#southern lullaby

[lgbtqreads]

Fave Five: Southern Gothic Fiction

Something Kindred by Ciera Burch (YA) Summer Sons by Lee Mandelo Cicadas Sing of Summer Graves and The Pecan Children by Quinn Connor Catfish Lullaby by AC Wise Such Pretty Flowers by K.L. Cerra

[pirate-of-the-southern-isles]

Bu hu hu

They are coming for you

I can see

Three pirates on the ocean

The first one lost his eye

The second lost her sense

The third one will show no remorse

https://youtu.be/ooQPUYCOp00?si=LdV2A6FLY9BsMQs9

So let me introduce:

Captain Bernard Svöluson and his ship, "Bad Coin"

Bernard's eyes, altough in two different colors, are totally ok. He just wears the eyepatch when he's expecting to board someone - he likes to have one eye used to the darkness of ship's storage.

Captain Layla Rogers and her ship, "Morning Star":

Layla is probably the most stable mentally of them all. Don't know what it tells about the rest, but that's true. She is just happy.

I also drew her from some reference but I totally forgot where it is, lol

And as per "The Black Ship" and captain Hans Westergaard...

...oh, he will feel remorse alright.

(Really, I heard "remorse", no "emotions" in this song, c'mon, am I this deaf)

[thinkingnot]

thinking about the dumpling making song my dad used to sing on occasions to get me out of bed (the heaviest sleeper ever ^ me) :D

thinking about that song that i really liked my mom sung as a lullaby to sleep when i was a tiny kid and also whenever im sick when i was younger, the song is a funeral’s song and has been removed from the curriculum to teach young kids these days 😔

ITS A GOOD SONG OKAY

[seonghwaddict]

to taint your soul — choi san

in which apparently even the daughter of an exorcist is not safe from the corruption of an incubus.

incubus!choi san x exorcist’s daughter!fem!reader. genre. smut, angst, southern gothic vibes. warnings. barely any plot, religious themes, religious guilt, swearing, explicit sexual content mdni, corruption, loss of virginity, masturbation (f.), referenced dacryphilia, fingering, referenced oral (f.), manhandling?, multiple orgasms, rough and gentle, big dick!san, creampie, marking, nicknames (angel, pretty girl, sweet girl, sweetheart). wc. 7.3k. rating. mature.

lilo’s notes. i should do more mythological characters!ateez cuz i enjoyed writing this and the lamb and the wolf. the demonology book/text here is partially from The Encylopedia of Demons and Demonology by Rosemary Ellen Guiley, but i made up some parts for the sake of the story. THIS FIC DOES NOT REPRESENT ANY OF MY OPINIONS AND I DO NOT INTEND TO OFFEND ANYONE.

listening to. burning desire, lana del rey // gibson girl, ethel cain // lilies, ethel cain & mercy necromancy // ptolemaea, ethel cain // heaven, taemin

masterlist.

you were cursed from the moment you were born.

the idea of being cursed or haunted by anything isn’t one you think about often, considering yourself protected by your father’s profession. at least one dusty bible on every bookshelf in the colonial monstrosity that is your home and crucifixes hung all around, it seems to be common sense that an exorcist’s home would be the safest place to hide from the dark.

unaware of it all, you used to let yourself be tucked into your lace-trimmed bedsheets as he pulled you to sleep with stories. tales of fallen angels and possessed souls became the lullabies of your childhood. admittedly, you were quite terrified of it all, but as you grew older and wiser, you realised there was no way they could get to you. but really, it was wishful thinking.

you weren’t aware of who your father used to be, nor were you aware of the debt he owed to a particular demon.

the dreams started the night after your twentieth birthday, vivid and unsettling. a man haunted them, equally as terrifying as he was handsome. tall and clad in dark silks, his whispered words and hungry eyes intrigued you. his touch, though a figment of your imagination, sent shivers down your spine, foreign yet infinitely alluring. you’d wake up with a jolt, panting, flushed cheeks and tingling skin as the dream stuck to you like cobwebs. your father passed the repeated dreams off as nightmares and you failed to notice the flash of fear cross his features.

one night, however, you were changing in your room. dimly illuminated by multiple candles you set around since you didn’t like how bright the large chandelier was, you held a dress in each of your hands, standing in front of the mirror as you held the clothing to your body in an attempt to figure out what to wear. you didn’t notice at first, but a figure lurked in the shadows of the bedroom. you didn’t notice the shift in the atmosphere or the flicker of the candles.

but soon, a soft sigh sounded through the room, so soft it could’ve been mistake for a whistling breeze outside your window. goosebumps prickled at your skin as you tensed, refusing to move at the oddly human sound. staring at yourself in the mirror intently, you caught a glimpse of a familiar face in the reflection of your mirror. your breath hitched as you fixed your eyes on him, afraid that if you blinked, he’d disappear.

you watched him. watched him take slow steps towards you as he smirked at the sight of your wide, fearful yet infinitely pure and innocent eyes. you convinced yourself you were hallucinating, the disturbingly realistic sounds of his footsteps as much of a figment of imagination as his being. but as he stood right behind you, a coldness swept over your skin and you flinched as his breath fanned against your bare shoulder. whipping around in surprise, you yelped softly at the sensation. but he was gone, and you were alone. breath erratic and eyes stinging, you scrambled to move a wooden cross stand from the top of your dresser to your bedside table.

after that you grew paranoid, always looking over your shoulder, sleeping with at least two safe and reliable candles lit. each time you walked through the hallways of your own home, you kept your gaze fixed on the ground, refusing to look at the portraits lining the dark walls as you thought they were watching you. the tiniest of sounds made you flinch and break a sweat, squeezing your eyes shut and muttering prayers, only to find out the sound came from either of your parents.

the constant state of fear and anxiety left you tired, deciding if your father wasn’t going to do anything about it, you would. on quiet feet, you crept through the halls at noon (you were too scared to go to that room at night), a rosary wrapped around your hand with a dainty little cross hanging from your clenched palm.

you father really was a well-known exorcist, often to go on trips within and beyond the country to treat what doctors couldn’t; demonic possessions. as a symbol of his successes and a means to prevent others from coming in contact with whatever a demon may have attached itself to, he brought home trophies and locked them in a little storage room in the basement. of course, he took many precautions—crucifixes all over the inside and outside, sprinkles of holy water here and there, he’d have your local priest come over and bless the area himself. despite all this, you never once stepped in, partially because your father advised you not to, mostly because you were completely and utterly terrified.

as you descended the creaking wooden stairs, a chill ran through you, the hairs at your nape standing in alert. maybe you were scaring yourself more than the room scared you. the dust tickled your nostrils, making you force down a sneeze as you cleared your throat. the wooden floorboards extended into a narrow hallway, lined by cobblestone walls. you rarely came down, in fact, you couldn’t remember the last time you were there, the surroundings seeming so foreign. there were only two doors, one leading to a storage closet and the other to a slightly scarier storage closet.

you stared up at the ominous door, standing tall and intimidating, a golden cross embossed right in the centra, doorknob dark and rusted. with shaky hands, you fished a copper from the hidden pocket of your plaid gown. it half-hearted a few sloppy attempts until you got the key in, squeezing your eyes shut as you force yourself to finally turn it.

another chill ran through your body as you push the door open weakly, cracking an eye open to look inside. had you come at night, you wouldn’t have been able to see anything, the only source of light being an elongated shirt window lining the top of the right wall, an inch below the ceiling. three shelves. one on the right, one of the left, and one down the middle of the room. the middle and left one were lined with various objects. you walked between them, looking but not daring to touch. the objects were quite diverse, you realised. dolls, clocks, little statues.

you took your time to get to the shelf you needed. along with these objects, you father also locked away any books he had that were related to demons in any way. most of them were confiscated from cults, some of their were from his personal collection. he claimed they were to protect you, and you didn’t completely disbelieve him. taking a deep breath before letting it out in a sigh, looking at all the titles. your fingertips ran over their leather bound spines, feeling the wrinkles and grooves. you knew there would be a lot, but as you looked upon the entire shelf, you estimated a good hundred-fifty books.

he organised them by categories. summoning, excommunication, identifying. identifying. that’s what you needed. you took a closer look at the section, nervousness fading briefly to be replaced by a faint taste of hope.

the encyclopaedia of demons and demonology.

deciding there had to be something in there, you pulled it out. the book itself was simple, bound in black leather. the cover was nothing special, just the title and author. by the looks of it, you’d be here for a while, seemingly at least three hundred pages long. you looked around the dark room, a small wooden desk was tucked into the corner though not a chair in sight. with a soft sigh, you walked over on weak knees, apprehensive about what you’d find in the book.

despite your father’s profession and all the bedtime stories, you never came in contact with demons or the spirit world. setting the book on the desk, you opened it to the index, having to squint to make out the text. but the next time you lifted your eyes off the page, a brass candle holder was tucked into the corner of the table.

you blinked. there was no way that was there before, but maybe you had just missed it. the pale yellow candle stood half melted, the hardened wax forming veins that ran down the sides and pooled in the brass bowl.

you held your breath momentarily before beginning to read through the a to z list of demons and other dark entities and their descriptions. you only skimmed, lingering on any that mentioned appearing in nightmares only to dismiss them when the rest of their descriptions didn’t match with your experience. surprised by just how much there was to read, you felt just a little curious, occasionally stopping to read extracts that had piqued your interest. it wasn’t until you got all the way to section i where something actually seemed to be helpful.

‘incubus—a lewd male demon who pursues women for sex. the incubus and his female counterpart, the succubus, visit women and men in their sleep, lie and press heavily upon them, and seduce them.’

you nearly missed it, continuing your skimming until the description registered, scrambling to turn back the page and reread it.

“oh.” you breathed at the realisation. that seemed to be the most accurate thus far, your finger tracing over the name as you furrowed your eyebrows and continued reading. the next paragraphs detailed how they’re conjured and where the name came from. you read some more.

‘incubi are especially attracted to women with beautiful hair, young virgins, chaste widows, and all “devout” females. nuns are among the most vulnerable and could be molested in the confessional as well as in bed. while the majority of women are forced into sex by the incubi, some of them submit willingly and even enjoy the act. it once was a common belief that women were more likely than men to be the sexual victims of demons, because women were inferior to men and less able to resist temptation.

incubi have enormous phalluses that—’

slamming the book shut, your eyes widened and a deep blush settled over your features, just staring at the cover for a moment as you collected yourself from the sudden vulgarity of the writing. after a moment, you cleared your throat and reopened the page, strategically skipping over the next paragraphs that detailed accounts of intercourse with such a demon.

