys-world @maibelitaaura @maybankslover @jkrafe @willowpains

[miss-oranje-disco-dancer]

everything's bigger in texas

pairing: joel x reader

tags/cws: size kink, praise kink, p in v, oral f and m receiving, virginity loss

summary: go big or go home on your first time

a/n: reader is a virgin, but is not specified to be a certain age and in my mind is only a bit younger than joel

div creds to @animatedglittergraphics-n-more

wc: 2k

tags: @vaaaaaiolet @faysslut @leonfucker3000 @withonly-sweetheart

It's embarrassing. It's the reason why you'd hesitated to even talk to Joel in the first place, fearing he might like you back, in which case, he might ask you out, and according to Cosmopolitan and the metaphorical grapevine, you would only get three dates at most before you'd have to end it. And you better not order the fucking lobster. Ever.

You get dolled up on the night you plan to bid him adieu. You'd feel horrible for wasting his time regardless, but the fact that he decides to treat you to dinner at a fancy restaurant for your third date, makes you feel even worse.

The worst part of it all is: you really like him. He makes you feel like you're in high school again despite the fact that he's decades past that point in his life - it's the way your heart flutters in his presence, the way he makes your cheeks heat up when he compliments you. However, this is anything but an innocent crush. You want more than the kiss on the cheek he gives you when he greets you at your doorstep, more than his hand holding yours as he helps you step in and out of the car, more than his arm around your waist as he leads you to the table.

You want him to fuck you.

You try to give yourself a pep talk in the mirror before he arrives, and for an extra confidence boost, you wear the singular pair of underwear in your drawer that matches the one bra that actually fits right, hoping it'll make you feel sexy. But what good is sexy if you’re not going to have sex?

But, at the restaurant, you decide to order a double shot of liquid courage, which is a one-way ticket to going home with Joel.

He drives with one hand on the steering wheel and the other on your thigh. He’s so hot that even the smallest things can get you worked up. It’s the first time in a long time that your arousal has been able to override your nerves.

You barely get your coat off before you’re pressed up against the door, and he’s kissing you with a type of hunger you’ve never felt before. You know he'll leave you with a case of stache-rash but you can't bring yourself to care.

You stumble across the room to the couch – you would’ve walked backwards into the coffee table if Joel hadn’t picked you up and carried you. You’re not even that drunk - at least, not on alcohol – just insistent on not breaking the kiss until you’re out of breath and you absolutely have to. 

When his body looms over you, all you're thinking about is the feeling of his lips on yours, his hands playing with your tits, making you gasp when his thumbs brush over your nipples. 

He gets so far as slipping his hand up your dress, but the moment his fingers brush the gusset of your panties, you grab his wrist. 

"Joel—"

"Yeah?" He's quick to sit up and back off completely — not exactly what you intended but you're grateful that he respects boundaries.

"I should just be honest with you. I’ve never done this before, so I’m a little nervous…"

You're more than a little bit nervous, especially when you're so used to guys making up excuses to leave when they notice your hesitance after you reveal the truth, after they find out that they're not guaranteed to have you in bed that night.

Joel doesn't kick you out, not even close, he looks unfazed, and you're at a loss. The script you've planned says: end scene, but the camera is still rolling. You have to ad lib.

“That’s okay. We don’t have to do that. I’m more than satisfied just getting to kiss you. Hell, I’d be happy just to have you sit on the couch with me, not touching or anything.”

You should feel more comfortable - and in a way, it does - but the novelty of the situation still leaves you dumbfounded.

You can see the worry in his eyes gain prominence as you remain silent.

"Hey," he says quietly. "Are you okay? I promise we don't have to do anything like that. We can just hang out, watch a movie or somethin', no touching at all."

"But I want you, Joel. That's the problem. I really want you."

"I want you too, but only when you're ready."

“I am ready, just nervous since this is new to me.”

“Is this your first time doing anything… of that nature?”

"No, I’ve done some things, I just haven’t gone all the way yet."

Handjobs, blowjobs, the whole nine yards - well, really, the first three bases in the sports/sex analogy.

“Would you like to tell me about those things?”

The look in his eyes – sweet and suggestive all at once gives you a spark of confidence. 

"I could tell you, but I’d rather show you," you say with a flirtatious smile. 

"Only if you let me return the favor."

It takes a lot of willpower to keep yourself composed when you're face-to-dick with Joel. You feel a rush of something — lust, nerves, both? All you can think is: there's no way that is ever going to fit inside me.

It doesn't fit down your throat, not even close, but Joel's 50, not 20, so he knows that unlike in pornography, most women cannot deepthroat. He doesn't expect you to even attempt such a feat. Just looking into your eyes while you're on your knees for him is enough to get him there.

Post-orgasm, he's internally beating himself up for not using his good southern manners and pleasing his woman first. The best he can do is double his typical dedication when he goes down on you.

