#Third Sunday of Easter

[utilitymonstermash]

There's a certain portion of the online right that views the "obvious falseness" of some of the left's sacred truths as something akin to a loyalty test or occasionally a demonstration of submission.

Well the literal corporeal resurrection of Jesus Christ has got to be one of the most obviously absurd and false "sacred truths" of all time.

#I wish there was a third way #religion #idpol #uncharitable #the sacred and the profane #blasphemy #easter sunday

[peterkothe]

HAPPY EASTER

Matthew 28:1-7

1. In the end of the sabbath, as it began to dawn toward the first day of the week, came Mary Magdalene and the other Mary to see the sepulchre.

2. And, behold, there was a great earthquake: for the angel of the Lord descended from heaven, and came and rolled back the stone from the door, and sat upon it.

3.His countenance was like lightning, and his raiment white as snow:

4. And for fear of him the keepers did shake, and became as dead men.

5. And the angel answered and said unto the women, Fear not ye: for I know that ye seek Jesus, which was crucified.

6. He is not here: for he is risen, as he said. Come, see the place where the Lord lay.

7. And go quickly, and tell his disciples that he is risen from the dead; and, behold, he goeth before you into Galilee; there shall ye see him: lo, I have told you.

#Easter #Easter 2024 #He is Risen #The third day Christ arose #angel #Happy Easter #my art #illustration #artists on tumblr #procreate app #ipad art #apple pencil #digital art #Easter Sunday

[swiftiephobe]

tbh for me it's not that the theorising about when the next album/rerecording is coming is rude or offensive because i don't think taylor minds and if anything she feeds into it. but the constant conspiracies and the constant need to make everything into a hint or an easter egg is just fucking exhausting

#like i just wanna have a normal conversation with my friend about taylor #but i can't because i have to hear about how she blinked 6 times and that means she's announcing rep tv on the third sunday of the month #or whatever #and like i partly blame taylor because she's the one who insisted first that she puts easter eggs in everything #but it's just gotten out of control #idk there's just soo much to being a swiftie nowadays. i'm not having fun anymore.

[roratecaeli]

Amen, amen, I say to you, that you shall lament and weep, but the world shall rejoice: and you shall be made sorrowful, but your sorrow shall be turned into joy...

You now indeed have sorrow: but I will see you again and your heart shall rejoice: and your joy no man shall take from you.

Alleluia. I will see you again, and your joy no man shall take from you, alleluia, alleluia.

Jesus healing blind Bartimaeus, by Johann Heinrich Stöver, 1861

#John 16 #Paschaltide #Third Sunday after Easter #roman catholic #catholic #traditional catholic #christianity #christian

[princessnijireiki]

every so often I have to stop & think, is today the day I really hurt somebody's feelings & mess with their heads by telling them about flukes, flatworms, roundworms, pinworms, and nematodes (in addition to their better known brethren, the tapeworm) + that fecal oral contamination routes with these bad boys very much includes eating ass... or tbh any oral with bad enough hygiene, really

anyway today it's y'all's turns

#yes... on this [checks online missalette] the third sunday of easter 2022 #sorry if you did not know about these creatures I guess #but they know about you & want to live parasitically in your liver and/or butt #unsanitary //

[justifiedmadness]

Tonight we celebrate our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ's Resurrection - the greatest gift we can ever receive!  He defeated sin and death on the cross for our sakes and tonight we celebrate Him and His gift of salvation!  Tune in, bring your friends and family and let's celebrate this Resurrection Sunday together!  Originally aired at https://www.blogtalkradio.com/sundayinspiration/2024/03/31/gospel-artist-spotlight-kelontae-gavin-3-31-2024 Support the Podcaster: Join My Patreon Squad Join My Fanbase CashApp Me PayPal Me Venmo Me Visit My Etsy Shop Visit My Bookstore Music and audio featured in this episode:  "He Got Up" - Vashawn Mitchell https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RDeSOh2Slnw "Resurrection of Jesus Christ|Story of Jesus|Music Video" - The Bible and the Earth https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xca5DyR3jMQ "Don't Cry" - Kirk Franklin https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cnAtsV-fxj4 "The Resurrection of Jesus: Luke 24" - BibleProject https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vb24Lk1Oh5M "Celebrate (He Lives)" - Fred Hammond https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-pa4NgRHj6Y "Easter Spoken Word" - The Renewed Life Christian Assembly https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gvlZbN5Pq0I "Because He Lives" - Dallas Fort Worth Mass Choir https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1QXYtMHznN4 "Blood Still Works" - JJ Hairston https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k_gDNAVz6Mc

#apple+podcasts #blogtalkradio #castbox #deezer #easter #god #gospel+music #he+got+up #iheart+radio #inspirational+music #j'wan+yvette #jesus+christ #jymstone+entertainment+llc #listen+notes #on+the+third+day+he+rose #podcast+addict #podchaser #podpage #resurrection+sunday #sunday+inspiration

[sunshineandrosess]

Happy Easter everyone!

*＊✿❀　❀✿＊*

Here are some quick Easter Bible verses/quotes for today:

Luke 24:6-7 - He is not here, but has risen. Remember how he told you, while he was still in Galilee, that the Son of Man must be delivered into the hands of sinful men and be crucified and on the third day rise.”

Philippians 3:10: "I want to know Christ—yes, to know the power of his resurrection and participation in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death."

1 Peter 1:3: "Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! In his great mercy he has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead."

John 11:25-26: "Jesus said to her, 'I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die; and whoever lives by believing in me will never die. Do you believe this?'"

*＊✿❀　❀✿＊* *＊✿❀　❀✿＊*

Imagine being alive when Jesus walked on earth and getting to see him and his miracles! How he walked on water, the stone being moved from his tomb etc…How cool is that! Anyways friends I hope everyone has a good Easter Sunday!

God is good! 💜

#christian blog #christianity #bible verse #bible quotes #have faith #jesusisking #jesussaves #godisgood #faith #keep the faith #Sundayiscoming #easter #easter sunday #heisrisen #third day #Holyseason

[hier--soir]

a lover's pinch | five

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: professor!joel miller x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+ minors dni summary: you and your professor enjoy a day in new york. warnings/tags: au, university professor joel, age gap [20 something years diff], ethically dubious relationship due to inherent power imbalance, oral [m receiving], a smidge of cock worship, spoilers for antony and cleopatra by shakespeare lol, flirting, these fuckos kinda go on a date, prof joel is man of the arts idgaf, a tlou2 easter egg, oral [f receiving] and then oral [f receiving] again, sex acts in public, jealousy, sexting/nudes, unprotected piv sex, exhibitionism, dirty talk, light choking, overstimulation [f], pain kink, kinda dom!joel, describing men as pretty and beautiful because I LIKE IT, soft!joel. word count: 8.3k series masterlist | main masterlist a lover's pinch playlist a/n: so this whole thing is almost entirely sucking fucking and flirting, and i hope you enjoy it before we encounter angst. all credit to willy shakes for the passage from A&C that joel reads in the opening scene. thanks king for inspiring the title of this series lol xo this is part five of ALP. you can read the previous parts here: one, two, three, four.

Sunday.

The sound of paper rustling wakes you. Muted scrapes of page shifting against page.

Through your lashes you can see a thin reed of sun streaming in the window, flaring across the end of the bed to warm your skin.  And there’s a dull ache between your legs; a rhythmic throb that dances and twists through your core, through the muscles in the inside of your thighs. The type of pain that is warm – soft in its caress, like the trail of a lover’s fingertips down your spine. A sort of remembrance, or celebration. And you welcome it eagerly; delight in the sharp reminder of how it felt to welcome his body inside yours again. The hot sting of every third second, the meticulous pulse and ache of flesh that you hope stays with you for days.

Another page turns.

 You tilt your head to the side, eyes open a mere crack, and smile at the secrecy of it. At the private sincerity of this man who lies awake, sporting nothing but the thin veil of a sheet, gaze fierce and focused on an endless stream of text that raps his attention. It’s a type of heaven for him, you realise. This resting place, as calm and tranquil it is. The only weight that bears down is in the place where his wrist bends, hand coiled around the spine of a book, fingers poised, flicking impatiently against the corner of a page, begging to turn it, to see more.

You take in every ripple of muscle, every dip and curve and freckle and scar. The jut of his elbow. The hard line of his jaw. Watch pink lips part and purr as he whispers the words on the page to himself, and think about how perfect that mouth felt between your thighs.

His fingers pinch the corner of a page, pressing it down into a dog ear before he moves onto the next. You wonder what piqued his interest, what collection of words made him want to mark it, to leave a trail for himself to come back one day and remember.

You break the silence finally. “What are you reading?”

Joel flinches, glasses jolting to the tip of his nose.

“You’re awake.”

“I am,” you hum. When he stares at you for a moment you just smile, snaking a hand out from the sheet to tap the page of his book. “Tell me.” 

“Shakespeare,” he murmurs, a faint blotch of red rising at the base of his neck. You want to kiss that blush—taste it. Want to know if his skin smells like you. “Antony and Cleopatra.”

“I love that one,” you yawn. “Where are you up to?”

 “Act five,” he says. “Cleopatra’s big scene.”

“Will you read it to me?” you smirk.

There’s an upward shift of an eyebrow. The spark of a curious glint in his eye. 

“Really?” he drawls, unimpressed.

“Please?” your smile softens into something kind, something honest.

With a sharp sigh, and a quick adjustment of his glasses, Joel begins to read.