‘an incubus may form attachments to those whose minds are occupied with dark and inherently sexual desires, those that are impure. one also can be summoned for coital gratifications, or a deal in which one’s first born is ommonly offered to repay their sevices (see: dealing with the demons, page 218).’

but that couldn’t be right. you always made sure to be a good girl, always helped at home. you volunteered to read to children at a local orphanage, always helped with charities and donations, always assisted people where you knew you could, stayed soft spoken and always began your requests with please and ended them with thank you. you kept to yourself most of the time, would never dare to raise your voice at anyone, never had any romantic interest, let alone sexual ones.

admittedly, the dreams involving the man— the demon had you waking up with an uncomfortable stickiness between your thighs. but before that, you never indulged. after that, you never indulged either, instead jumping from your bed and taking an ice could bath to calm yourself from the strange feeling. the temptations were always there and were always strong, but your want to be immaculate was stronger. to be free of sin.

a deal in which one’s first born is offered.

it seemed impossible, almost. you knew your father was a righteous man and your mother a pure woman. but where your mother happily shared stories of her childhood as heart-warming anecdotes, your father only dropped tidbits of his memories despite considering you two to be extremely close. you always chalked it up to him being a little boring or generally not very open. but maybe there was more to it…

“there you go, sweetheart.”

you nearly jumped out of your skin at the sound of his voice, pushing the book away from you as you turned around a little too quickly, your knee knocking against the edge of the table.

there he stood, barely illuminated by the singular window as he took slow steps towards you much like the other day.

“so, you’ve finally figured it out, huh?”

each time he took a step, his muscles visible through the loose black silk, you inched away until the top of your thigh hit the wooden table, your hands bracing themselves on it to keep you from collapsing in fear. the closer he got, the more you realised just how attractive he was. broad-shouldered and radiating confidence, his feline eyes roamed over your figure. depite wearing a white gown that reached all the way down to your ankles, you felt so exposed.

tongue swiping along his bottom lip, drawing your attention to the action. he towered over you, making you feel weak and small as he trapped you against the table. your heart pounded against your ribcage and you feared it would break free and fall into his hands, unsure if the warmth on your cheeks and ump in your throat came from how utterly petrified you were or the way his breath fanned over your face like a whisper.

“your dearest father isn’t who he says he is,” he pouted mockingly, coming to a stop inches in front of you, letting his gaze settle on your quivering lips for a moment, “and me? well, you know what i am. and you also know we can have lots of fun if you allow it.”

your lips parted to speak but no words came out, instead opting to press them into a thin line and squeezing your eyes shut as you shook your head. you weren’t completely sure why you wer shaking your head, but if it would stop the incubus from tainting you, it was worth a try.

“don’t kid yourself, princess. i can smell how wet you are.” as if to emphasise his point, he inhaled deeply, leaning forward to ghost his nose over the slope of your neck without touching you.

it wasn’t until he said it that you notice you had been squeezing your thighs together, feeling warm all over and you stomach twisted in knots at the sound of his deep voice. something ached in your lower regions, but you tried your hardest to resist the thoughts.

but a little voice in the back of your head urged you to tilt your head back, to give him permission, to let his hands explore your untouched body. maybe just this once you could allow yourself to give in, to let your knees go weak and worry about begging for forgiveness later.

“all you have to do is drop the rosary.”

you gripped it tighter at the reminder of the protective object tangled between your fingers, fighting to keep your sanity intact. your breath hitched as you felt one of his fingers run along the beads, not daring to come close to the little silver cross or your skin.

“c’mon, pretty girl. drop it,” you heard the smirk in his voice, “let it go and i’ll take good care of you, i can make you feel things you’ve never thought of… i can make you feel alive, wouldn’t you love that? don’t you want to feel the desire? taste the lust?”

“n-no,” you gasped finally, finding your words, “it’s not right.“

he laughed, a low rumble from his chest, “i promise you’ll love being ruined by me,” he said, withdrawing his hand from yours, “i swear to all your precious little holy symbols, i know i can get you to want me.”

he moved closer and for a maddening moment you thought he was going to kiss you. faintly, you wanted him to. to feel the push of his lips against yours, to let his hands snake around your waist or grip your hips to pull you closer. there’s a ring on his index finger, you noticed, silvery and sharp, a symbol you didn’t recognise yet imagine him pressing it against your throat, branding your neck anew until it’s red and faithful. and maybe you crave for him to undo all the things in you that are holy.

“just drop it, pretty,” his breath teased your lips and you almost leaned forward in curiosity, wanting to see how just one kiss would feel, “i know you’re a good girl.”

those words. they’re almost enough for you to give in. how did he know those would strike a nerve, hit you where he knew it would work? not only did all your efforts ultimately lead to the same goal—purity, goodness—but you couldn’t deny the satisfaction you felt from reassurance. if you were an animal, you’d strive to be the priest’s favourite sacrificial lamb. to hold so very still and to bleed so prettily when the knife final comes down, to be reborn and be chosen all over again.

“don’t you get it?” he whispered, “i live inside you the same way you’re bound to live inside me. we’re a moebius strip, a never ending cycle of a snake eating it’s own tail. maybe it will end in destruction, but that’s your dear father’s doing. mutually assured destruction, maybe; you say yes, i’ll ruin you for everyone else, blacken the wool of your fur coat. you say no to me, i will suffer the consequences of not fulfilling a deal. you wouldn’t want someone to suffer because of you, hm?”

your grip on the rosary loosened and let your eyes finally flutter open. from this proximity, you could see every detail of his face and the image seared into your mind.

something in his eyes darkened as his lips curled, a playful smile, a predatory grin. the way he looked at you made you want to combust into flames, to fall to your knees, you skin rubbed raw on the ground as you beg him to make you feel.

“you don’t look so innocent anymore, you know? you’re docile and sweet, yes, but you’re not as pure as you think you are, there’s a little dirt in your pristine heart, a little lustful stain you can’t erase.”

“y-you’re wrong!” you protested, trying to convince yourself he was lying, “i’m good and i’ve always been good and i always will be good and i will not for the devil’s influence.”

“oh, but i’m not,” he pouted mockingly, moving his head back just an inch, looking down at you, “you’re practically shaking, so close to giving in… you’re the most pious girl here, yet you’re so close to sin, so close to me.”

you opened your mouth to continue your protests but flinched as you heard familiar heavy footsteps, looking up at the little window to see the familiar boots of your father about to enter the house after a long day of work. he was out, casting out malicious spirits and demons, and here you were, about to let one deflower you. the realisation seemingly made you come back to your senses, clenching the roary in your hand once more and looking for a way past him.

but… what would you even do afterwards? confront your father, the town’s devout exorcist, for making deals with the incubus in front of you? would he call you crazy, deny everything and treat you like just another one of his clients?

the footsteps were now above you, you could faintly hear him saying something to your mother though you couldn’t quite make out what it was. you’d never been as afraid of anything as you were of your own father, standing right above you, acting like he hadn’t damned you from the day you were conceived.

as if he could read your thoughts, could sense your panic that was completely unrelated to him, the incubus stepped back. his face was unreadable as his glazed over eyes fixated on you.

“don’t worry, sweet girl, i can wait. the longer you resist, the better it’ll feel when you finally surrender,” he gave you a small smile, different from the previous grins and smirks, as he nodded towards the window, “go.”

you could’ve run away the moment he stepped back, yet you didn’t move until he gave you the permission. you didn’t dwell on that fact as you slipped past him and reached up, shaky hands undoing the latch and opening outwards. you attempted to climb up, your arms burning as you tried lifting yourself, only to give up, panting softly from the effort.

“let me help you.” his voice offered, prompting you to look back at him. the seductive glint in his eyes was no longer there, taking a small step forward. “just… put it down, i promise i’ll help you and leave.”

you stared at him for a long moment. there was something so different in the way he looked at you now, suddenly soft and with good intentions. the voice of your father calling your name snapped you out of your stupor, nodding hurridely as you placed the rosary on the grass outside carefully before turning to look at him.

he gestured for you to turn away, your hands finding your hips as you did. the contact made you breath hitched, despite your layers of clothing between your curves and his hands, your stomach tickled with swarming butterflies as he lifted you up. the heat of his body behind yours distracted you for a moment, taken aback at how real he felt, how human he felt, even as he lifted you with ease.

you braced your forearms on the ground, pulling yourself up the rest of the way as he spoke.

“whisper my name three times, and i’ll be summoned wherever you are, ready to fulfill your needs.”

you stayed quiet for a moment, just sitting on the ground as you looked down at him, now able to see his full face clearning from his proximity to the window. “what’s your name?”

“san,” he smiled, “choi san.”

you loked away, up at your house as your father’s concerned voice called out your name again. “i should get going, but–,” you looked down to thank him, only to find an empty room and a sealed window. your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, voiced trailing off, “thank you…”

the first time you touched yourself, it was san you were thinking about.

late at night, your parents fast asleep, a storm ragin outside, but all you could do was think about him. you tried, you really did. you tried to go back in the house and pretend everything was fine, that you had just been on a walk and your flushed face was from the excercise. secretely, all you could think about was him. how you wanted him to show up again—wanted him to make your breath hitch and your heart jump. wanted him to soothe whatever it was that ached inside you; the burn in the pit of your stomach, the spot where your waist met your hips, but most of all between your legs, were it had never ached like this before.

you excused yourself from dinner earlier, went to bed, and tried so desperately to fall asleep. whether it was to forget about it all, or to meet him in your dreams again, you couldn’t tell. you really tried, but haunting thoughts of how his hands held onto you rolled into your mind with images of all the things he could do to you. the raspy lilt of his voice, sometimes soft, sometimes commanding in a way that made your limbs feel like jello at the mere thought of it. his sharp eyes and sharp jaw and such tempting lips. he could have a kind face if he wanted to, yet his toned body, visible and obvious despite trying to hide behind his clothing, screamed sex appeal.

flashes from your previous dreams raced through your mind too. fragments of images where you could feel his hands all over you, his dark hair sticking to his sweat forehead, eyes rolled back from the pleasure he gave himself while you were forced to watch. you never quite gave in in the dreams either.

you tossed and turned in your bed, thighs pressed together so tight you worried you’d have long bruises down your inner thighs the next morning. the new feeling felt much too large for your fragile mind, overwhelming you, making your loose clothes feel suffocating. it wouldn’t leave you alone, wouldn’t let you sleep. mostly because you didn’t want to give the feeling a name, you refused to speak its name, even in your mind, even if it could identify this feeling.

pent-up and strained, coiled into yourself in a foetal position, you could only roll onto your back and let your hand trail down your body, hiking up the long skirt of your nightgown before letting your fingers dip between your thighs, spread at the knees. you let out a shaky gasp as you felt the wetness pooled beneath your undergarments, clamping your other hand over your lips. after feeling around experimentally, your fingers found a quick pace, rubbing over your clit, more desperate than they had ever been. your hand muffled your gasped out moans and whimpers, tears pricking at your eyes—partly from the guilt, mostly from the pleasure. you felt your heart beat all over your body, most of all right below your moistened fingertips.

shaky breaths and muffled needy cries were covered by both your hand and the storm outside your window. if hurts a little, your clit swelling as more and more slick coats it and the knot in your stomach grows tighter and tighter. but you don’t mind the pain, you think you deserve it, because after all, it’s forbidden and it’s not supposed to feel good. san is not supposed to make you feel so good. a demon was the one thing that wasn’t supposed to be on your mind, especially not in this way.

the thought of him made your hand move faster and suddenly your breath was stuttering and your core pulse as you finish quickly, biting down on your lip, hard enough to cut through the skin, to muffle your cries. when you came down from your high, you lay there for a few moments longer, heart racing as you glance at the door to make sure it was still closed. and when you realised what you had just done, shame clouded your lungs as you slipped your fingers out of your panties and raised them to your face.