He doesn't need to try that hard. In what feels like mere seconds, Joel's fingers work you open, pulling an orgasm from you when he dips his head between your legs and flicks his tongue over your clit.

When he can tell you're close, he says, "I'm right here, baby. Let go for me." His lips return to your clit and with his reassurance you let yourself fall over the edge.

It's not until your fourth date that you actually make your first attempt to lose your virginity.

He makes you cum twice - once on his fingers, once on his tongue - before he even takes his cock out of his underwear.

You're tired by that time, ready to apologize and see yourself out, but then you look at him, naked and hard in front of you, and despite your exhausted body, your pussy drools (maybe your mouth too). It gives you a jolt of energy, a rush of blood down south.

Joel’s body is positioned perfectly above you, ready to give himself to you, but he waits, looks at you with admiration in his eyes but doesn’t touch you. When he does, it's his right hand on your cheek.

"Are you gonna… put it in?" you say, laughing a little – anything to break the tension.

"Just wanted to make sure you were okay first," he says with a warm smile.

"I'm more than okay," you assure him.

At your confirmation, his kisses move from your cheek to your jaw, they get rougher at your neck, your collarbone. He sucks on your tits until you whine in impatience.

You feel his breath as he huffs out a laugh into your neck between kisses. But you're more focused on the head of his cock prodding at your entrance. When Joel presses himself inside you — one inch first — you both take in a sharp breath. You're audibly wet, but there's still a stretch, a sting.

Joel sees your eyes squeezed shut and feels you tense up.

"You wanna stop?" he asks.

"No," you tell him. "Just… go slow."

He takes your hand, interlocks your fingers, before giving you another inch. For whatever reason, you hadn't expected him to be this sweet during sex, but you have no complaints.

Gradually, it starts to feel better, a lot better. You start to understand why people like this so much.

But then, you accidentally sabotage yourself when your gaze fixates on his cock going in and out of your pussy. A sense of shame falls over you when you realize he's only halfway inside you.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

"It's not all the way in," you sigh.

"And that's okay, baby."

"I wanted to be able to take it all… I wanted to be good for you."

"Trust me, baby, it feels fuckin' amazing. You're squeezin' me so damn tight you're gonna make me embarrass myself."

"I can't help it."

"I know," he says, leaning down to whisper beside your ear, "and that's what makes it feel even better."

You whimper quietly - it's a flustered, needy, good noise, but still, Joel cups your cheek and holds infinite comfort within his touch as he shushes you, saying, "you're doing so good for me."

With slight shift of his hips, a change in angle, he hits that special spot inside you and you can feel the pleasure begin to build.

You moan — louder than you intended to — and it almost startles Joel, briefly takes him out of his trace. He doesn't know your sobs of pleasure well enough to be sure they're not ones of pain.

"You okay? You want me to pull out?"

"No, don't pull out. Do that again," you say, frantically grasping at him, horrified at the thought of him no longer being inside you.

"Do what again?" he says with a subtle smirk that lets you know that he knows exactly what. 

"This?” he asks as he hits the same spot again and you can't tell him 'yes' when your mouth is busy with far more obscene noises, so you nod.

"Right there?" he confirms again, as he steadily thrusts in and out of you, not pushing any deeper, only meeting that special spot over and over.

It's rhetorical, and your 'uh-huh' is more than sufficient as an answer.

Pride mixes with lust and he rattles off praises, knowing he'll get your tight, wet heat to clench around him with every single word.

"You're takin' me so well, baby. You look so pretty like this," he says.

You cry out his name like it's the only word you know, over and over again.

"You're gonna make me cum if you keep sayin' my name like that, baby."

And it's not calculated dirty talk, it's just the goddamn truth.

With begging eyes and a mouthful of moans, you nod and hope your wordless gesture will convey the meaning, which is: please.

Your legs wrap around his hips and there is nothing Joel can do to hold himself back from burying himself to the hilt. There's nothing he can do to stop himself from spilling his load inside you immediately.

You swear you can feel him in your stomach, and you can see a bulge in your abdomen, and it would be fascinating if you weren't focused on clutching the sheets for dear life in an effort to save Joel from the wrath of your acrylics as you shudder through your orgasm.

You nearly lose yourself in the bliss of your high, all you know is Joel and the way he feels inside you.

When you come to, you turn to Joel and he says, "I'm proud of you," a phrase that never fails to make you melt.

You want to say "thanks" or "I love you" or any normal response one might give to that statement, but your words are already halfway out of your mouth.

"I swear you're gonna kill me with that thing," you say, gesturing to his cock, which looks not nearly as threatening when it's soft.

When he lies down beside you and wraps his arm around you, pulling you closer, you think to yourself, "maybe I am dead, and this is heaven."

You don’t realize you’ve said it aloud until Joel says, "I'm pretty sure we're still in Texas, baby.”

"Same thing.”