“Give me my robe, put on my crown,” he begins slowly, as if unsure. “I have immortal longings in me: now no more. The juice of Egypt’s grape shall moist his lip: yare, yare, good Iras; quick.”

His voice is a low vibration, a honeyed sound that drifts through the air and has goosebumps raising across your skin. You watch his mouth shape the words, enamoured. Savouring every glimpse of his teeth, every slip of his tongue between them.

“Methinks I hear Antony call; I see him rouse himself to praise my noble act. I hear some mock the luck of Caesar, which the gods give men to excuse their after wrath. Husband, I come. Now to that name my courage prove my title.”

His hair is a mess. A shock of greying curls that have flattened against his scalp after a night of being pressed into his pillow, threatening to spring up again. That dull pain flares in your core again and you rub your thighs together in an attempt to quell the ache. But something stirs there—low, prowling just behind the pain. Something wet and wild that whispers his name. 

“I am fire and air,” Joel continues obliviously, licking his thumb to turn the page with ease. “My other elements I give to baser life. So; have you done?”

Slowly, listening—hanging—you shift against the mattress. Allow the sheet to fall down to your stomach, exposing your breasts to the morning air. Your nipples stiffen, chest tightening as he glances at them from the corner of his eye. He pauses, mouth ajar. Swallows. Brown eyes return to the page, and he continues to read.

“Come then, and take the last warmth from my lips.”

Your hand drifts across the mattress, hidden from sight as it traverses the soft plains of the sheets, the blankets, and then the skin of his thigh. Bare, but smattered with soft hairs that tickle your palm and fingertips. Goosebumps tear across his skin and his breathing hitches; the faintest cracks in his calm façade. You surpass where you can see him hardening, fingers floating up his side to rest against his stomach. Gently, you feel across the soft slopes and curves of his tummy. Glide your finger over the dip of his belly button and smile when he clears his throat, legs shifting in a restless dance. And then your hand shifts down. Past his happy trail, past the dark curls at his base, to wrap your fingers softly around his length.  

“Farewell, kind Charmian,” Joel’s voice deepens. “Iras, long farewell.”

You lower yourself on the bed, dragging the sheets with you until they rest wayward and wrinkled around his knees. Your cheek nuzzles against his thigh as you stroke him, humming in delight as his cock stiffens in your palm.

Joel sighs. “You don’t have to—”

“Keep going,” you hush, glancing up. He watches you over the top of his glasses, gaze darkening. There’s still sleep in the corners of his eyes, and it’s so soft, so domestic, it almost hurts. You look down, simpering as you admire the sight of his cock, now fully hard and leaking in your grasp.

The head is swollen, a flushed shade so reminiscent to that of his lips that you want to kiss him. But his skin is warm and smooth, like silk as you nuzzle his length against your face. Feel his wetness streak across your skin, over the closed line of your lips, the apple of your cheek. “Joel,” you urge him quietly when he still doesn’t speak.

“Have I the aspic in my lips?” His voice is hoarse when he continues; wanton, rough with sleep and desire. “Dost fall?”

You lathe soft kisses against the tip, along the vein that pulses along the side of his shaft, against the tight swell of his balls, taking your time with him. You giggle when he sucks in a sharp inhale, the muscles in his thighs tightening beneath your cheek.

“Such a pretty cock,” you whisper, swiping your fingers over his weeping head.

“Yeah?” he exhales and drops the book against his stomach, fingers reaching to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Gonna show me how much you like it?”

“Mhm,” you bat your eyelashes up at him.

Joel raises the book again, slowly, eyes unfocused and glassy but still watching—still devouring—the way your lips purse around his tip. His stomach tightens when your tongue leaves soft kitten licks against the slit, lapping at the salty precome that rests there.

“If thou and nature,” he murmurs. “Can so gently part.”

And it’s almost painful, the way he sounds. Exhalations of tragic Shakespeare mixed with soft gasps, with curses loosed beneath his breath. The occasional revered whisper of your name, spurring you on.

His free hand settles at the back of your head, thick fingers curling in your hair as your lips part to take him deeper inside your mouth. “Fuck,” he groans, hips shifting against the mattress. “That’s it, baby, god you’re good at that.”

You hum around the weight of him, stomach warming at the praise. Swirl your tongue generously around his girth, lathing saliva over his skin until it’s dripping down to his balls. You cup them gently in your palm, massage him as your lips drag to rest around his tip again, paying close attention to the way he gasps and sighs when the point of your tongue dances along the ridge at the underside of his head.

“Sensitive there?” you ask quietly, eyes flitting up to look at his face. His cheeks are flushed, eyebrows furrowed as he nods.

“S’good,” he confirms, fingers tightening in your hair as you rub that spot again. A fresh bead of precome oozes from his slit and you smile, fingers curling around his length to tap his tip against the flat of your tongue. “Jesus,” he mutters, eyelids fluttering. “Yeah, good girl.”

You shift down on him eagerly, letting the heavy weight of him slip against your tongue, inside the warmth of your mouth, until he’s pressing against the back of your throat and you can hear him moaning.

“Got the prettiest fuckin’ mouth, baby,” Joel whispers. “S’like a fuckin’ dream, seeing those lips on my cock again.”

You whimper and swallow around him. A tear squeezes out of the corner of your eye, trailing a shiny path down to your chin. In steady, measured movements, your head bobs up and down on his length, guided by the gentle press of his hand.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Take it all, baby, yea—yes.”

You relax your throat and take him deep enough to feel your nose brush against the rough hairs at his base.

“The stroke of death is as a lover’s pinch,” he reads, the cadence of his words stilted and breathy. “Which hurts, and is desired.”

Suddenly, his hips jut upward and you gag, throat constricting around him until your eyes are wet and blurry. He tugs gently on your hair, pulling you backward until you part from him with a splutter, messy strings of saliva dangling between your swollen mouth and his cock.

“God damn,” he swipes a finger across your lower lip. “Doin’ so good, sweetheart. So so good."

You think your eyes water more at that. Sweetheart.

“I want it,” you slur, lids heavy as you make eye contact with him.

“What do you want?” he pushes, cupping your jaw in his large palm. “Tell me.”

“Want you to come in my mouth,” your face warms and you lick your lips, fingers stroking him slowly. “Want all of it.” Everything.

“Okay,” Joel soothes, and then his hand drops from your hair so he can grip himself. Gently, he glides the tip along your bottom lip, trailing his salt across the skin of your chin, your cheeks, your nose, before finally pressing the head back against your tongue. “Take it, come on. It’s yours.” 

He presses between your lips, jaw tensing, and his eyes drift back to the book as you begin to move.

“Dost thou lie still?” he reads. “If thus thou vanishes, thou—Christ—thou tell’st the world.”

Your lips are tight around him, mouth sucking and moving in tandem with the strokes of your fingers, wrapped loosely around his base. Carefully, you shift to straddle his shins, forearms resting heavily against his thighs as you bring him to the brink of his orgasm. Yours.

“Fuck,” you hear him spit, and then he’s arching forward, the splay of his palm moving down the length of your spine until his fingers slip into the crevice between your ass cheeks. Gripping and squeezing the flesh there until you’re moaning too, the vibrations of your voice muddling with the wet sounds of your mouth against his cock. 

It doesn’t take much longer for coherent thought to evade him, Antony and Cleopatra flung to the wayside of the bed as his broad hands cradle your head, the tip of his cock nudging the back of your throat with every thrust. Your entire body is hot, slick with sweat, the musky scent of Joel filling your nostrils with every rushed inhale. The sounds he’s making turn rougher, deeper; raspy grunts and exhales that are almost animalistic in their intensity, and then—

“Fuckin—look at me,” he bites out, and watery eyes flutter open to meet his gaze. “Need to see those pretty eyes when I fill you up.”

And fuck you’re wet. So wet that it’s seeping onto the skin of your thighs, drooling out of you as you clench around sweet sweet nothing, cunt desperate and begging to be filled again. Tightening your fingers around his cock, you drag your mouth back to suck gently around the pulsating head, and when he comes it’s with a drawn-out, laboured groan that fades into harsh mutterings of your name and fuck and so fuckin’ good at that god damnit and that’s it, swallow it all baby, it’s yours, it’s yours, it’s yours.

You pull off him with a gasp, sucking in deep desperate breaths as you fall onto your back beside him.

Soft sheets stick to the sweat on your skin, and you close your eyes, vaguely aware of how the two of you breathe in sync; a high-strung cacophony of sharp inhales and heavy exhales.

After a few quiet moments you ask, “What time is it?”

“Eighty thirty,” he answers. The mattress jostles and tilts as his large frame shifts on it.

“Probably time to start the day,” you grumble, throat raw and tired.

But you can feel hands on your waist, nudging you backward until your head is slumped amongst the soft pillows again. And when your eyes peak open Joel is getting comfortable between your legs, glasses forgotten somewhere out of sight, hands pressing your thighs into the mattress to reveal your glistening sex to him.

And he says, “No,” shaking his head slowly, near-black eyes piercing as his lips lower to meet your cunt. “Not yet.”

You were unsure, initially, whose idea it was.

Unsure of who spoke first; if you or him brought up the idea of the museum. Unsure if he mentioned the bookstore or you mentioned The Iliad. Unsure, unsure, unsure.  

But as you stand on the outskirts of Central Park—showered, dressed, sure—eyes scanning the front window of the shop, the glass overflowing with newspaper cuttings and novel covers and author profiles and ads for signings – you are certain that it was him. Certain that he asked what your plans were for the day, head resting on your thigh, lips and beard still glistening with your come. Certain that you mentioned going to the museum, and that those brown eyes lit up, mouth splitting into a smile as he revealed that he had plans close by. Certain that he introduced the idea of going together.