your hands came away sticky. transparents webs of your pleasure linking your index and middle fingers together as you stared in horror before finally collecting yourself and jumping from your bed to scrub the sin from your hands in your bathroom.

you scrubbed until your fingers turned red and your palms raw, losing sensation from the ice cold water, the guilt sinking deeper and deeper the longer you took to cleanse your body. you hadn’t noticed the tears running down your cheeks until you stared at yourself in the mirror, sniffling and glossy-eyed. your body might be clean, but were you? if you wanted to be immaculate, how could you let yourself do such a thing?

it was his fault, really. him and his midnight eyes and electric touches and words that would drive you to madness, damnation.

you changed your panties and nightgown, burying them in your laundry basket as if you were burying the evidence of a crime. once done, you wanted nothing more than to sink into your bed and fall asleep. but as you stared at what you once thought was comforting, you could only think about your soft whimpers and shaking thighs. so you stripped your bed naked to decorate it anew with clean sheets and blankets and pillows, shoving the previous ones under your bed before finally falling into a deep sleep.

shame followed you like a pest for the next days, unable to properly smile because all you could think about was what you had done. and what you wanted to do. a heavy melancholy washed over you in these days, confining yourself to your room when ou didn’t have to come down for meals. if your parents picked up on it, they didn’t say anything. maybe they knew. what if they know?

maybe they didn’t say anything because they knew about san. perhaps they thought it was fate, that you would give in sooner or later. despite cracking a bit, you stood by your conviction that you wouldn’t, no matter what, summon him.

but… was he really so bad? had you not seen a moment of softness when he helped you? demons were, after all, fallen angels. could it really be so impossible he still had a sprinkle of previous angeilc qualities? silently, you were thankful he hadn’t showed up on his own again. if he did, you were afraid you’d throw away all sense of faith and throw yourself into his arms, let him kiss you and lick you and suck you and bite you and everything in between.

despite all this, despite not wanting to summon him, you couldn’t deny the unsettling feeling weighing you down with each step. it had been there before—before whatever happened in the basement—dragging your seemingly heavy limbs through vacant hallways. but when he touched you, when his fingertips brushed against yours as he touched the shiny black beads of your rosary even though he didn’t mean to, when his hands lifted you into the air and helped you escape, the way he talked to you, his words and tone, that unsettling feeling had been lifted off your shoulders.

you noticed, for a brief moment, when you spent that short amount of time with him, you had no desire to think of god or rules or expectations. even if it was for a split second, it happened, and perhaps that what terrified you the most. just wanted to be, something you hadn’t been allowed for so long.

so when your parents said they’d be out late for some dinner you had no interest in attending, you paced around your room, deep in thought as your typical long nightgown tickled your ankles. millions of thoughts raced through your kind but, at the core, they were all the same. san, san, san. you felt like he had attached himself to your very soul, and you’re not quite sure how it happened.

without thinking, you stopped your pacing, glancing at the crucifix on your bedside table, a reminder. you couldn’t take it anymore, reaching out to take the wooden symbol and hide it in your closet. was it really wrong if it was still there, only trapped behind the wooden double doors, nestled between your skirts and shirts and gowns and gowns? out of sight, you felt less bad about what you were going to do.

your eyes squeezed shut and you did as he told you to, lips parting to whisper his name thrice. almost instantly, a gust of wind blew through your room and you knew there was someone else there with you. your eyes remained shut until you heard footsteps stalking towards you, his familiar voice filling the eerie silence of the room.

“hello, angel,” he grinned, borderline menacing, as he backed you up against your dresser. much like before, you were trapped, the back of your thighs pressed against the wood. only this time, you weren’t afraid, “i knew you’d give in sooner rather than later.”

you didn’t reply, didn’t know how to reply, only breathing shallowly, fingers curling into the edge of your dresser as you glanced from his eyes to his lips repeatedly.

“you need to give me permission, you know,” he chuckled, tilting his head to the side, “there are rules for deals such as these.”

“please.” you breathed, somewhere between a whisper and a needy whine as your round eyes looked up at him so desperately.

as soon as the word left you, his lips were on yours. hungry, devouring you, sucking on your bottom lip like it’s a candy as you can’t help but melt and whimper against him. his hand found your cheek, the touch surprisingly soft compared to the madness of his kisses. your heart rattled against your ribcage like a bird wanting to escape its confines. his saccharine saliva seeped into your mouth as his tongue broke past your lips, running over your teeth and the roof of your mouth as you let him do whatever he wanted.

his hands are all over you and yours are all over him, grabbing at each other because there was no way to get any closer like this. your thoughts, unlike before, are completely quiet, head empty and drunk on the sloppy kisses, mouthfuls of teeth clashing against each other. he was supposed to be gentle, he wanted to be gentle, yet now you’re pressed against the dresser and he’s kissing you hard.

it was wrong, but it felt too good. that was clear from the moment your kisses turn open-mouthed, lips clinging and tongues dancing. you shivered as both his hands held you by your hips once more, lifting you to sit on the edge of the oak furniture, caressing your hips bones through the thin fabric of your dress.

your hands rug at his shirt lightly, a silent plea for him to remove it, wanting to see and feel every inch of his divine body. he complies, separating his lips from your to reach over his shoulder and grip the silky shirt from the back, pulling it over his head, tossing it aside. your hands explore his naked torso, fingernails scratching along his skin as he loses himself in the taste of your kisses.

his hands dragged the long skirt of your gown up your legs, fingers ghosting over the supple skin of your calves and thighs before letting the cloth bunch up at your hips, winding your legs around his waist before lifting you off the dresser. you cling to him the way the thought of him cling to you for so long before this as he carries you. he lays you down gently, your head spinning as he kneeled on the edge of your bed and leaned over you, moving his lips from yours to mouth at your neck.

his hot breaths dance along your skin, across your collarbone, neck, pressing wet kisses down to the fabric covering your chest. you gasped softly as he brushed his teeth against your skin, a reminded that he could really break you if he wanted, but the feel of his lips against the curve of your neck, testing out the waters of your shoulder, made the intimidating thought vanish.

he teases the skin just above your neckline with nibbles that have you throwing your head back with soft whimpers, only encouraging him as his left hand kept one of your legs hitched up against his hips and his right undid the ribbons at the back of your dress. the fabric loosens and slips around, one sleeve falling over your shoulder slightly as he sat you up a little and pulled the dress over your head, discarding it and leaving you in your white ruffled bra and panties.

you’re dizzy, delirious with thirst—for his touch, his kisses, for everything his sharp lips could give you, for him to relieve the ache between your legs. you shiver as you’re left bare, nipples peaking through your bra, undergarments barely hiding your most precious parts. you try covering yourself with shaking arms, despite the little fabric still be there, but his hands move them aside, pulling them to rest on his bare chest. his eyelids flutter for a moment at the contact, your hands so much colder than his.

he leans back to look at your, hand at your back winding around to massage a handful of one breast, watching your breath hitch. “such a pretty girl, and all for me.”

“san…” you whimper aimlessly, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“such an angel,” he teases again, thumb circling over your clothed nipple lightly, grinning at how helpless you looked, “supposedly protected by your father, by god, yet here you are, practically begging for a demon to fuck you.”

he presses himself closer and you can feel the thick and heavy weight of his cock smudge against your core, gasping softly as you eyes roll back, his tip prodding against the fabric covering your sensitive clit. his name falls from your lips once again, like a softly uttered prayer as you back arches. he takes the opportunity to undo the clasp of your bra, slipping the item off you before continuing to tease your perked nipples, leaning down to lick and suck at them as his hips grind against yours. you weren’t sure when he took off his pants, but you didn’t quite care, not when his impressive girth covered your core so well. sometimes the tip would dip into your entrance before leaving just as quickly, your toes curling as it stretched you and your panties.

he moans into your neck, grinding against you at just the right pace, his precum smearing all over you already-drenched panties. the feeling of his tip prodding at you clit so continuously makes you come quickly, and much harder than the other night when you touched yourself. you writhe beneath him, shaking and crying out his name as your back arches from the bed.

“hm, you’re so much prettier like this, angel, succumbing and throwing away any desire of virtue,” he mutters against your jaw, having sucked dark marks onto the skin right below it, his deep melodic voice.

angel. the way he calls you that makes you shiver. how could he do that? call you an angel while plucking out the feathers of the wings you’d once had?

when he enters you, it’s slow and deliberate, leaning down to whisper into your ear as he presses your hands into the white mattress—”heaven itself could not make you feel like this.”

“i’ve never… you know…” you had admitted shyly once you came down from the first orgasm he coaxed out of you.

he only chuckled, caressing your cheek. “i know. virgins always smell the sweetest.”

you pleaded for him to be gentle, and how could he say no when you were begging so prettily? now his length is barely halfway inside you and you’re already shaking, drenched and deprived pussy squeezing him tightly as he swallows down your broken moans, holding back him own. you feel abnormally good to him, unable to remember the last time he fucked such a perfect pussy.

as he reaches previously untouched parts of you, his tip brushes against a spongey little area that has you clenching, your breath hitching followed by a gasped moan as you come again. stars flood your vision, feeling like your body was on fire as your hands tightened under his. his tongue licks up every one of your sounds, smothering you as he pulled back a bit to press against the spot some more.

your moans soon turn into soft whines, twitching from overstimulation before he fially continues to enter you. it’s a tight fit, but he bottoms out eventually.

“fuck- you take me so well, you’re so perfect.” he groans, looking down at where he can see his tip bulging through your stomach.

you never imagined just how full you would feel, the stretch burning yet somehow still pleasurable as you squirm beneath him. he doesn’t wait, retracting and fucking into you slowly, letting you feel every curve and vein of his perfect cock.

he loses track, but he thinks he’s made you finish 4 times already. he’s not surprised, virginity leaves most people sensitive, and the fact he’s been teasing you in and out of your dreams for months likely didn’t help. san revels in it though, basks in the sounds you try to hold back so desperately. he isn’t lying when he says you’re pretty, hypnotised by your face contorted in pleasure and your body, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. they somehow still have an innocent glint in them, even as he manoeuvres you into different positions before finally easing you into your back once more.

you arousal is smeared all over yourself and him and the bedsheets. clear and sticky, glistening in the candlelight. at some point he slipped out of you to lean down and have a taste, groaning as you mewed above him. when his teeth grazed your abuser clit, you finish once again and a moment later he’s back inside you.

eventually, his hips stutter and a newfound pace takes over. “shit, angel, i’m gonna fill you up so good. would you like that?”

you can only nod frantically, brain turned to mush, jaw dropped to let out your lazy whimpers. you’ve lost track of everything but him; his touch, his voice, his influence. if you parents walked in or he disappeared, you’d only be able to lay there, completely helpless.

he never really stops, taking his time to worship your tight hole, knowing he’ll only be able to stop when he comes. though, by the looks of it, it’ll be sooner rather than later.

his groans and moans sound blissful in your ears, holding your name between his teeth with a low whimper. he spills his tick warm cum into you, the new sensation making you shake and squirm as you feel your insides being filled. another orgasm washed over you, though a little weaker, drunk on his scent and his saliva and him him him.

he kisses you, bruisingly, slipping out of yoh and letting you feel his seed seep out of your hole and run down your thighs, pussy coated in milky white. he slumps against you, detaching his lips from yours to gaze down at your barely open eyes.

it’s tiring, you can’t deny that, but it just feels so good. all your disgusting, fucked up thoughts were because of him. and now your most intimate parts will always be tainted by his hands. he calls you ‘good girl,’ yet you know you’ll never be good again.

choi san: voice like silk, touch like satin, incubus, demon. you’d think demons kill people, but your purity was his only homicide. he murdered your virginity. murderer.

but you do wish for him to kiss you again.

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[k9wa]

⟁ 7:14 PM ft BOOTHILL.

⠀ — braiding his hair bc my brain is rotting and i miss him.

⚠︎ fluff, thats really it, mechanic!reader but its not really relevant, suggestive if you squint and cover one eye and hang upside down. gn reader, wc 860.

boothill's head was lulled back between a pair of soft, comfy thighs, eyes a content and lazy half lidded as he felt some familiar calloused and precise fingers detangling little pieces of his hair. the sun was almost down past the horizon, and the last few warm rays peeking out left the room hued a gentle orange colour, its two inhabitants bathing in it.. 

he felt a slight tug here and there as you worked your magic, taking the knots out of those long white locks with patient fingers.

“you have such pretty hair.”

you mused quietly, combing out another strand with your nails. boothill's lips tugged up lightly in a gentle smirk— a hint of pride washing over him. he was a bigger sucker for praise than he’d ever admit.

“well, it’s gotta look good if it’s gonna match th’rest of me.” he drawled, voice a low rumble filled with a certain ease that rarely surfaced— well, rarely with others, anyway. he received a playful tug of his hair in response.boothill leaned back a bit more, trying to catch a glimpse of your endearing focussed expression.

he was slowly melting against your deft fingertips, silently whirring internals mimicking the quiet purr of a cat as you twirled a piece around your finger. 

“can i braid it?” you asked simply, already sectioning out a few strands at the top. 

“do whatever you want, sugar.” he granted with a little shrug, smirk still playing on his lips. “reckon a braid’ll help keep it from flyin’ into my eyes so much.”

he felt the rhythmic crossing of each strand as you began to braid, every brush of your nails against his scalp sending a pleasant shiver right through his wires.

“y’know,” he opened, voice still that gravely tone you could never get enough of. “ain’t nobody else i’d sit still for like this.” he admitted, brashness taking a backseat to give way to a tenderness reserved for one person only.

“yeah?” you smiled a bit, continuing to braid. “just for me, huh?”

boothill couldn’t help but let out a scruff, throaty chuckle, vibrations running through his chest.“just for you, darlin’.” he echoed.

 “you’ve got a magic touch, i s’ppose,” his eyes shut briefly. “could get used to this.”

the melodic and methodic movements of your fingers were earnestly making him drowsy, a soothing lullaby that laced and weaved around him in the same patterns as his hair. 

“like being pampered?” you teased playfully, earning a chuckle from him.

“you just got a way of makin’ a man feel real special. that’s all.”

your fingers kept slowly crossing and twisting strands.

“you should let me curl it some day,” you suggested, amusing yourself with the thought of him dawning a bunch of puffy ringlets. “you’d look like ‘genti.”

boothill's low laughter echoed quietly in the room, a deep sound that harmonised with your own. 

“now that’d be somethin’ to see,” he admitted with a playful scoff. “ol’ boothill with curls bouncin’ around like some dandy.”

he shook his head as he pictured it, and you had to flick his cheek to remind him to look straight.

“i'd sport some curls if it meant i get to see you smilin’.”

you smiled fondly at that, taking a small hair tie and wrapping it around the tail of his braid.

“you’re sweeter than you let on.” you reached around to fix his bangs a little bit. 

“there.” you tilted his head up a bit to look at him, feigning shock. “well, ain’t you pretty?”

hearing his own southern drawl echoed back to him made the cowboy snort. “ain’t i just the belle of the ball now?”

boothill's hand instinctively reached back to feel your handiwork, prosthetic fingers tracing along the weaves of his hair.

“mighty fine job, sugar plum.” he commended, turning around to face you on his knees, hands sliding up your thighs until they met behind your back in a careful hug around your waist. he looked up at you— really looked at you, that mushy softness in him pushing out through the cracks you always left in his defences. 

“thanks, darlin’.” he said quietly, those red cruciform pupils locked in on your own. “means more’en you might know, you spendin’ your time fussin’ over me like this.”

the cyborg’s head fell comfortably down in your lsp, nuzzling into you.

“i think fussing over you is a full time job,” you teased lightly, a smile evident in your voice. “not that i mind.”

one of your hands traced the mechanical connections of his arm, all the way up until your fingers gave a gentle brush to his cheek.

boothill let out a breathy chuckle, some air fanning across your tummy. his fingers, a soothing and smooth cool metal, traced little shapes along your lower back.

“well, i reckon i oughta start payin’ you overtime for such dedication.” he quipped quietly, demeanour playful yet earnest as always.

“paying me to start might be better.” you gave a playful pinch to his cheek.  

“i got a few ideas for how i can pay ya,” he teased back, giving a little nip to your thigh.

⠀ MASTERLIST / GOT A REQUEST ?

[demaparbat-hp]

Another Zuko from the same page ❄️

Little Zuzu for an incoming project 🔥

[adore-laur]

Omgg I would love to see different times dadrry gets protective !! Like I can so see him being one of those dads that set boundaries the first time the baby is being introduced to family. He’d be like “no kissing on the face, no taking her away from mom without asking her first and wash your hands before holding her” etc etc. Or him getting defensive when people start to pity him when they find out he’s having a third girl and he gets annoyed and defends his girls 😭😭

Also ofc need to say your dadrry series is the best thing ever I still have tumblr solely to read your writing ☺️☺️

PROTECTOR

——

Pacific loons wailed hauntingly near the shoreline as you sat in the patio's swing chair, listening to the sundry sounds of nature. The oceanic view was a calm presence, one that often lulled you into a hypnotic trance with the endless ebb of waves and the horizon's dying light. Above the railing, brass wind chimes produced a plinking melody in the wind. The atmosphere of home engulfed you like a warm hug.

It was a moment of serenity while Harry went on a grocery run with the girls. He had offered to take the after work, and it was sweet of him to give you time to decompress after parenting alone all day. Plus, it got them out of the house. You would usually be able to take them somewhere for fresh air and fun sights to see, but pregnancy fatigue prevented any hopes of traveling past the front door.

A month had elapsed since you surprised Harry with the news of a third baby. Two weeks since you both had found out it was a girl. In that time, life had coasted by blissfully between the routine of working part-time, daycare drop-off and pick-up, and bonding with your little family over the weekend.

As much as you cherished the hustle and bustle, it was necessary to prioritize personal time. Sometimes it came in the form of sinking into a hot bath, venturing to the beach with a novel, or catching up on much-needed sleep. Today, it consisted of feeling the breeze pass through your hair and appreciating the beauty of southern California.

It would be easy to fall asleep out here. The crashing waves, birdsong, and rustling trees were a lullaby. But you knew the moment you closed your eyes, you would miss the last streaks of the sunset, with its delicate wisps and golden clouds. So you shifted slightly to wake your limbs that were becoming jelly-like, and as you did, the blanket previously draped across your collarbones pooled into your lap. You stared down at it, smiling. The bedroom's storage ottoman held approximately a dozen different blankets, all with some sort of sentimental value attached to them. The crocheted quilt your first daughter had come home from the hospital with; the heated one with Mom embroidered on it; the oversized fleece one Harry liked to specifically use for cuddling either you or his girls.

The one you had chosen for your peaceful patio time was a ragged, faded patchwork quilt that Harry had kept (possibly stole) from the walk-up apartment you lived in together nearly eight years ago. It had watched your love for him grow beyond your wildest dreams. Had seen moments of rib-aching laughter, frustrated tears, pain and passion, and a commitment that would always withstand rough waters. Neither of you had wanted to part with that blanket, so now it stayed in a special place in the home that had once been a far-fetched fantasy.

As your fingers plucked loose threads from the fabric, you felt your phone vibrate with an incoming call. It was hidden somewhere under the thick blanket, and after a moment of searching, you picked it up and looked at the screen. It was Harry, made evident by his contact photo—a family picture on the Temescal Canyon Trail, your youngest strapped to your chest in a carrier and Harry carrying your oldest on his shoulders. A generous elderly couple had offered to take it, with the stunning backdrop of the expansive coastline. You especially loved the picture because it showed off Harry's legs in his athletic shorts, all long and tanned.

"Hey," you answered, assuming he was calling from the grocery store. He often did with ideas for meals or questions about kiddie snacks. Sometimes he'd ask what desserts you were craving, and then he'd spoil you by bringing home more than you could even fathom eating.

"Hi, baby," he said, sounding winded. "Can you unlock the door for me? Both girls are out like a light in my arms."

"Oh!" you said, not expecting him back so soon. Nature's hypnosis made you lose track of time. "Okay, I'll be right there."

"Thank you. I'd hang up, but my phone is balancing rather precariously on my shoulder."

You laughed and hung up for him, then untangled yourself from the cozy confines of the swing chair before heading inside. You were careful to hop over the dolls and picture books and blocks scattered across the living room carpet.

When you reached the front door and opened it slowly, your heart melted. Harry stood there holding one daughter on each hip, their little bodies slumped against him as they slept. You could tell your youngest was in a deep sleep. Your eldest, though, was definitely pretending so she could be carried inside like a princess. The sunset's pink light peeked into the garage and softened Harry's handsome features ethereally. Who else could look this good after grocery shopping?

"We're home," he whispered, and those two simple words filled your heart with an unspeakable amount of happiness.

"I'll help put stuff away," you replied quietly, taking his phone to relieve him from his uncomfortable position. "You go tuck the girls in." It was nearing their bedtime anyway, so better to take advantage of a smooth transition.

Harry smiled with that attentive look on his face, then bent to tenderly kiss the sweet spot on your neck. "You're glowing," he murmured in your ear, then walked past you, leaving your cheeks flushing like a besotted teenager.

Once the groceries were put away and the kids were down for the night, you and Harry went to relax in the bedroom. The sky was now devoid of color with stars twinkling faintly, and the full moon spilled its light through the bay window.

You were already in your pajamas, collapsing onto the comforter, when Harry asked, "How was your day?" He shut the closet light off, dressed in just a T-shirt and black boxers. There were those legs again, the lean muscles a feast for your eyes.

"Mellow," you said. "We stayed inside mostly. Morning sickness has been kicking my ass."

"Good thing you didn't have to work today."

You nodded. That was the nice part about working part-time and partially from home—it allowed for the freedom to be with the kids more often. You didn't mind taking them to daycare, especially since it was imperative for socialization, but it lessened your anxiety when you had them under your supervision. It was a suitable balance.

"Did everyone behave at the store?" you asked, sliding your socks off under the sheets.

"Yeah. No tantrums." Harry raised his eyebrows proudly, and you both shared an air-five. "They seemed knackered. Slept all the way home."