A bell tinkles and your gaze sharpens, watching as his broad frame slips out the door with a brown paper bag tucked under his armpit. Joel ticks his head wordlessly to the side and you fall into step next to him, two sets of shoes scuffing against the pavement in a perfect rhythm. 

“Can I see it?” you ask, eyes roaming curiously around the street.

“Sure,” Joel holds the bag out and you take it carefully, fingers peeling back paper so you can take a peak inside.

“The cover is beautiful,” you breathe, fingers tracing vibrant swaths of gold and red, the white lettering that spells The Iliad. You balance the spine in your palm, curious to flick through to the first page. To see the acknowledgements, her author photo, anything. And as your eyes skirt over the very first page your feet stutter to a stop, pulse increasing as you spot the black marker on the page. A messily scrawled signature.

“Joel.”

Joel says your name, pausing a few steps ahead before turning back to face you. “What’s wrong?” he frowns.

You hold up the page, brows lifted in awe. “She… how did you get a signed copy?”

“We’ve met a few times in passing,” he admits sheepishly, eyes glancing between the book and your face. “I’ve always admired her work, and she offered to set a copy aside for me here. She’s very impressive, the first woman to—”

“The first woman to publish an English translation of The Odyssey,” you interrupt. “Yeah, Joel, I know exactly who Emily Wilson is.”

“And now she’s published The Iliad,” he hums. You begin walking again, the museum in sight now. “I’m lookin’ forward to readin’ it. Especially now that I’ve heard all your thoughts about how women and men translate differently. I’m sure it’ll be on my mind as I go.”

The skin on your face prickles and tightens under his attention. You’re still smiling, a wide and satisfised flash of your teeth, when the two of you reach The Met. Still smiling when he pays for your tickets and leads you toward the Cloisters.

You wander together through the exhibit. Medieval, Bohemian, Byzantine. Jean Pucelle, Robert Campin, Tilman. You catch Joel staring at the Bust of the Virgin, one hand on his hip, knee jutted out as he admires her elegance, the tenderness with which her face was carved.

“You like her?” you tease.

His shoulders stiffen and then relax into a sort of indignant laugh.

“I like terracotta,” he smarts, reaching out to pinch your forearm. When he pulls his hand away you see his eyes dart over your shoulder – a quick glance around the room to see if anyone noticed.

“Oh of course,” you nod, a mock serious expression on your face. “Me too. Terracotta virgins.”

“You know,” he huffs, turning to face you head on. “You oughta start showin’ me a bit of respect. Where’s your reverence for an authority figure, huh?”

“Authority?” your eyes widen, smirking broadly as you take a step forward, the material of your jacket brushing against his. “And what authority might that be?”

“I could fail you,” he murmurs, glancing down at your lips. “Tell everyone you’re the worst student I ever had. Never does as she’s told, always talkin’ back.”

“Oh, Professor,” you whisper back, fingers curling around the hem of his shirt, your snark emboldened by his. “I hate to say it, but you’re not very convincing in your distaste.”

You don’t wait around to see his reaction, turning on your heel and heading into the next room. Your cheeks are sore from smiling at the end of it, eyes tired from reading, and then you reach the courtyard gardens. See the cloisters. See the Romanesque columns with their fluting grooves that lead into arches, see the vast green garden with its flowers of yellow and pink and purple. Herbs and flora border the walking paths, filling the air with the scent of thyme and rosemary, and you can’t help but grin.

“Not bad right?” Joel’s voice comes from behind you.

“Not bad at all,” you turn to smile at him. “Would’ve been cooler if they had some dinosaur bones around here though. A museum should always have a dinosaur.”

“A dinosaur,” he repeats, quietly amused. “Of course, you like dinosaurs.”

“I thought, uh,” Joel clears his throat then. Glances away for a second. “Thought you might like it here; that it might remind you of your time in Greece.”

The words make your chest go all warm and tight. He looks so handsome, so easy in the middle of it all. Dark features and broad shoulders softened by the smell of flowers.

“It does,” you nod. “A little bit.”

“What was it like?” he asks.

“Greece was…” you trail off as you remember it. White sand beaches, turquoise waters, boreks and Doric columns, seemingly endless nights spent translating sheets and sheets and sheets of ancient texts. “It was wonderful, really. I feel so lucky to have had the opportunity, and Professor Samaras was a phenomenal instructor.”

Joel nods, fingers looped and resting across his stomach as he digests your answer.

“Good,” is the response he settles on, finally. “I’m glad. You… you deserve that. You work hard, and your presentation was solid.”

And it’s been less than twenty-four hours, but those words bring you calm now, not frustration like they did last night. So you smile, and thank him, and don’t stop yourself from asking him something in return.

“Have you really never been?” you ask, eyes squinting inquisitively as you watch his face, searching the emotions that flitter across it – near impossible to decipher, as always. “You said you weren’t interested, that first night when we spoke about it… but I would’ve thought… I don’t know, maybe a semester abroad or… or a fellowship?”

“Never,” he looks away. “Always too little time, too little money, too many responsibilities.”

You nod slowly, watch him curiously. You wish you could peel back his skin and see inside of that gorgeous brain, that heart. Understand every trouble, every missed opportunity that weighs on his shoulders.

“There’s still time,” you offer. “You’ve got so much time, Joel.”

Joel looks at you and you can see in his eyes that he’s grateful for the words. See that the earnestness with which you speak brings him some kind of solace, some kind of hope.

His fingers graze the skin of your wrist, curling around it to hold you in place beside him. Your body stills, eyes training carefully on the garden; the green of the grass, the pink of the flowers that bloom amongst it all. One of his fingers searches the skin at the inside of your wrist, swiping and rubbing over the tendons and veins there until he finds where your lifeline pulses. And then he strokes that spot, a calm, meticulous glide of his fingertip, over where blood thrums and rushes inside your body.

The tickling sensation has a painful knot of want curling in your chest, but you don’t stop him. Don’t pull your hand away, don’t take a step back. And with every stroke against skin, you feel it as if it where between your thighs—the soft curling of a finger between your folds, against your clit. It feels feverish, like a steady flame that spreads across your skin, up your chest to lick at the inside of your ribcage.  

“Soft,” he says, his voice low and thoughtful. “You’re so soft.” And it sounds painfully like, you’ve got so much time.

And you look at him and he knows. Your face says it all.

Says, let your hands wander wherever they like. Says, if you touched me here—now—I wouldn’t say a word, wouldn’t tell a soul. Says, everything I have to offer is yours if you could only bring yourself to take it. Says, and if your hand won’t wander, won’t stray, I’ll take it in my own and show you where to touch.

So you lead him back inside. Quiet, discreet, slipping past patrons and staff and guards until you find a bathroom. Tuck him inside and smile at the snap of the lock shifting into place behind you.

Joel’s knees meet tile with a soft thud, and dark eyes hold yours as he peels your trousers down, as he drags the slick fabric of your underwear to the side, as he presses the soft cut of his mouth between your legs. He watches you, steadfast, cheeks ablaze and pupils blown as his tongue works you open, calloused fingers holding your left thigh over his shoulder. 

And after you’ve come, face pinched and hidden behind your palm, he pulls away. Skirts wet kisses down the inside of your thigh, against the shell of your kneecap, to the bruise that colours your shin.

And he whispers, “Does it hurt?” with his fingers tracing tender splotches of purple and blue.

And you whisper, “No.” with your fingers brushing the curls off his forehead.

Afterwards you walk through the park, pressing through streams of tourists and locals alike; a lively crowd that parts and flurries around the two of you as you push forward. He fields your questions about Emily Wilson, about the years he spent doing his PhD, parrying seamlessly with queries about the West coast, about your undergrad, your roommates.

The bubble doesn’t break until Joel gets the text. Cursing softly, he turns away from you, eyes focused on his screen.

“Everything okay?” you ask.

“Yeah, yes,” Joel says, fingers flying across the touch screen, typing out a response before he tucks his phone away. “I, uh, look I actually forgot that I have somethin’ I need to do tonight.”

“Sounds mysterious,” you smile, eyebrows raised expectantly. But your smile wavers when he doesn’t match your teasing, face relaxing as you wait.

“Rachel and I planned this dinner a few weeks ago,” he explains. “When we both agreed to attend the conference.”

“Oh,” you blink. “That’s nice.”

“It’s this thing we do,” Joel offers, shifting on his feet. “A tradition, I suppose. To celebrate another conference done.” And you remember, I’ve been to twenty of the damn things. His twenty to your one.

“That’s nice,” you repeat, and hold your smile when he checks his phone again.   

Hold it when he tells you he should go, that he needs to get ready to meet her. Hold it when he hesitates, staring at you for a moment. Hold it when he presses a chaste kiss to the side of your head, lips meeting your temple, the weakest point of your skull, before turning to walk away from you.

Only when you’re alone do you let the smile fall.

After a lonely dinner, you find yourself back in your hotel room, thinking about Rachel.

Folding your blue dress into a neat square, and then a smaller square. Tucking it into your duffel bag, thinking about the rough sound of her laugh. The soft curve of her jaw, the sparkling greys that curl through her dark hair. You fold your underwear, pack that too, and think of her fluorescent toenails and her dangling earrings. Think of how sure she is; how intelligent, how charismatic. And then you think of yesterday – of her hand on Joel’s arm, soft fingers curling around the sleeve of his blazer, carting him around the conference. Leading him. Standing by his side, making him laugh.