"I tried my best to tire them out."

"Well, you succeeded," he said appreciatively, then joined you in bed, stretching his limbs. You were so thankful for his diligence. To work ten hours and then parent to take some responsibility off your plate was admired more than you could ever put into words.

Harry reached his hand over to the nightstand to resume the book he'd been engrossed in recently but paused and turned to you instead. "Can I gossip with you?" he asked.

You quirked your brows. "What happened?"

He breathed deeply and stared into the distance. "So, I was in the cereal aisle, right?"

You laughed while cuddling up to him. "This is juicy so far."

"It's not even gossip, really," he said. "Just something that irked me."

"Please continue."

He wrapped his arm around your shoulders and painted a picture of the scene. "I had the girls sitting in the shopping cart, and an old lady nearby started fawning over them. Which is fine, because they're adorable. Anyway, she started asking a bunch of questions. How old they are, what their personalities are like. Somehow I accidentally let it slip that we have a third one on the way, and I know we're telling our families next week, but I got caught up in the conversation and—"

"You're so bad at keeping secrets," you interrupted with a good-natured groan.

Harry kissed your forehead apologetically. "The worst. So, the lady had the audacity to act all surprised that I was going to be a father of three girls. Gave me a face like she pitied me. And then guess what she said..."

"I assume something mildly offensive," you replied.

"She goes, 'I bet you were hoping for a boy. To bring some balance to your home.'"

You scoffed and said, "More like chaos. What did she even mean by that?"

He shook his head, equally puzzled. "I don't know, but I just said, 'I'm very happy with my life,' then grabbed a box of Cocoa Puffs and went on with my day."

You frowned. "Why do some people think having daughters is such a burden?" It was mind-boggling. They had taught you so much and would continue to as they grew and spread their wings. It was your purpose to shape them into resilient, kind, and empathetic women. What a beautiful honor anyone would be lucky to experience.

"I'll never understand," Harry mused, locking eyes with you. "It's the most..." He trailed off with an emotional smile, and you stroked his cheek, letting him take his time. It wasn't often you or he could speak so rawly about the life you'd created together. "It's just the best feeling imaginable, you know? I can't describe it. All I know is that I wouldn't want it any other way."

You softly kissed him, feeling the sincerity of his words in the way he gracefully slipped his tongue past yours. With your palm still cradling his cheek, you halted his kisses using your thumb to say, "You're this family's heartbeat."

His lustful green eyes opened, his pupils dilating as if absorbing your admission. "If I'm the heartbeat, then you're the lungs."

"Sweet-talker," you teased.

"You started this love fest."

After a stretch of comfortable silence, Harry settled his hand on your small bump, a warm and knowing touch. "Please don't think I'm waiting on a son," he said.

You snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. I know more than anyone else how much you wanted daughters. You told me during our first date."

"I did?"

"We talked each other's ears off that night about our futures. The universe must have been listening." The conversation was burned into your brain. In that dim oceanside restaurant, you had known he was a keeper.

"Yeah," Harry whispered, kissing all over your stomach, leaving no skin unmarked by his gentle lips. He then rested his head in your lap. "I can't wait to meet her."

You hummed. "Have you ever thought about what she'll be like?"

"A combination of all four of us."

A ghost of a smile spread on your lips. "We're going to have our hands full then."

"I'm ready."

"I know you are," you said while playing with his hair. "That's why I chose you."

He was a protector, down to the fibers of his being. You didn't have to be in the room for him to remind the world of his devotion to being your husband. To being a father. He laid it all bare, and you could only hope that it would be passed down to your daughters like an heirloom blanket.

——

[moeswriting]

mine | 1. wondering why we bother with love

pairing: young!no-outbreak!joel miller x f!reader

chapter summary: a regular day at work turns into the beginning of something joel never thought would happen to him again.

chapter warnings: joel is 22 and reader is 20, mentions of a bad marriage and teenage pregnancy, reader is described a small amount (has hair, able-bodied, wears feminine clothing, is going to school for secondary english education, has a heavily-detailed background), joel being the single dad™, southern banter and teasing, fluff, joel being a flirt, baby sarah being her dad's favorite, if i missed anything let me know

word count: 3.6k (future chapters will be longer)

a/n: good lord, this got some attention!!! i'm so fucking grateful for it. really excited for you guys to read this. hope you like it. lemme know what you think. any reblogs and likes are appreciated <3

series masterlist | next chapter ->

read this chapter on ao3

You were in college, working part-time waiting tables

Left a small town, never looked back

I was a flight risk, with a fear of fallin'

Wondering why we bother with love, if it never lasts

✦ ✦ ✦

October 1994

At seventeen-years-old, Joel Miller found out that his girlfriend was pregnant. It was startling and overbearing and horrifying and it made him want to scream at the sky, at God or whatever was up there and curse them for fucking up his life. He told Amanda that he was there for her, would do anything for her, but he was scared shitless.

At eighteen, he was holding a baby in the hospital with a ring on his left hand and thanking whatever was up there for bringing him a healthy baby girl to hold for the rest of his life. Maybe it was too soon, but as soon as he laid eyes on her, he knew. He knew he would love Sarah for the rest of his life and even beyond that. But, Amanda held her for a second and gave her back to him. He knew that she resented him– could tell by the way she fidgeted with the ring on her finger, pulling it off and then putting it back on, scowling at it when she thought he wasn’t looking. They moved into a small apartment near the college campus in Austin right before the baby was born. He could tell she hated that too. He knew he could grin and bear it, as long as Sarah got to have two parents.

At twenty, he came home from his job at the small diner across the street to their small apartment where his little girl was crying in her crib and a note sat on the counter that read, “I’m just not built to be a mother or a wife, Joel.” All of her things were gone. It was like she’d never been there at all.

That night, he held Sarah in his arms and cried. He watched her big, curious eyes as his tears ran down her face and soaked into her pink pajamas. He thinks maybe she knew what was going on– the toddler was always more ahead than he ever was. It only took a day for her to start begging for her mother, sobbing in Joel’s arms as he held her tight to his chest, hushing in her ear, trying to sing any lullaby he could think of. It took her two months to stop bringing her up at all.

By twenty-two, he’s a fully-functioning single dad. He has a stable job at the diner and does some contracting with his brother on the side. His mom helps him watch Sarah while he’s working– shows him pictures of her on her digital camera she insists on bringing with her everywhere when he gets back from work. There’s a wall in his kitchen dedicated to his favorites. He never stops thanking her for everything she does for him.

Sarah is growing beautifully. Her curly hair is a mess, but he’s trying his best to learn how to do it right. Amanda had always done it before– pigtails and braids perfectly set on her tiny head. But he finds that her thick hair is hard to tame on his own. He takes her to the salon downtown for them to do her braids whenever he can afford it. Her big brown eyes could make him do anything– she knows just how to work him with her wet, puppy dog stare and pouty lips. She’s up to his knees now. Everytime he comes home from work, she’ll run to him and crash into his calves and he can’t help but smile everytime she does it.

She’s his world, his everything.

It’s a Sunday morning. He always works Sunday mornings because the church crowd always tips well and today is no different. Sweat is dripping down his back from running around, and his brain feels like it’s split in half with all the orders stuffed in his head. The diner’s small enough that he’s only one of two servers working, despite how ridiculously busy it is, but he doesn’t mind. He can’t mind, really.

“Donald! Where’s my pancakes?”

The owner of the establishment’s balding head peaks out of the kitchen, as he yells back at him, “In your ass, Miller!”

“Hilarious,” he deadpans, pushing an order sheet back into the kitchen for Donald to grab, “Hurry it up, please. Mr. Cassini is starting to get hangry again.”

Donald laughs boisterously, “Oh, that old man is always angry!”

Joel waves him off, “Just do it, Don.”

“No problem, kid!”

He turns around and there’s a new patron sitting at one of his tables. A woman, body guarded, eyes on alert, evaluating the diner for the closest exits. You look scared, but only in the way that prey does when it knows it’s safe– waiting for the next predator to flash its teeth at your trembling form. Your hair is wet, as well as the tops of your shoulders, which are tucked into a large hoodie that swallows you. He didn’t realize it was raining. Your sneaker-clad feet are tucked under your legs, criss-cross-applesauce on the soft leather of the booth beneath you.

You’re beautiful.

Tapping his pencil against his order pad, he approaches you carefully. You look like you’ll run for the hills if he takes you by surprise. But, his tapping seems to alert you of his presence, as your head turns towards him. You watch him with a discerning look and fold your hands on your lap.

He pulls out the Southern charm his momma taught him, smile and all, hoping it might ease your cautiousness, “Hello, ma’am. Can I get you something to drink?”

You look surprised– eyebrows raised and eyes wide, like you didn’t expect him to talk. It’s odd, he thinks.

“Oh– uh–” you look down to the menu he placed in front of you upon his approach– “Iced tea?”

Just from your voice alone– and piled onto the fact that he knows everyone around here, and he’s damn sure he’s never seen a woman as pretty as you before– he knows you aren’t from around here. He has the sudden and all-consuming need to know everything about you. Why are you here? Who the hell are you?

“You need a lemon with that, sweetheart?” He can’t keep his eyes off you.

“Oh, no, no. Sugar is good enough for me.” As if to prove your point, you pull a couple packets of Sweet ‘N Low out of the small container at the end of the table and toss them next to the menu splayed out in front of you.

“Alright, darlin’. One iced tea comin’ up.” He pulls out a wink for you and walks away. He isn’t prepared to see the aftermath of his overconfidence. He really hopes you don’t run.

And he finds that you haven’t when he comes back with your iced tea in his hand. He places it down in front of you with a, Here you go, hon, and asks if you want anything to eat, and you decline. He rushes to get to his other customers. Tips are more important than the beautiful woman, he has to tell himself, but he finds that his eyes drift to you as you dump three pink packets of the sweetener into your tea and swirl it around. He shakes his head in amusement when you pull a book out of the backpack sitting next to you and start to read.

✦ ✦ ✦

When he comes back to check on you again, you’ve downed your glass of tea and you’re squinting your eyes as you write on the page of the book in front of you, underlining a passage you determine is worthy of note, not once, not twice, but three times. He thinks he sees the words ‘idealized love’ as he pours more tea from the pitcher he brought with him into your plastic cup.

“Whatcha readin’?”

Your eyes don’t even leave the page, pencil doesn’t cease writing as you reply, “The Great Gatsby.”

“Huh. Read that in high school. Kinda sad, ain’t it?”

You place your pencil down in the crease of your paperback, still reading, “I suppose so.”

It’s gone quiet in the diner now that the Church crowd has left, the sound of the jukebox in the corner the only background noise remaining. Only people here now are you and Mr. Cassini, but he’s preoccupied with Doreen, the other waitress on duty today. They’re flirting in the way that old people do, with shy smiles and boisterous laughter. He thinks he can take a quick break.

He sits down on the booth across from you and you look up at him for the first time since he came back to fill your tea.

“What’re you doing,” you ask– not in anger or annoyance, but just genuine confusion.

“Sittin’. This book for pleasure or school?”

You seem to accept his presence here with you as your new, temporary situation and put your bookmark– a pressed leaf– back in your book and close it shut. “School.”

He hums, disappointment dripping down his back, “You in high school then?”

Your eyebrows furrow before you seem to realize where he is drawing his conclusion from, “Oh! No, no. I’m studying to be an English teacher. We’re supposed to read this and come up with a fake lesson plan.”

Relief replaces the disappointment just as quickly as it had come.

“Huh. Interesting.”

You shrug, “I’d like to think so.”

He shuffles in his seat, pressing the cold leather against his sweltering back. “So, what– you gonna be a high school teacher?”

“I’m trying to. It’s hard work.” You pull out a few more packets of sweetener and pour them into your new cup of tea. He tries his best not to smile, but he can feel the corners of his lips pulling at his skin.

“Hard work is good for the soul– shows you got guts. That’s what my momma always says, anyways.”

You grin, “She sounds real smart, your mamma.” He hears you emulating his accent, teasing him for being so incredibly cliché, but he’s so focused on your blinding smile that he can’t even fight back.

“She is. She’s the best I could ask for.”

“Good. Everyone deserves a good mom,” you say, your smile almost turns sad as you say it. He wants to grab your face and beg you to tell him why what you said makes you sad, where’s your good mom that you deserve?

“Joel Miller, what are you doin’, sittin’ down? Get your ass up and clean some tables,” Donald yells from across the diner. Joel doesn’t even flinch– used to his sour attitude from almost four years of working here. But he watches you flinch, eyes going wide. You look warily over to Donald, assessing the situation, before you look back over to him.

You clear your throat, “It seems like you need to be getting to work, Joel Miller.”

You're teasing him again, but he can tell you’re nervous. He smiles, trying to calm your nerves as much as he can, and he thinks it works as he watches your shoulders relax slightly.

He chuckles, muttering to you conspiratorially, “Bitter old man, can’t see I’m trying to get myself a date over here.”

Your eyes flick down to your book and back up to him. Biting your lip, trying to suppress the smile he can see taking over your face, you reply, “Get back to work.”

“Alright, alright, sugar. I’m going,” he concedes, hands flying up in surrender.

The grin finally takes over your lips again and he swears he’s never seen anything more beautiful– besides his own baby girl’s smile. 

A name falls from your upturned lips.

“Huh?”

You laugh, opening your book back up and pulling yourself back into the story, “My name, Joel Miller.”

He repeats it back to you. It tastes like honey and sweetener on his tongue.

He wonders what you would taste like on his tongue.

“I’m getting off in 30 minutes.” An invitation.

You look back up at him. “Well, then, I guess I got another thirty minutes to read before you’re bothering me again.” You accept.

“I suppose you do.” He turns back to the counter and walks away. He can feel the pull to go back to you, to indulge himself in you further, but he needs the money and the extra $3 for the next thirty minutes could be the difference between his baby girl getting a full meal or not, and Donald has a nasty habit of not paying the full amount if he ain’t working, so he picks up a rag and gets back to work.

✦ ✦ ✦

Thirty minutes later, he’s pulling off his apron and bounding out of the backroom towards the table you’ve made a home of. He finds that you’ve packed up your things into your lavender bookbag, like you’re ready for whatever he throws at you– to go wherever he’s going to take you.

He wastes no time; he doesn’t want to be here anymore. “You wanna go on a walk?”

You nod your head eagerly. It seems you’re in agreement.

The pavement is a dark gray beneath your purple sneakers and his steel-toed boots, a pair his momma gave him for his 18th birthday. They’re good for work– sturdy, not too sweaty or uncomfortable. He wears them everyday. He wonders if you like cowboy boots, hopes you don’t find them tacky.

It’s still light out, around six in the afternoon. It stopped raining an hour ago, but the humidity still lies heavy in the air as the two of you make your way outside. It’s hot, but only in the way that Texas is in the middle of October. It’s comforting, like laying in front of a fire on a cold day.

He stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets. He wants to take your hand, can feel his fingers twitching with the exertion of forcing himself to stop. You don’t even know him– he doesn’t want to scare you off yet.

You look to him for directions and he tilts his head forward and down the street, starting your walk at a slow, but steady, pace.

Austin is busy this time of year, what with all the college students a month or so into their return for the fall semester. The bars they pass are full of drunk students on  full-weekend benders and loud music. Stupid decisions and disco lighting. Sometimes he’s glad he was able to avoid all that. Sometimes he misses having the option of making mistakes.

He clears his throat, “Where you from, darlin’?”

You smile, kicking a rock with the edge of your sneaker, “Oh, is it that obvious that I’m not a Texas girl?”

If the lack of the local accent and not recognizing you wasn’t enough, the way you held yourself would be the obvious give away to him– nervous, on-guard. He finds that people around here aren’t scared of being too loud or in the way of anyone or anything. It was plain to him that you couldn’t stand the idea of getting in anyone’s way.

“Kinda,” he chuckles.

You hesitate, looking away from him and to the uneven sidewalk below you both, like you’re trying to decide if you should lie to him or not.

“Seattle.”

That takes him by surprise, but he hopes it doesn’t show too much. What in the hell were you doing all the way down here?

So many questions left unanswered in the aftermath of you.

“Woah– long way from home, aren’t we?”

Your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah— yeah, I am.”

Home, family seem to be sore topics for you. He makes a note to avoid it.

“Never been to Seattle. In fact, I’ve never left Texas.”

Your eyebrows lift. “Really? Washington’s beautiful.”

“Lotsa rain, I hear.”

You let out a breath of amusement, “You hear correctly. It's one of the only things I miss about it. Texas isn’t exactly known for its rain.”

He snorts, “No, it ain’t. But, you got yourself some today. Bet that was nice.”

You nod. It’s a few moments of comfortable silence before you speak again.

“You from around here?”

He nods once, pushing his hands even further into his pockets in embarrassment, “Lived in Austin my whole life.”

“Joel Miller, you’ve gotta get out of Texas,” you laugh.

You’re beautiful when you laugh. Your smile lights up your whole face like the sun as you throw your head back towards the dreary sky, eyes crinkled by the pull of your cheeks.

He sighs lightly, “Yeah, ‘spose I do.”

You seem to realize something as you do a quick scan of your surroundings before you look back at him with narrowed eyes and a playful smirk.

“Miller, where are we going,” you draw out.

“Nowhere,” he mimics your drawn out syllables, “Just walkin’.”

You hum, “Hm, and I don’t suppose that nowhere is in the general direction of my college campus and that you may be ‘just walkin’ ‘ me to my dorm like the Southern gentleman you are?”

He chuckles, bashfully scratching the back of his neck, “Maybe.”

You pause, look him up and down, and then sigh, “Thank you, Joel.”

“It’s no problem, sugar.”

He lets you take the lead now that you’re approaching the campus, slowing his steps so he could keep up with you. You scrunch your eyebrows at the ground below you and pucker your lips, opening your mouth and then closing it again. When Sarah does that, he calls her ‘fishy’. He desperately wants to tell you about her, but he finds himself once again fighting the urge so he doesn’t scare you off. Not yet, he tells himself.

You look up at him again, eyes wide and biting your bottom lip, “Why do you keep calling me that?”

He’s staring. He knows he’s staring at your mouth, but he can’t help it. They’re like a siren song he can’t resist. He can’t think straight when you’re next to him. 

He shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts like an Etch-A-Sketch, “What?”

“‘Sugar’. Why do you keep calling me that?” You glance over at him, but quickly look back at the ground when you catch him staring at you. He can tell you’re flustered.

“Oh, well, I watched you pour three packets of sweetener in your tea like a maniac. So, I figured that was an appropriate nickname.”

You scoff, throwing your hands up in the air, a grin growing on your face, “Hey, that is a very appropriate amount of sweetener, thank you very much! I thought you Southerners adored your sweet tea.”

“Darlin’, if all us ‘Southerners’ drank three packets of sweetener with our iced tea, we would all be dying at a very young age.”

“Well then, I’ll die a very sugar-high and happy, young woman.”

He laughs– one of those real laughs that only his family can bring out of him. He can’t remember the last time he laughed like this in public.

“Y’know, if you’re gonna die young, sugar, I don’t know if it’s such a good idea that I do what I was about to do.”

You stop in front of the tall brick building in front of you, clicking your heels together, and playfully furrow your eyebrows again. You’ve reached your destination. This is goodbye. He doesn’t want it to be.

“And what were you about to do, Joel Miller?”

“Ask you on a date,” he smiles and you smirk, “But… if you’re planning on an early demise, darlin’, I don’t wanna get my heart broken.”

“And if I promised to cut back?” You’re approaching him quietly– two feet turning into almost chest-to-chest in a few agonizing seconds.

“Then, I’ll have to take you out to make sure you keep your promise– now, won’t I?”

He watches from the corner of his eye as you pull a piece of paper out of your hoodie pocket and stuff it in his own. The soft, fleeting feeling of your hand brushing his makes a shiver run down his spine. Your hand quickly retreats.

You look up at him with mischief in your eyes, “I guess you will.”

Before he can even blink or think or process, you're kissing his cheek with a tenderness he hasn’t felt in years– eyes closed and big grin plastered on your face. He knows he’s blushing; the heat is crawling up his face ruthlessly.

You pull away and start to walk toward your building. He lifts a hand to his face in hopes that you left something there, evidence that you were real, evidence that what just happened wasn’t a figment of his imagination. But all he can feel is his own stubble. He hopes it didn’t hurt your lips. Maybe he should shave when he gets home.

“Call me, Joel Miller,” you shout over your shoulder, grinning brightly.

“How,” he shouts back.

“Look in your pocket!” You point to your own in emphasis.

His eyebrows pull together as he pulls the paper out of his pocket and reads it. Ten digits sitting pretty in red at the top with your name sitting on the bottom, a heart colored in with purple highlighter drawn next to it.

He goes to tell you thank you, or declare something he’s not even sure of himself, but when he looks back up to the doors of your building, you’re gone. The only evidence that you were ever real sits in his hands like a promise.

He rushes home before his mom starts to worry about where he went. He can’t wait to tell her all about you.

series masterlist | masterlist of all masterlists

[sophiamarieispinkbunny-chan]

Yor's Hometown and Westalis

Yor mentioned that she's from a place in Ostania called Eastern Nielsberg.

Obviously, I thought it was on the Eastern part of Ostania as well. But then we get this statement from her from the recent update, Chapter 92.

She's from the South part of Ostania-A Southern folk.

And how did I dare forgot, the dish that she can make without messing up was even named Southern Stew.

Why is this important? Because Mr. Green said this specific information on Chapter 39 about Southern Folks from Ostania.

Southern Folks have a code for defecting to the West which might indicate that they're the ones who usually do this.

Then I remembered this Twiyor moment from Chapter 35

Yor knows a lullaby from Loid's childhood that was always sung to him by his mother. How could Yor know that same exact lullaby?

I don't think I remember Yor mentioning Westalis neither in speech or thought (correct me if I'm wrong pls). Though that doesn't mean that she wasn't aware of the existence of it. But I don't think she, herself, would try or have tried defecting to Westalis. And she's too young and too focused on taking care of her brother to even consider this.