And it burns, this hot feeling in your chest. Something dark green and scalding, fiery enough that you feel the need to sit on the edge of the bed and press your palm against the skin above your breast to tamp it down. Feel your heartbeat there, the rise and fall of your chest with each breath, and tell yourself that this feeling is cruel and unforgiving but that it is wrong. You lay out your clothes for the airport, wrap yourself up in the coarse hotel robe and push away the images your mind creates of them at dinner together. Push away the thought of her foot nudging his beneath the table, the thought of them sitting beside each other, thighs brushing like yours had on the bench last night. Because it’s wrong. Joel isn’t like that. Joel wouldn’t do that.

When Nora calls, you pick up on the second ring.

“How did it go?” she squeals, and you feel your shoulders relax at the sound of her voice.

“It was good,” you respond. “I feel good about it. Glad it’s over though.”

“You never answered my text—" the line crackles a little, muffling the last word of her sentence. “I was worried something bad might’ve happened.”

“Fuck,” you apologise. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that, I—I got caught up with something, I… I wasn’t looking at my phone.”

There’s a beat of silence over the phone. Another fried, crackle over the line.

“Oh you cheeky bitch,” she gasps then. “You could’ve just said you were getting some!”

“Nora—” you try, stomach dropping.

“Who the fuck was it?” she continues eagerly. You can almost picture the way her eyes would widen if she were here with you, hands clenched excitedly at her sides as she pushes for all the gory details. “Was it someone from the conference? Oh my god, was it someone from UNE?”

“No, no,” you rush, feeling an anxious heat rise in your chest. “It was just a random guy, we… I met him at a bar afterwards, it’s no one from Maine. No one from the conference.”

Another pause.

“And?” she asks finally. “How was it?”

You consider her question for a moment. Remember the way he undressed you in the dim light of his hotel room – slow, cautious. Remember the way he looked at you. Those dark brown eyes feasting over every inch of flesh, every mark, every freckle, every scar. The feeling of his hands on your breasts, his bare chest against yours as he pressed inside of you.

Quietly, earnestly, you say, “It was amazing,” and smile when she hollers down the line.

And this feeling is so much kinder, you think. The relief and the warmth that comes with being able to tell someone. To talk about him, even if you’re not really talking about him. Even if she can’t really know the truth.

You put her on speaker, still listening and laughing as she rattles off question after question. Did he go down on you? How big was he? Wait he was older?! You bitch! How old?! That’s hot. Fuck, I need to get laid.

“You really do,” you chuckle, laying down against the pillows and typing out a text to Joel.

Are you enjoying your dinner?

He replies within minutes.

Yeah, the restaurant is nice.

What are you doing?

“Hey Nora?” you interrupt. “I actually need to go.”

“Oh,” she huffs. “Alright, alright, I get it. You’re gonna go get fucked again. Good for you bitch.”

“I love you,” you laugh, already typing out a response to him. “See you tomorrow when I get home.”

Well my bags are packed, and I just tucked myself into bed

You watch the text bubble appear, disappear, and reappear over three times before it vanishes completely. Minutes go by; maybe ten, maybe fifteen, and then—

Show me.

Grinning, you loosen the tie around your robe to reveal a flash of the skin across your chest; the curve of your left breast, the peak of your nipple. Take a picture and make sure he can see your finger snagged between your lips, resting against the softness of your tongue.

For a moment you worry. Feel a spike of fear in your chest that if you send it someone else might catch a glimpse of his screen – that Rachel might see it. But then another text comes through, and you feel that fear melt into a warm pool of liquid.

I know you want to show me, sweetheart.

So you do. You click send and wait, teeth catching against the nail on your thumb.

The response is almost instant.

Jesus.

Are you wet?

You know I am

Are you touching yourself?

No

Good.

Dinner finished early. Where are you?

You send him the address of your hotel. Call the lobby and tell them to let him up. And when he arrives, you’re waiting for him on the balcony. You hear the heavy pad of his footsteps crossing the room, and then the slide of the glass door. Feel the broad span of his chest press against your back; outstretched fingers that glide around the curve of your waist to settle over your stomach.

Joel doesn’t say a word, nosing at the frizzled kinks of hair at the base of your neck. One of his hands drifts upward, fingers curling beneath the neckline of your robe, just grazing the curve of your breast. You let your eyes fall closed and think this feels like coming home.  Think, if this moment could last for hours, for days, for ever, that would be enough, and I’d never ask for another thing. Think, where have I been all of my life, and why was it not here with him?

You say, “Let’s go inside,” as he touches your nipple, and feel him shake his head.

“No,” he says. Presses his hips against your ass, rough denim brushing the backs of your knees. “Want you here.” 

You start to say Someone might see, but Joel pushes you forward again and your stomach presses against railing. Your eyes dart down toward the street, the road. To cars and pedestrians and tourists. 

“You don’t want that?” his lips brush the side of your neck as he speaks, the softest pressure. He tugs at your robe, guiding it down past your shoulders, elbows, until it pools around your feet. “Don’t want them to see us together?”

“That’s not—” you gasp as his teeth sink into the skin of your shoulder, hot tongue gliding over already bruising flesh. “Fuck, Joel.”

He groans against your skin, lathing wet kisses past your neck to the top of your spine. His hands are on your waist and your stomach and your tits and his jeans chafe against your bare ass, zipper catching every now and then. But your mind is hazy, a blur of thoughts that can only focus on the feeling of teeth and lips, on something long and firm pressing through the material of his pants, rutting slowly against you. 

“You’re hard already,” you breathe, surprised—delighted.

Joel grunts, distracted. “Been hard since you sent me that picture.”

A shaky breathes leave your lips as his hand skirts down your stomach, your hipbones, until his fingers slip past the glistening seam of your cunt – tender and swollen and aching. 

“But that’s what you wanted, hmm?” he rasps. You whimper as his fingers circle over your entrance, collecting your slick and dragging it upward. A flinch rips through you when he touches your clit, the nerves fraught after being given so much attention throughout the day. “You like knowin’ how much I want you? How badly? You like that I’d leave dinner early just to come here and fuck you?”

Face on fire, you nod; caught out. And then he takes another step forward, bending you further over the railing and pressing himself against you, hard enough that you can feel his cock between your ass cheeks, denim scraping the sensitive skin there.

“That is how much I want you. All the fuckin’ time,” he says. “Get it?” 

“Joel,” you stutter urgently, voice almost a squeak. Your thighs shake, knees close to buckling as his finger rubs slow circles against your clit. “S’too—fuck, Joel, it’s too sensitive.” It burns, too much – but his touch only serves to stoke the fire in your belly until it’s a roaring, raging thing, begging for more of too much. 

“I know, honey,” he groans, and you think you can hear the sound of his zipper coming undone. “You sore?”

When you don’t answer immediately Joel’s fingers still, body straightening as if he’s about to stop, about to pull away.

“Don’t,” you say quickly. “Just—”

“M’not goin’ anywhere,” Joel hushes. “Does it hurt?”

You hesitate, stomach tightening when his fingers start to move again. “It’s… yeah a little, but it’s…”

“But you like it? Like it when it hurts a little?” he fills the silence, and you can hear the change in his voice. Hear how it deepens, a gravelly effect that has your cunt tightening. You cringe, turn your head to the side in the hopes that he won’t see your reaction. But he doesn’t let it slide. Of course not. “Talk to me.”  

“Yeah, yes, I like it,” you admit, exhaling a relieved sigh when you hear his belt hit the ground.

“Good,” he says, and then you can feel him, hot silken skin on your own, the wet glide of his cock against your ass check.

His knuckles brush against you as he adjusts himself, and the weight of his tip at your opening is not unlike the brush of his fingers along your bruised shin. Tender, careful – the touch of someone that would never hurt you. Not unless you asked him to.

When Joel rocks his hips forward, cock splitting you open around his weight, the stretch is long and deep. A sweet, searing burn that has you balancing on the tips of your toes, mouth hanging open as you grip the railing and take it. The night air is cool against your skin, but warm hands land firm on your hips, thumbs circling and rubbing away the goosebumps there

“God,” he grunts into the hinge of your jaw, teeth nipping at the muscle there. “You’re so wet, so needy. Want this cock all the time, don’t you?”   

You can only moan in response – a choked, whimper of a noise that scratches its way out of your throat as he bottoms out. His thighs are warm and thick against yours, body practically moulding itself to you as you squirm, cunt pulsing around the thick length of him.

He gives you a moment to adjust, waits to feel you relax against him, and then he’s moving. Slow, powerful thrusts that have you feeling him in your stomach, and wishing you could see his face. Wishing you could watch his nose scrunch up, his lips curl into a snarl as he fucks you. Wishing that everything you’re feeling could be reflected back to you in his face, the way it was last night.

“Thought about you all night,” he says in your ear, a dirty little confession, whispered only for you to hear. “You know how sick that is? At dinner with my colleague, my friend, and I couldn’t get this perfect cunt out of my head. S’drivin’—me—fuckin’—crazy.”

And it’s sick, it’s awful, but you feel your lips peel back, face breaking into a toothy grin at the words. That envy, that jealousy, that dark green sticky feeling - all of it for naught because you were right. Joel Miller is yours.

“Yeah?” you pant, pushing your ass back into him and smiling even wider when he grunts, blunt fingernails digging into your waist. “What were you thinking about?” 