But how about her family? Her parents? Their relatives? Why did Yuri and her are left alone when their parents died? What happened to their grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles? Where were they and why didn't they took them in? Did they perhaps defect to the West and Yor's family remained on Ostania? We can't be sure since we only know a little about Yor's backstory and her entire family background.

But even in Loid's backstory, when he was talking to the croquette lady, she mentioned that she was part Ostanian herself and she has a family in the East even though she's residing in West. Meaning, there could also be people from Ostania that has Westalian relatives. Yor's family could have Westalian background or someone in their family tree is and who knows, her family may have actually some sort of connection with Loid's family in Luwen.

I actually don't know where I was going with this or if this even make sense or plot relevant but I can't help but be intrigued by this.

[cynicaloptimism2]

So at some point when I was little we got this mixed up with "see you later, alligator". So our bedtime rhyme was "good night, sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite, alligator!" Not sure if we were being called an alligator or if that was like a warning about an alligator. 😂

back on my fascination with variations of little childhood rhymes bullshit so:

as per usual, bonus points if you tell me about it in the tags/reblogs and tell me where you lived when you heard it.

extra bonus points if you reblog with some variation of this in a language other than English, bc I'm there have to be similar 'goodnight' sayings in other languages.

[darnelldraws]

So I gave Tunner a mom :3

Meet Peacan!! Tunners loveable POC Southern Mom

She's the one that taught Tunner how to whistle when he was a sprunkling.

Tunner whistling was his way of communicating with his mom if he was non-verbal

Peacan Whistling would always help Tunner fall asleep if he really needed it.

So for Tunner's Whistles

In Normal mode: That's the Whistle she's taught him.

In Horror Mode: That was her lullaby to him to help him sleep when he was a sprunkling ( Ya'll are gonna kill me lol)

Tunner may be an adult now but that doesn't stop him from acting like his sprunkling self around his mom

Hope y'all like her and ya'll can make fanart of her and Tunner (please tag me in it :3)

[spoopydeboop]

Hello, and welcome to…

Pointless Palia Head-Cannons!

This is a segment where my hyper-focused and obsessive brain will shower you all with all of the pointless very important head-cannons I have about the MMO Palia and its many NPCs!

Today’s topic is:

Which Palia NPCs can sing well and which ones simply cannot carry a tune?

Now, in the words of the famous Italian plumber, “Here we go!” (List below the cut!)

NPCs are listed in alphabetical order.

• Ashura - Absolutely yes, but in a very deep, sea-shanty / Gaelic tune way. He’s not the most technically sound, but his voice is very gruff and soothing. Absolutely sang his son lullabies every night.

• Auni - No, I’m sorry. Convinced that he cannot carry a tune AT ALL but thinks he can. Sings loudly with zero inhibition whatsoever. Gotta give him credit there!

• Badruu - We know this man was in a traveling Bard group, so he’s musically inclined for sure. I feel like he would have been killer backup and filler vocals and he can harmonize beautifully.

• Caleri - Doesn’t believe in fun, jovial activities like singing. (Elouisa informs you later that her sister can in fact not carry a tune at all.)

• Chayne - Absolutely. He’s naturally musically inclined, but part of his spiritual training involved learning to lead chants and hymns. Bass level vocals, v soothing.

• Delaila - Not at all. Where do you think Auni gets it? Part of what entranced her about Badruu in the beginning was his musical abilities. She’ll still sing along with a group and put her all into it though!

• Einar - The concept of producing a vocal stimulation to create a pleasing melodic sound is lost to the robot. But if it’s your Oneness, he respects it.

• Elouisa - Cannot sing, but definitely played clarinet in high school and was first chair!

• Eshe - No way. Cruella de Vil type vibes. She definitely was classically trained on the piano, but doesn’t often exercise the skill.

• Hassain - Can absolutely carry a tune and harmonize well! Definitely low baritone or higher bass in range. Can harmonize with higher ranges very well!

• Hekla - Her Jina often sings to herself as she works, but the ability and desire to produce a series of melodies is not within her rune programming.

• Hodari - Not the biggest fan of singing, but has a decent voice that comes off pleasantly gruff and southern. I imagine if Pedro Pascal’s ‘Joel’ from The Last of Us sang a slower, more reserved tune. (My other example was the dad cow from Back at the Barnyard that sings “I Won’t Back Down”… Let me know if that woulda been better or worse.)

• Jel - Definitely took vocal lessons with his sisters. Has a very pleasant and airy singing voice that is very technically sound.

• Jina - Doesn’t really sing much except for to herself. Massive stage fright on this one! Hekla says that her Jina seems happy when she sings, and that’s what matters.

• Kenji - Honestly? 100%, yes. Maybe like a broadway or an operatic voice. Doesn’t sing much but I imagine it would sound really jolly if he was a jollier guy.

• Kenyatta - YES! Doesn’t sing because she thinks it’s ‘lame’ (she gives me massive ‘too cool for school’ vibes) but has a delightful and powerful singing voice (kinda like the wolf Porsha Crystal played by Halsey in Sing 2.)

• Nai’O - Yes absolutely. Got his talent from his dad! He’s very shy when put on the spot though, so he doesn’t sing in front of people often — mostly when he works in the field with his animals by himself.

• Najuma - Not at all! But it’s okay because Najuma has zero desire to, haha. Kid is happy to be tinkering!

• Reth - On god, YES. Man has a beautiful and casual singing voice with a little rasp around the edges. Sings to himself while he cooks or gets really focused on something. I’m thinking “Feelin’ Good” by Michael Bublé, but maybe bit more rough around the edges.

• Sifuu - Not much of a singer, but I know our Muscle Mommy definitely has a few war chants or something up her sleeve! Lady can keep a beat for sure.

• Tamala - Thinks she can, but makes it way too sultry. You heard me. There’s such a thing as too much!

• Tish - Yes! Absolutely. She seems like she would 100% have like a Mandy Moore or Kristen Bell vibe. Very Disney Princess-esque!

• Zeki - Okay, honestly I think yes — but not in a conventional way. Kind of like Ashura; I think he would be great at singing like traditional Grimalkin shanties or folk-songs. Not very practiced, but he’s got spirit!

OKAY FINALLY DONE! I plan to do a lot more of these! Let me know if you have any suggestions!

[amor-godess-of-love]

@kun1nn requested this so I delivered it, hope you like it ^^

Headcanons for Jonathan Crane as a parent:

•Whether it be his biological child or one he adopted Jonathan will be incredibly worried about raising it. He never had a good parental guidance in his life, all he has are examples of what not to do to a child. He will need his partner reassurance that he can do this.

•You can bet your money that he in week read more then fair share of books about parenting, he learns all stages of child development and any signs he should look out for.

•With his knowledge on nursery rhymes, lullabies and poems he make sure he has a set of new ones each night. Staying with his kid until they fall asleep. He has notebook that keeps track of his child favourite ones, noting if something changes.

•And if the child wakes him up at night? Depending on the cause he will deal with it differently. If it's a nightmare? He invites his child to sleep with him and his partner, while he holds them both close. But if the "monster" that woke them up? He makes display of putting on his mask and taking his glove, barging into child's room, looking under bed and making it seem like the monster run away at sight of him. After that he stay with his child until they fall asleep.

•He ask other rogues for advice more often then not. He ask Harley for all kinds of fun but safe toys and gadgets while he will consult Edward on stimulating kind of riddles and puzzles he would recommend for developing child. He would ask Jervis for advice on tea parties and dolls. He also would refer to Pamela for advice about herbs in case his child has a stomach ache or headache, maybe something soothing before bed.

•Speaking of toys, his child would be given all kinds of plushies and staff toys to play or sleep with it. He would even created a scarecrow plushie he made, refer to him, as "Mr. Hay" and tell his child it will be guard them when he isn't around.

•He can and will train his Crows to watch over his child and imidiatly alarm him if something is wrong. Whenever he sees his "feather children" play with his real child he will get move, but deny if question about it.

•As child he knew what a true fear feels like, so he makes sure his child is never forced to feel it ever. He will help his child overcome or just managed any phobias of fear they have. What kind of "master of fear" would he be if he couldn't help his child with it?

•When the child's get's older he will teach them how to make his most simple fear toxin for self defense purposes. While he would be more then happy to teach his child all he knows about fear and show them how to make all his different fear toxins. He would never forced child to fallow his footsteps, just teach them nessesity and if the child wants to learn more? He will happily teach them, adjusting everything to his child knowledge and age.

•He will make his child a matching little costume so they can be "like they dad!"

•Whenever his child get's into new book series he make sure to read them so he could talk to them about that books, if it's anything else like TV series or games? He will try his best to also research on the topic. He just wants to know what his child likes.

•God have mercy if his child is bullied in school. He will rage a storm that will explain to everyone while he is "God of fear in human form". But if he finds, it's mostly because other parents badmouth his child and they children just reapeat what they heard? Well he just found his new "volunteers" for his newest batch of most potent fear toxin.

•He will support his child whenever they seek higher education or want to look for career imidiatly after highschool and if the child wants to fallow his footsteps into criminal carrier, he will show them the ropes and take them as his sidekick (They will have to be at lest 15, but even then he never brings them if he expects anything dangerous might happen).

•While in private I imagine he let's his southern drawl slip more often, he becomes proud of his child picks up on it and develops one of they own.

•He is kind of father that would teach his child all kinds of skill they would need. Cooking, cleaning, laundry, how to fix the car, a basic electrical work, how to escape heavily guarded asulum, you know the nessesities.

•He will make sure to always let his child know how beautiful they are. He will work with them if they have any esteem issues, he knows better then anyone what it's like. He specially feels responsibility if the child inherited his Marfan syndrome or Stahl's ears, or any appearance altering issue.

•While he knows he isn't perfect dad, he tries. He feels like failure whenever he feels he let his child see him at low point or doing some bad sytuation. He specially will have hard not to break if child just hug him better. In private he will cry about being a failure, but after gentle reassurance he doing good, he will take his child for ice cream and them them how much he lives them.

•He is great listener, always listening to his child stories. He also takes they ploblems serious, since he knows it's important to them. He will always get to source of ploblem and help them fix it.

•I think if possible he would love to raise his child on the farm or at lest take his child often into countryside.

•And if someone tries to hurt his child to get to him. Oh boy they as good as dead, you will not only have a furious Scarecrow and his partner after you, but also all kinds of rogues who serve as aunts and uncles to that child. They might be only few rules amongst the rogues that they all agree on, but "Don't hurt or involve children" is golden one they all respect.

•Jonathan might struggle a lot, but every "I love you dad" makes it worth it for him in the end. He is happy to give his child live full of love without fear he never had.

----------------------------------------------

@kun1nn if I can ask for your attention just a bit more, just something you ask me and I remember it.

Jonathan: Jagna and I are adopting a kid.