“’Bout how tight you always are,” he kisses the side of your neck, tongue flicking incessantly against the skin there. “How perfect you felt around me last night. How you take it so well.” He bites down, sucking until the skin throbs, another mark left in his wake. “How, if I can help it, I’ll never wear a condom when I fuck you again.”  

You curse, head lolling back against his shoulder. The confession makes you ache. “Please,” you mutter desperately. “Joel, please.”

“Thought about fillin’ you up,” he continues eagerly. “Fuckin’ you so hard, so deep with my come that you’d feel it for days. And you’d be mine.” His hips snap forward in a particularly harsh thrust and you grunt, cringing as the railing bites into your ribs. Mine mine mine.

“I’m yours,” you moan as he fucks you, a steady smack-smack-smack sound filling the air as his hips collide with the meat of your ass, over, and over, and over again. “You know I am.”

And you want to know what he thinks of that, want to know what comes next, but the sound of laughter echoes up from the street suddenly, and you tense, eyes snapping wide open. Joel doesn’t slow down.

“Look at them,” he hushes, voice quietening some.

His hand raises to point somewhere over the balcony, but you don’t see where; eyes trained on his fingers, his skin, the blue veins that swell and pulse beneath it. Your eyes try to follow it, but you’re looking the wrong way, following the hard line of his wrist, the corded veins in his forearm, his bicep, trying desperately, shamelessly, to catch a glimpse of his face.

“I said look at them,” his voice deepens, an authoritative tone taking over as his long fingers grip your jaw, angling it down until you do as he says.

You can see three of them. Squinting, you try to make out their faces from four storeys up. Stumbling down the street, laughing loudly, bumping shoulders as they walk.

Joel’s hips press forward and you gasp, eyes rolling back as his swollen tip nudges the deepest, softest place inside of you.

“Wait,” you whisper hoarsely, body jerking forward with every practised thrust of his cock. Say again, “Someone might see.”

“I hope they do,” he growls, hand falling to drape over your neck.

His fingers press gently against either side, cradling your pulse point in the palm of his hand. Your brain goes foggy with the pressure, mind buzzing and blurring. The sensation of his broad grip against your throat mixes with the drag of his cock between your thighs and it’s intoxicating; a high that you’ve never experienced before, and never want to end. You don’t realise how loud you’re gasping, moaning, keening his name, until you hear him laugh. A rough, elated sound.

“I knew it,” he chuckles, and you tighten around him, fingers fumbling backward, seeking purchase at the soft flesh of his hips as he continues rocking into you. His hand drops from your neck to your tits, and he squeezes.

“Admit it. Admit you fuckin’ love it,” Joel pants, every word punctuated by a white-hot press of his cock and a heavy exhalation against your neck. “Dirty little thing—you want them to see. Say it.” 

“Fuck,” you cry, spine arching as you push backward, meeting the movements of his hips.

“Fuckin’ say it,” he snaps, all hints of laughter gone now, his rough drawl only offset by the fond way his hands play with your tits. Careful, kind; every pinch, every squeeze, every caress a generous and tender display.

“I want it,” you blubber, sight blurring into a mess of streetlights and skyscrapers and strangers on the street. “W-want them to see how you fuck me, how you take care of me.”

“That’s it,” he groans, and you can feel the way he twitches inside of you, cock jerking against your walls in hot fast movements.

“Want them to know,” you continue, and there’s tears streaking messily down your cheeks, your lips moving faster than you can control. “Want them to see us, see how good it is, how perfect.”

And it’s too much now, you think. Finally, too much of too much. The railing is bruising against your stomach. Every stroke of his cock, every graze of your nipples – Joel’s touch akin to the end of a frayed wire, sparking and spitting embers wherever the two of you come into contact. Your cunt is on fire, every inch of sticky wet flesh throbbing and smarting.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Can feel you squeezin’ me, baby, you gonna show them how you come for me? Gonna let them hear it?”

“I can’t,” you choke out, shaking your head numbly. Yours lungs are on fire, mouth dry as you try fruitlessly to suck in breath after breath. “Fuck, I don’t think I can—”

“Hey,” his voice calls. A rough finger wipes across your cheek, smearing the salty tears further across your skin. “You can, you can, I can’t—I fuckin’ need this, need it.”  

“It’s too much,” you gasp frantically. But your words aren’t matched by the desperate grind of your hips. Aren’t matched by the way you twitch and shake between him and the glass, abdomen tensing tighter tighter tighter with every thrust. “Fuck, I’m—I’m close but it’s too much, Joel, it’s too much, I can’t, I can’t—”

He pulls out quickly. You gasp wetly at the loss, at how your walls clench and suck around that empty warm space in his absence. Deft hands grip your waist, tilting and turning you until your back is against the railing now, and his mouth is between your legs, wet lips and tongue so soft in comparison, so soothing against that burn.

There’s no shying away now, no stuttering or whining – you simply melt, thigh softening around the curve of his shoulder, allowing him to hold you up as his tongue teases and coaxes you to the edge of your third mind-numbing, toe-curling orgasm that day.

And you don’t notice at first how his bicep shifts and flexes beneath your thigh. Don’t notice how he groans and sighs against your messy cunt, panting and muttering your name as he strokes his cock in tight, wet jerks. And when you come, gushing into his mouth, his eyes snap open, endless spheres of deep brown gazing up at you, desperate to see. Your legs tremble with the force of it, hands grappling for purchase on his shoulders, in his hair. And with your lips parted, tears drying on your cheeks, you watch the way his face crumples—wrecked. How eyebrows furrow and eyelids flutter shut. Joel’s mouth slips away from you, teeth sinking into the flesh of your thigh, something to ground him as he grunts, a low, ragged sound, before you feel him come in warm, thick spurts against your calf.

“Fuck,” you mumble deliriously. Can hardly hear yourself over the roar of your pulse in your ears. “So good, you’re so beautiful.”

Joel’s face is flushed, skin tinged with a deep red that settles across the highest peaks of his cheekbones and disappears into his beard. And when his eyes open again, drowsiness swimming beneath those heavy lids, you can see the way they shine. Glistening with something wet, something earnest. You thumb gently at his waterline, swiping away the tears like he’s done for you. 

His lips press a chaste kiss to the pad of your thumb, tongue snaking out to lick his tear from your skin, and you think you must repeat it, So beautiful, because he smiles. Breathing heavily, eyes wet, he grins for you. A flash of white that he quickly smothers against the skin of your leg.

After catching his breath, Joel leads you inside and helps you shower. Stands outside the glass door, hand gripping your elbow to brace your shaking frame as you glide soap over your arms, down your legs. His fingers dig in firmer when you slip a hand between your thighs, whimpering as warm water streams over the sensitive skin there. He doesn’t flinch or shy away when specks of water flick out and dampen his shirt.

“You okay?” he asks as he helps you out, wrapping a towel around your shoulders.

You nod, mind still foggy, and let him rub the coarse fabric over the skin of your arms, your legs, drying you off before he tucks you back into your robe. And when he leads you back into the room, helping you carefully onto the bed, a flash of concern splits across his face. He takes a step back, a step away, until his back is brushing against the wall.

You lay down on the bed, heavy limbs splayed haphazardly across the soft blankets and pillows. Your robe is open, the tie still forgotten somewhere on the balcony, revealing the skin of your stomach, your thighs, still dotted with warm droplets of water.

And Joel's not far, not really; tucked away in the corner of the room, unsure, arms hanging listlessly by his sides as he stares. Takes in every inch of you as if it’s the first time all over again. Perhaps, as if he’s worried it will be the last.

“I should go,” he says, painfully unconvincing.

“Yeah,” you agree quietly, eyelids heavy as you stare back at him.

Your lips part in a soft yawn as you scratch languidly at the skin over your ribs, and dark eyes follow the movement of your fingers. Watch how your skin smarts and pulls beneath your fingernails until you sigh in contentment, the itch disappearing.

“You gotta be up early,” he says.

“I do.”

“And it’s late,” his eyebrows raise.

“Is it?” you smile. Raise your eyebrows in return and laugh when he sighs, hands twitching at his sides.

“Are we really doing this again?” you ask, smile slipping when you notice his frown. The twisted furrow of his brows, the curl of his upper lip. As if all of the features on his face have pinched together in the middle. Something churns in your stomach; a sick feeling that rises to lodge at the base of your throat. Waiting. “Talk to me.”

“M’tryin’,” he admits quietly. “Tryin’… tryin’ to be good. I want to be good.”

Your heart drops. And then, driven by some emotion that you can’t name, don’t want to name, it climbs its way back up, lurching forward in your chest. It claws and scrapes and tears itself out through a crack between two of your ribs, flinging itself across the room at him.

“You are good,” you whisper. Feel your bottom lip wobble, unsteady but sure. Certain of nothing but this as the words slip out. “You’re good, Joel. We are good.”

And when he smiles you think you can see it in his teeth. Little fragments of your heart; the beating core of you, dark red and macerated in the cracks of his canines, the lining of his gums.  

Joel closes his eyes and repeats the word. A softly murmured, Good, as if the word itself confounds him, and you think you must be imagining the red smeared across his chin. Your blood seeping out past his lips, dribbling down to stain the skin of his neck.

“I hope you’re right.” He takes a deep, steadying breath. One that shakes the planes of his broad chest, makes it rise to its fullest potential before he sucks another in, shoulders relaxing, and walks across the room towards the bed.

Towards you.

thank you for reading! x

#i hope you wanna know what happened at the dinner with rachel #cause i'm gonna tell you #my writing #fic: a lover's pinch #professor!joel #ALP #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut

[and-learn-to-let-go]

how many syllables does the word bread have?

normal people: one

latin students: two

catholics on the third sunday of easter: thirty-seven

#this is the least funniest thing i’ve posted #please don’t laugh at this i’m lame #catholic

[sempersirens]

DAUGHTER LESSONS | a joel miller oneshot

masterlist

summary: would it kill joel to just touch you?

warnings: established relationship, infidelity, jackson-era, no mention of age, angst

author's note: so... i have been disgustingly obsessed with COWBOY CARTER (duh! i have taste) and have fixated on the duality of daddy lessons and DAUGHTER, which thereby produced this lovechild of the two. you guys know i love me some religious imagery and angst...

Nothing could’ve confined you to a pew in your youth.

Your knees had breathed a sigh of relief at the absence of a blood-red kneeler when you were granted Sunday morning autonomy. Only your grandmother’s morbid prophecies of watching mass from above this time next year herded you between the rows of wooden benches at Easter and Christmas.

Maybe it was her you were trying to reach; chin tipped to the ceiling as if you would be overcome with the smell of potpourri and Irish coffee, heart flooded with all the right answers.

Still, nothing good came. 

“Didn’t expect t’find you in here.” His familiar drawl pricks at the hairs on your neck. 

“I was trying out solitude.” 

Joel had always moved with surprising stealth for someone of his build, but nothing he did these days surprised you anymore.

You had given him everything since meeting shortly after his and Ellie’s arrival in Jackson. It hadn’t taken long for you to witness his undoing. 

But this time, Joel doesn’t move. 

Rather, he stands in the middle of the aisle taking in the sight of you on your knees four rows ahead and to his left. Your hands are clasped so tightly together he can see the whites of your knuckles from this far back. 

Joel knows the back of your head more intimately than he probably should.

You have a habit of turning away from him in bed at night the second you were overcome by the smallest amount of fatigue.

Too damn hot you would mumble from your tenure of the mattress. And he can’t say he minded too much.

Often, he would reach a hand to your hair spilling across the pillow onto his side before regaining sense and propping the hand underneath his head instead.

During your waking hours, languidly reciting the steps of your morning routine around his small kitchen, he feels the want to touch you.

He wants to smooth down the hair that always bobbled around the raised birthmark on your scalp. He wants to feel your cheek against the knuckle of his right index finger. He wants to take the coffee cup from your hands and engulf them in the warmth of his instead. 

“She’s not here.” You mumble, so quietly that he’s not sure if that’s what you’ve actually said.

“Who?” He braves, wiping his sweating palms on the sleeves of his flannel shirt.

You respond with a scoff, confirming his hypothesis. 

Of course she isn’t here. You both know very well that she isn’t here. 

When Tommy had first introduced the two of you, he’d cornered Joel at the bar while ordering their third, or maybe fourth, round of drinks.

“She’s a good woman, Joel.” 

“I’m figuring that out just fine.” He’d smirked, taking a preliminary sip of his beer before glancing back at you. Your elbows were perched on the wooden table, chin resting on your palms as you exchanged low-looks and snickers with Maria sat across from you. 

“No, you don’t get it. She’s good. She’s kind. Her daddy’s the pastor here.”

“Not settin’ me up with a Bible basher are you, little brother? She gon’ make me wait until I give her a ring?” 

He’d felt like an ass as soon as he’d opened his mouth, which was made worse by Tommy’s unchanging expression. He didn’t look irate or tired of Joel’s age-old shit – the face behind his warning was unwaveringly sincere.

“Just don’t hurt her.” 

And in that moment, Joel couldn’t fathom anything as desacrating as hurting you. He had returned Tommy’s solemnity with a nod and carried your drinks back to your table; the remainder of the night blurring into the rest of his life.

He hadn’t fallen in love with you that night. Joel is stubborn in love, and it took months of langorous warmth to thaw his roughness. 

You didn’t make him wait for a ring.

Nights spent in symphony with one another were the only moments Joel could bring himself to touch you. There, he knew how to work his hands, his tongue, his hips. Not once would he hesitate in reaching out to smooth a thumb across your forehead. He moved like a river, flowing into your body in desperation to meet the ocean. 

And you wondered if he did it on purpose, or if he knew that he was doing it at all. Passing him in the intimacy of his home or the vastness of the food hall, you were only ever hungry for his skin against yours. 

Slowly, you crept into his skin through his pores. You made his days sweeter and smoother wherever and however you could, hoping perhaps one evening his fingers would brush yours as you set a plate on the table before him.

But here you rise, swallowed in the rosy light of dawn with damp cheeks and all faith robbed from your chest.

“I can’t do this here, Joel.” You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand and attempt to put as much distance between the two of you as you pass him in the aisle.

“Then don’t. Come home.”

For a second he debates reaching out to you, wrapping you in his arms and letting you beat against his chest as your body racks with sobs. But the moment soon escapes him and he’s following you into the morning air.

“I buried my home a week ago.” You spoke flatly, bones void of any remnants of anger or fight. “You know what my daddy told me before he died?” 

He thinks he does. Moreso, he can hazard a guess. 

Nevertheless, he can’t quite seem to find his voice as you bring yourself to a halt. The morning sun peeks between the buildings behind you.

“Told me one day you’d play me for a fool. And look at me now.” You shook with breathy laughter. “He’s in the ground and there’s another woman keeping the man I love’s bed warm.”

Jackson would soon be rising with the sun. It had almost been a full day since you’d come home from patrol an hour earlier than Joel expected.

In truth, it hadn’t been the clothes strewn over kitchen chairs and draped over the bannisters. Not even the warm smell of salt and latex that hit you before you’d opened the bedroom door.

Joel’s fingers grazed the small of her back, tracing lazy shapes up and down her spine. Your stomach tightened into a small fist, losing all composure you had truly tried to maintain in your ascent up to the bedroom.

You had never even really been one to fight. Your father had taught you to handle yourself, and you’d learnt what was necessary to survive in the new world. 

Really, you wanted to pollute the skin beneath Joel’s touch. You wanted for him to never touch anything beautiful again; to never grasp at cold cotton sheets in the middle of the night; to never feel the slow threat of rain tapping against his skin.

Life began to creep in around the two of you. Ellie and Tommy would soon come looking for Joel to set off on morning patrol.

“One day, Joel, someone is going to give you exactly what you deserve. And I pray to God that I’m there to see it.”

You turn on your heel, leaving Joel to watch as your hair sways from side-to-side down your back. He swallows the lump formed in his throat and tilts his chin to the sky, blinking away the threat of tears moistening his lower lashes. 

He wipes his hands against his jeans and straightens his torso, forcing a low cough to clear his throat. 

Peaches, he thinks. Tonight he will bring you peaches, and he will watch as the juice spills from the side of your mouth. He will reach a thumb to wipe it away, and he will hold you. For as long as you let him; as long as he breathes.

#joel miller x f!reader #joel tlou #the last of us #joel miller x reader #tlou fanfiction #joel miller x female reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #my fic #the last of us hbo #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller tlou #joel miller fanfic #joel x reader #tlou hbo #tlou #tlou2 #dee writes

[corroded-hellfire]

Top This - Eddie Munson x Reader

Note: Happy Easter! I only had a flash from this story come to me just this morning so it’s been written in a few hours and might have more mistakes than usual, my apologies. Many many thanks to @inourtownofhawkins and @munson-blurbs for all their help 💕 I hope you enjoy!

Summary: As a kid, Eddie never did an Easter egg hunt. As his wife, you’re determined to give him the best one he could’ve ever dreamt of.

Words: 2k

Weekends are Eddie’s favorite days because it means he gets to stay in bed with you longer. He can snuggle up to you, wrap you up in his arms, or even get a little frisky once he’s more awake. But this particular Sunday, when Eddie rolls over and reaches for the familiar warmth of your body next to him, it’s not there. He frowns and opens his eyes, blinking them a few times when your side of the bed is empty.

“Babe?” Eddie calls.

“In the kitchen!” you respond.

With an overdramatic groan, Eddie pushes himself out of bed and rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands. He’s mumbling under his breath about how it’s Sunday and you should still be in bed with him as he shuffles into the kitchen. It’s impossible for you not to smile as you see his sleepy form walk in, plaid pajama pants hung low on his hips and a bare, pale chest.

“Good morning, gorgeous,” you greet him, slipping your arms around his waist. “And Happy Easter.”

“Oh, s’right, it’s Easter.” Eddie presses a kiss to your forehead. “Happy Easter, baby.”

“Now,” you say, rubbing your hands up and down your husband’s sides. “You know how you told me that you never did an Easter egg hunt as a kid?”

Eddie raises an eyebrow at you as he slowly nods. “Yeah…”

“Well, you’ve got one to do now,” you say with a proud smile.

“Baby,” Eddie says with a chuckle. “I didn’t tell you that so you’d—”

You press your lips against his to shut him up. “Everyone deserves an Easter egg hunt. I don’t care how old you are, mister.”

“Fine, fine.” Eddie tries to sound annoyed but the shy smile breaking on his face tells a different story. “How many eggs are there?”

“Eight,” you tell him. “All somewhere in the apartment.”

“Hmm,” Eddie hums as he strolls into the middle of the living room. The first egg is easy to spot; it’s tucked into the corner of the couch. Your husband plucks it from its spot and opens the blue plastic pod. He grins at the chocolate and peanut butter egg inside. “My favorite.”

“I know,” you say. “All of them are filled with things I think you’re gonna like.”