Kuninn: that’s gre—

Jagna: slamming adoption papers on the table It’s you, sign here

🎉Congratulations on a suprise adoption🎉

[weirdnotal]

My Accent headcannons for the lu chain (and etc):

Time: was taught hylian by trees???? Almost has no tone/infliction in voice (he's working on it)

Malon: Tennessee accent all the way, with that nice hook at the end too (non southerners imagine dolly parton)

Lullaby: very formal proper hylian, dignitary style

Warriors: British military like he's reading from a manual

Sheik: I don't know much about her but the sheikah definitely take inspiration from Japan

Twilight: Appalachian accent as thick as raw honey (non appalachians have yall ever heard of one looking it up)

Midna: try 'n' convince me she don't have a loud ass Louisiana accent (non southerners go watch princess and the frog) (this is totally not for my Midna is African American agenda)

Dusk: real formal like n all that

Sky: That's a Midwesterner (he genuinely tried to get Wild and Rulie to eat jello salad once)

Sun: completely Midwestern

Groose: spends a lot of time around the other two^ but his parents are Gerudo (Arabic/middle eastern)

Four: the minish have always reminded me of the Icelandic tales of little elves

Dot: same formal accent, maybe more like Four's

Age/Cal(calamity): very formal british accent almost royal but also uses some Korean (Zora) words

Mipha: Korean accent (thicker than Sidon's)

Fauna: royal and tight lipped british

Wild: used to be more British (kinghts!), but now is more southern cause twilight has corrupted him

Flora: much more informal than the other zeldas

Legend: Scottish accent, but he usually hides it really well, so you can't really tell at all unless he's mad or tired

Fable: Scottish asf (non Scottish people imagine Merida)

Ravio: fairly normal, but if provoked, he will speak like an Italian mobster wife until he gets his way

Hyrule: Rulie is Irish or Welsh all the way (especially with half fae/fey Hyrule)

Dawn: pretty similar to Hyrule

Aurora: transatlantic accent!!!!!

Spirit: he's always reminded me of Hugo Cabret, so cockney british accent it is (this grates on War's patience)

Phantom: can be formal if she has to but usually just sticks with cockney as well

Wind: Okay look, I love scottish pirate Wind, but I raise you patois or creole pirate Wind

Tetra: Wind's accent but double the amount and also the volume she says it at

[folk-enjoyer]

Song of The Day/history of cotton eyed joe

do you want the history of a folk song? dm me or submit an ask and I'll do a full rundown

"Cotton Eyed Joe" Terry Callier, 1963

As a disclaimer, "Cotton Eyed Joe" is my least favorite American folk song and I'm going to talk about why, and I'm going to talk about why Terry Callier's version is subversive and good.

The Earliest date we have for the song's origins is from 1882 when it was Published in "Diddie, Dumps, and Tot, or, Plantation child-life" by Louise Clark-Pyrnelle. This book is a nostalgic recollection of her childhood as a plantation owner's daughter. She reminisces fondly about slavery, missing the old plantation days. Honestly, some of the quotes within this book are beyond parody, in one sentence she says "... My little book does not pretend to be any defense of slavery" and in the next sentence when referring to the morality of slavery she writes, "there are many pros and cons to that subject", later at the end of the chapter she laments about the forever lost emotional connection between the Masters children and the enslaved people. hate this woman and her little book.

It is also important to note that this book goes out of its way to caricature black people, throughout the book she exaggerates accents and dialects to dehumanize them. This is a recurring theme in early publications of this song. Another early publication of the song comes from Dorothy Scarborough in "On the Trail of negro folk-songs" 1925 who got it from her sister who also learned it on a plantation, in Texas. She writes "This is an authentic slavery-time song" This book, if you can believe it, is remarkably racist and dismissive of black music, even as a more "progressive" songbook of black folk songs.

In 1922, the song's history was documented a bit more extensively by Thomas W. Talley in his book "Negro folk rhymes". He writes that it has "deep roots in black traditional lore". Thomas W. Talley was also just a cool guy in general, this book is one of the first compilations of African American folk songs, and it has been a pioneering book in its field. Even today, this book is still one of the best sources for the history of African American folk songs.

So, this is a black song. This was a black song whose first wave of popularization was through the caricature of black people to be amusing for white folks. Let's move on to its second wave of popularization.

The song was first recorded in 1927 by "Dykes Magic City Trio" (all white band) then about a week later by Fiddlin' John Carson (white performer) then in 1928 by Pope's Arkansas Mountanaineers (all white band) then in 1929 by Carter Brothers and Son (all white band) and then it wasn't really recorded for a while because of the great depression and the war but the times it was recorded, it was by white people. We know this because it was mostly recorded by John Lomax and despite documenting southern folk songs, he almost went out of his way to avoid recording black people singing them. Then, in 1941, it was recorded by Burl Ives (painfully white).also covered by a few white country singers like Adolph hofner bob willis but I think you get the point. It wasn't until later that year that it would be recorded by a black person, performed by josh white in 1944-45, who covered it as a lullaby.

However, it wouldn't be until the 90s, during its 3rd wave of popularization that it became its most grotesque. "cotton eye joe" was recorded and released by Swedish Eurodance band Rednex in 1995 as a, to paraphrase reviews, 'Way to make fun of backwater southerners'. This song became incredibly popular throughout Europe and in the USA as well, charting as a number-one song in several countries, sometimes for weeks. Not only is this song incredibly classist, it is, whether by omission or deliberately, fundamentally racist, adding to the whitewashing of black folk and minstrelsy of black people. The attitude and humor derived from the Swedish version are the same as the version in 1882 when it was a "classic slave song".

So, why is Terry Callier's version important, why talk about it? Terry Callier's version is the first version of the song that I have heard and it is not a comedy. It isn't meant to be funny. It slows the melody down and draws attention to itself. It's almost a ballad, showcasing Joe as a tragic but mysterious hero, maybe a love song. His voice is angelic as well. Terry Callier once again, subverts expectations and creates something beautiful out of a song that has been so whitewashed and appropriated that no one remembers its tragic origins.

Thomas W. Talley

some other versions by black folks Josh white 1944-46 Nina simone 1959 The Ebony Hillbillies 2004 Leon bibb 1962 Ella Jenkins 1960 Josh White Jr 1964 Queen Ida 1985

[chaotic-starlight24]

Dallas Winston General Headcanons

This is the last part of the Dallas headcanons :) Please check out Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3 of his backstory!

Sorry if anything is ooc! Warnings: Mentions of trauma, death, description of grief

He brags about his many scars from dangerous games. For example, he prides himself in the game where you try to get the knife between all of your fingers.

He genuinely likes a lot of movies. He just doesn’t show it. Also, most of the new movies don’t have anything interesting to them so he just looks at girls or talks to Johnny/Pony. But he will shut up and be glued to the screen when the theater or drive-in is replaying James Dean movies. He will literally shush Ponyboy, he just really likes James Dean. (He probably had a Rebel Without a Cause jacket made for him by Mrs. Curtis)

His aforementioned Norwegian mother (part 1) taught him the Hardanger Fiddle (When he was like 7) It was one of the very few bonding activities he had with her. He still has his original fiddle and while traveling around, a mother in Memphis fixed it for him after he ran an errand for her. He doesn’t play it much but he does sometimes sit alone at Buck’s and play melodies he remembers. He doesn’t like playing it around many people because playing takes a lot of energetic movements. The gang has heard him before but only like once.

His father and him had one or two bonding activities like once a week or so, mainly knife throwing. So Dally has great aim with just about any object. He would also occasionally try to play poker with him. But this did not happen very often since both parents were alcoholics and everything and his father was an especially angry one.

He needs a lot of time to wrap his mind around a lot of concepts, but once he has it down he's amazing at it! (Hardanger fiddle, stealing, knife throwing)

At the Curtis parent funeral he held himself together pretty well. He pretended to not be quite as bothered and used the excuse that he had seen worse things and that he was mainly concerned for the brothers. But when he got to Buck's he sobbed quietly for hours and didn't come out for a while. That was when he really did become a very cold person. He never opened his heart to anyone new after that. He started to believe that he couldn’t care about anyone because he was the curse that caused them to die. If it wasn’t for the gang he probably would have left Tulsa.

His mom was one of nine siblings so Dally has a lot of cousins. He saw several of them frequently and was especially friends with one named Joel. They mainly conversed through letters as his cousin lived in Windrixville. They always had a plan to meet up together and maybe fix up the abandoned church and make it into a hangout. His mother wasn’t particularly focused on teaching him much about their culture so he learned some things from his cousins. He still remembers bits and pieces of the language and pronounces names with a Norwegian accent every so often.

He always keeps his jacket on in the summer unless going swimming. He says it’s to look tuff but it’s actually because he gets eaten alive by mosquitos or sunburned to the fact he’s neon red.

His oldest sister, Elizabeth in English spelling, would sing him Scandinavian lullabies to help him fall asleep at night and he still finds himself humming the tunes when doing busywork. (Examples if you want to listen: Vargsången, Trollsmor Vaggvisa, Klatremus’ Voggevisa)

He lost his New York accent but sometimes he pronounces words with a really thick one. He doesn’t really have a southern accent either but overall it’s kind of a mix between them. “C’mon upstays, Johnny.” “Huh?” “I mean upstairs.”

He really likes bread. Noone really knows why either. But his problem is he doesn’t really like the store bought bread. In his words, “It’s just unnatural how long it stays good, man.” So he swipes a lot from bakeries. Mrs. Curtis also taught him how to make it but he doesn’t often because he thinks it’s weird he knows how. Also no one should trust him with an oven. But sometimes Soda will come home to Dally just munching on a loaf fresh from their oven. 

But bouncing off that, he will eat just about any other food no matter how old it is. Maybe it’s because he’s always hungry. Maybe his immune system is that strong. No one really knows. Darry once found him munching on a block of cheese that had some mold and just threw it out the window. Dally was very upset because “He was really hungry!”. He also says that he doesn’t like things going to waste. 

It’s a surprise if he doesn’t end a sentence with man or kid. It’s just what everyone gets called. Except Mrs. Curtis. He called her man once and was promptly given the “glare of disapproval”. Safe to say he never did it again. (Everyone laughed afterward, don’t worry.)

The main reason he dated Sylvia so many times was because he wanted a relationship where he actually loved the person. He had so many meaningless ones that lasted a week at most. Both of them were not particularly healthy to each other since Dally was never in a proper relationship and Sylvia took advantage of him. But both of them had their flaws ofc.

I mentioned in Part 2 that Dallas went through a really big tornado while in Indiana, and you know he ended up in OKLAHOMA. Which is known for its large amounts of tornadoes. Because of this fear that he ended up having, he became really sensitive to thunderstorms. The rest of the gang is always relaxed when listening to the rain and thunder, but Dally will grip Johnny’s arm so hard he almost loses circulation. The gang caught on rather quickly and tried their best to calm him down. Mrs. Curtis and Two-Bit were the best at this and would just talk to him as if nothing was happening outside. Dally always tries to act super tough during storms and manages to keep his calm but there’s been several times where a crack of thunder will shake the house and he will legit scream. Whenever there is a tornado warning or anything he will sit in the closet and use the excuse that he’s just tired and it’s loud outside. 

His rings and necklace are his prized possessions. His necklace and 2 of his rings are from Snake Eyes (Part 1 goes more into detail) and the rest are ones he has collected throughout his travels.

Thank you guys for reading through my super large amount of headcanons :) Ponyboy and Darry are next but might not have as large of an amount of stuff!