He gets on his hands and knees to look underneath the couch and coffee table, but comes up short on both accounts. Poking his tongue out as he thinks, Eddie pushes himself back up to his feet and walks over towards the window. Pulling back the green curtain reveals an egg that is a lighter shade of green. Smirking triumphantly, he pops it open. A small plastic baggie of new guitar picks falls into his hand and he lets out a chuckle.

“Huh, I wonder how the Easter bunny knew I needed these,” he muses. You give him an innocent shrug, and he throws you a wink as he tosses the bag of picks onto the couch with the first item. Eddie quickly finds the third egg, a pink one, hiding right behind the television. The new lighter inside gets instantly slipped into the pocket of his pajama pants as he continues his search. The next egg is hidden on a shelf, behind your wedding photo. Inside, the purple egg contains a keychain that has a picture of the two of you—the first picture you took together. The grin that breaks out onto Eddie’s face has your stomach doing somersaults.

“Don’t think you can top this one,” he says as he slips the keyring over his finger.

Eddie laughs as he stumbles upon the next one, a red egg tucked into one of his boots sitting next to the front door. The laugh turns into a groan as he opens it and pulls out a pair of black lacy panties.

“Thought those would look cute on you,” you joke. Eddie gives you a salacious smirk as he slingshots the underwear in your direction.

“I’d look hot as hell,” he says. “But not as hot as you.”

“Five down, three to go,” you say, referring to the hidden eggs. “They’re not all in here, you know.”

“Okay, okay,” Eddie says, eyes scanning every inch of space as he walks towards the kitchen. But his eyes snag on his guitar propped up in its stand in the corner. Beyond the deep red of its body, there’s a flash of orange as an egg sticks out from behind it. “Aha.”

Inside, there’s a small bag of skittles that has Eddie cheering. The white plastic egg is more difficult for him to find, but he finally notices it in the empty coffee carafe. The shining set of silver dice has Eddie’s eyes widening as he inspects them from every angle.

“Can I get the color of the last egg?” Eddie asks after he’s done a once over of the kitchen and comes up empty. “Is it in the bathroom? Our room?”

“Nope, it’s out here. And it’s yellow,” you say, sitting down on one of the kitchen chairs.

“Huh,” Eddie huffs as he paces the kitchen. He feels like he’s looked at every surface area within this open space of your apartment.

“Do you need a hint?” you ask as you watch your husband, a bemused expression on your face.

“No, no, I’ll get it,” he answers, stubborn as ever. Resigning to watch him drive himself crazy, you lean back in your seat and cross your arms over your chest. It’s hard to hold in your laughter as you see him walk by the eighth egg again and again.

“Ugh. Okay, fine, I want a hint,” Eddie grumbles as he becomes more frustrated. He plants his hands on his hips and looks around the counters.

“It’s blending in,” you tell him. Your husband turns towards you and his brow pinches in confusion.

“The hell does that mean?”

“It’s a yellow egg. And it’s blending in. Look for something yellow.”

“What the fuck is yellow in—oh!” His head whips around to the fruit bowl that has a bunch of ripe bananas in it. Right on top is the illusive yellow egg. He pops it open and two silver items fall out into his palm. One is a curb chain, similar to the ones he wears around his neck, but different enough that it’s not a duplicate. The second object is a shining ring that looks like bat wings are wrapped around whatever finger he slips it on. Eddie smiles down at the pieces of jewelry as he walks over to the kitchen table.

“Babe, these are great. Everything is,” he says.

You stand up and wrap your arms around his neck. “Did you have fun on your first Easter egg hunt?”

“I did,” Eddie says as he places his hands on your hips. “Thank you, sweetheart. This was very thoughtful.”

Pleased with yourself, you lean up and press a few kisses against his lips. Letting out a hum, you pull back and look up at your husband with the most innocent eyes you can manage.

“Oh, I forgot. There’s actually one more egg.”

Eddie huffs a laugh and tugs your body up against his. “You being forgetful or sneaky, huh?”

“This one is a golden egg,” you say, avoiding his question. “And it’s more hidden, so we can play hot or cold if you want.”

“Okay,” Eddie says, reluctantly dropping his arms from around you. “Am I warm or cold right now?”

“Mm, warm,” you decide. He takes a step backward, more into the kitchen. “Warmer.”

“So, it’s in the kitchen,” Eddie muses as he traipses his way towards the fridge.

“Getting hotter!”

“Is it in the fridge?” he asks as he pulls open the door.

“Colder.”

“Okay.” Eddie closes the refrigerator door and backs up a few steps.

“On fire!”

He comes to a halt and turns so he’s facing the stove. “Is it in the oven?” When you don’t answer, he looks back at you. At the unhelpful shrug of your shoulders, Eddie opens the oven to come face to face with the golden egg. “There ya are. Now, what’s so special about you?” His left hand reaches in, wedding ring glinting off the light in the back of the oven, and grabs the last prize. Strolling back over to the table, Eddie pops open the egg, and you feel your stomach erupting in a flurry of excitement.

There’s a piece of paper rolled around some type of stick. Eddie’s brow furrows in confusion as he unravels the paper. Once it’s opened flat, he stares at it for a moment before it registers what he’s looking at. The black background with the white and gray lines, numbers and letters that don’t make a whole lot of sense to him on the edges of the paper—but he recognizes your name in the top left corner. But the little white bean shape in the middle of the paper is what steals his breath. Suddenly, he remembers the stick that was also in the egg. He scrambles to look at it and is staring at two pink lines on the front of a white pregnancy test. Eddie’s jaw drops open as his eyes dart back and forth from the positive pregnancy test to the ultrasound photo.

“Y-You’re…” Eddie stutters out, unable to get out anything else as he raises his eyes to look at you. The tears you see there get you all choked up as well—as if you hadn’t been emotional enough.

“Yeah,” you say with a breathy chuckle. “We’re gonna have a baby.”

“Holy shit.” Eddie sets the contents of the bonus egg down on the table and pulls you into his arms, immediately attaching his lips to yours. You can feel tears on your face, but when you open your eyes, you’re not sure if they’re yours or your husband’s. Bringing your thumbs up to wipe at his cheeks, you let out a soft giggle.

“Still think I couldn’t top that keychain?” you tease. Eddie laughs and presses his lips to yours again. When he pulls back, his hands roam down to your stomach, where he rubs gently over your pajamas.

“I can’t believe our baby is in there,” he says in awe. His eyes dart back up to yours. “I love you so much, baby.”

“I love you, too.”

“M’gonna be a dad,” Eddie says in pure glee.

“Best Easter ever?” you ask.

“Not sure how you can top it.”

But again, he’s wrong.

Four years later, you sit on the back patio of Steve and Nancy’s house, Nancy in the chair next to you, and Steve out on the grass with their five-year-old daughter and two-year-old son. On the opposite side of the yard, Eddie is crouched down near the small garden, your three-year-old daughter searching for the eggs that the Easter bunny had hidden. Or rather, you and Nancy had hidden a few hours ago, but what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

“Got one!” you hear Annie call. Eddie’s face lights up in delight as your daughter reaches into the foliage and pulls out a blue egg with yellow dots.

“Look at that!” Eddie coos, pure adoration in his eyes. “You got another one.”

The scene of him in his black jeans and a black leather jacket, squatting down in a garden full of colorful blooms with bright green stems, and your little girl in a pale pink Easter dress, makes you chuckle. But there’s nothing brighter in the whole yard than the look on Eddie’s face. Love is radiating off of him as Annie places the egg in her magenta wicker basket and gets right back to searching for the next one.

“Think he’s having a good Easter?”

You look at Nancy to see her nodding her head at Eddie. Grinning, you look back to your husband as well.

“Not sure if he can top this one.”

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fan fiction

[blissfulip]

—Legion

On AO3

Priest!Viktor x F!demon!reader

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Priest Kink, Blasphemy, Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Self-Flagellation, Demon Sex, Demon Summoning, Demon/Human Relationships, demon reader, AU - Canon Divergence, Post medieval era, Dubious Science, Church Sex, Roman Catholicism, Catholic Guilt, Improper Use of Catholic Rituals, Shameless Smut, Masturbation, No use of Y/N, third person.

Cw: Handjob

Words: 2k

[A/N: Happy Easter Sunday lmao, also whoever picks up all of the 'easter eggs' (get it wink wink) gets a kith and hug from me (let me know if you want to be tagged or removed in future fic updates!)]

Tags: @ihopeinevergetsoberr @chemical-killjoy @jinxed-jk @bobobomao @queen-of-elves @thedustybunny @syren201 @thayfass @thehistoriangirl @hypocritic-trash-baby @zaunitearchives

Previous

III. 

Viktor stood frozen, the voice that whispered those words echoing against the walls of his head as he gazed upon the creature before him, a figure blindingly bright yet of simultaneously all-consuming darkness. The sight obscured his thoughts and left him adrift in a sea of terror. How could he have been so blind as to believe that he could command such power without consequence? Or rather, was it the naivete of believing nothing would come of it that turned against him? 

The very essence of his faith fractured—that earth-shattering feeling that had become all too common for him that day—threatened by this insidious presence. What had he unleashed upon the world? What horrors awaited him in the wake of his hubris? Viktor trembled, and his soul lay bare before the abyss, but something sinister took him out of this blossoming meltdown; she, the creature, looked familiar.

And achingly so, yet her form eluded him like a half-remembered dream. Faces swirled in the depths of his memory, merging and shifting like shadows cast by a flickering flame, but he was unable to put a finger on them.

"Do you not recognize me, Viktor?" Her voice cut through the air, eerily sweet.

Viktor recoiled in horror at the sound of his own name coming out of her mouth, the weight of her words crashing down upon him. 

“I manifest to you as a reflection of your own desires, an amalgamation of every soul you have ever yearned for, sweet human.” She hissed as she offered Viktor a hand to help him stand, her touch oddly warm as they both sat on the bed. “Do you not see it? That young woman from the bakery, or the one you always look at for a tad too long while you buy turnips? You don’t even like turnips,” she smiled slightly. “What about that woman who comes to confess every week? The one with the slightly hoarse voice that you love, even that tan young man with the green eyes,. Yes, yes, I know about him too; I am him too.”

“Who…what are you?” He asked amidst a short-lived surge of bravery.

“My name is Legion,” she said with an off-putting tone of irony, “for we are many... or however that verse goes. Mawkishly sentimental if you ask me.” She chuckled and seemed to deflate in disappointment at her attempt at humor not being acknowledged. She sighed in oddly human-like resignation, “I don’t have a name, Viktor, but I know yours , and you know what I am.”

"I seek nothing from the likes of you, Demon, you don’t know me." he declared, though doubt gnawed at him.

"You do, and it is the truth that I know you; your biggest fear is to remain ignorant and blind to the truths that lie beyond the veil of your mortal existence; I can feel it. " She whispered against his ear. 

"You are but a trick of the darkness; I will not succumb to your temptations."

"Oh, but Viktor, you already have ," she purred. "You summoned me here, drawn by your own curiosity. Your anger simmers beneath that stoic surface, against the silence of the heavens and the absence of answers to your prayers. But I answered, so why direct your anger at me ?"

“I have faith in Him; God will intercede in my favor.” He said, covering his face ith both hands, afraid his expression would betray something that confirmed her accusations.

“Yet you question his wisdom and his justice. You resent his silence, you doubt .”

“I love Him, and I will repent; I will.”

“Why? Faith without cynicism is a hollow shell. Will you let yourself be domesticated like a beast? A man of science like yourself?”

The spark of courage grew into embers inside Viktor’s chest at the mention of his work. Although he remained silent, not wanting to concede, she saw it in him, just like she experienced every emotion that grew within the transparent exterior that contained his soul.

“Embrace this fire, and you will obtain what you seek.” She said, gently laying a hand over Viktor’s. 

His shoulders slumped in resignation, but even as he acquiesced to her demands, a seed of guilt still remained. What would God think of him now for consorting with a creature of darkness? Would he be cast aside and condemned for eternity for his folly?

"What do you fear, judgement?” Viktor nodded.

“Your god is nothing but an egregore," she declared, her voice a whisper. "A figment of mortal imagination, born from the collective beliefs of humanity, he only has power over you if you allow it."

“God is my shepherd, He…” He started to recite, but his voice betrayed him.

“Yahweh, Tetragrammaton, Adonai, El, Elohim, Shaddai, Tzevaot… it does not matter who you so fervently pray to! Ancient egregores hold no power over the ancient gods.” She started saying in a firm tone, her volume high in affront. “And you, my sweet, are so unfortunately Christ hunted…a lot of work to be done.” She continued, her voice tuning back down to her previously silky tone.

Viktor's breath caught in his throat, but simultaneously, the weight of her words lifted a heavy chain that had previously hung around his neck. Although this—his God’s identity and how much power He held—seemed to be a point of contention between him and his conscience, every word she uttered seemed to confirm things he had been long thinking about. But the smell of culpability Viktor emanated was pungent, and what she saw in his heart was a whirlwind.

She was proud that he had let himself be guided by his urges, that he had, even if only for a small moment, felt true freedom in pleasure. She felt his fear when he remembered he would need to face father Isidore and then she felt his rage. He felt so strongly against him that for a second she imagined he would be nothing short of a monster, his robust yet sweet face was an interesting sight to find framed in Viktor’s memory. 

She felt sympathy and sadness and confusion, she felt worried for the young girl with the twin braids just like Viktor had, and felt intrigued as to how she had come in possession of her coin, but what mattered most to her in that moment was one problematic sensation; despondency. Viktor was close to giving up, he had nearly decided rage was useless and so was science.

“Let’s begin by working on the heavy guilt you carry.” She said, after a long silence. Viktor noticed an unsettling tenderness in her eyes when he, for the first time, looked directly into them. 

“I made a vow.” He answered, his voice breaking as it turned into a whisper.

"Do not let the chains of guilt bind you, Viktor," she murmured. "The church may preach of purity and righteousness, but it is built upon a foundation of hypocrisy, and you don’t need me to tell you as much.”

“I know of the behavior of some members of the clergy, but why should...”

“I don’t speak of individual transgressions; the church as an institution seeks to negate eroticism and sexuality, yet it embraces them in its most sacred rites.”

The deeply puzzled expression in Viktor’s face prompted her to elaborate.

“Think about the things you do during sacrament; think of the smell of incense, the touching of beads, the kissing of sacred objects, the rubbing of oils... Think about consuming the physical body of the idol you adore, and think about what it makes you feel—enlightenment, apotheosis. Remember the deep pleasure you extracted from the pain of self-penitence? It’s nearly devine, is it not? That necessity to envelop all senses?” 

Viktor nodded.

“And that feeling you get of being close to god in a way that nothing else will get you to—that sensation of being outside the perception of time and space—have you experienced it?”

“I have, in prayer.”

“Can I show you what true ecstasy feels like? One that starts and culminates in yourself without any divine intervention? 

And once again, Viktor simply nodded. The air crackled with a tension thick enough to suffocate him, his breath shallow and rapid. A rush of anticipation surged through him, mingling with a primal curiosity that threatened to consume him whole as she slithered behind him. The shift of weight on the mattress gave him a strange awareness of the materiality of what was taking place, and the hot breath on the left side of his neck caused the last string of sanity holding him together to loosen. 

For a second, he wondered if she was nothing but a very sly yet human woman that had somehow found a way into his room, but that idea was quickly quenched as both of her hands slowly glided along the sides of his still-clothed thighs, emanating that unnatural white glow that was clearly not of mortal nature. 

Her touch was delicate and warm, her nails slowly creeping up to the hem of his cassock as she pulled it up to reveal the trousers underneath. If Viktor had any idea of what she planned on doing, he would have been of more help, adjusting to make his clothing easier to remove, but unaware of what awaited him, he sat there immobile. 

After some mild struggle, she managed to get to the stubborn clasp, and the slight accidental touches ignited a fire within Viktor's veins, sending tendrils of heat coursing through his body. Soon enough, there was nothing in between them, and the cold air that came into contact with the streak of viscosity that had dampened his underpants sent goosebumps across his arms. 

She hadn’t even made her way to his cock yet, but with each gentle caress around his stomach and thighs, Viktor's senses were heightened to a fever pitch, his body aflame with a hunger that burned brighter than any candle. With the first feather touch along his shaft, he felt as if he were teetering on the edge of a precipice, poised on the brink of a pleasure so exquisite it bordered on agony. 

And then, with a slow and deliberate motion, her hand closed around him, sending shockwaves of ecstasy racing through every fiber of his being. A guttural moan escaped his lips as she began to move, her rhythm mechanic and intoxicating. With every teasing stroke, Viktor's breath hitched, his body responding eagerly to her touch. 

"Ah…God!" he gasped, his voice a hoarse whisper of longing. 

She froze on her tracks, drawing out a protesting whine from Viktor. “Do not call upon his name now; at this moment, you belong to me .” She spoke, her voice still sweet but laced with a tinge of resentment.

Viktor's mind swam in a haze, his thoughts fragmented and disjointed as he desperately nodded in agreement, before she resumed the pace of her moment. And then Viktor felt himself hurtling his head back onto her shoulder, his world reduced to nothing. She gently removed the sweat-drenched pieces of hair from his forehead and whispered words in a language he could not understand while her hand continued its path down to his neck and back. 

 For a second, he felt a reminder of the stinging pain on his shoulder blades, and then it faded. As he reached the climax of his arousal, he cried out desperate pleas, only this time to her and himself, finally surrendering to this intoxicating embrace. After letting him breathe for a while, she took one of his hands in hers and placed the copper coin on it. Viktor knew he was bound to her now.

And in that moment, there was no room for guilt or shame, only the unquenchable thirst for more.

#viktor #viktor arcane #viktor x reader #arcane #arcane au #arcane viktor #legion

[fourthwingfan]

Madness - Chapter 13

Hi, everybody. I hope you all had a pleasent Easter! Now, we continue our story. Threshing is just starting. It's a really short chapter, I'm sorry, guys. :( But I plan to post the next one on Saturday.

There is nothing quite as humbling, or as awe-inspiring, as witnessing Threshing…for those who live through it anyway.

—Colonel Kaori’s Field Guide to Dragonkind

October first is always Threshing.

Monday, Wednesday, or Sunday, it doesn’t matter where it falls on any given year. On the first of October, the first-year cadets of the Riders Quadrant enter the bowl-shaped forested valley to the southwest of the citadel and pray they come out alive.

I will not die today.

I didn’t bother eating this morning, and I pity Ethan, who’s currently heaving up the contents of his stomach against a tree to my right.

A sword is strapped to my back, the hilt jostling against my spine as I bounce, stretching my arms across my chest one at a time.

“Remember to listen here,” Professor Kaori says from in front of the 147 of us here, tapping his chest. “If a dragon has already selected you, they’ll be calling.” He thumps his chest again. “So pay attention to not just your surroundings but your feelings, and go with them.” He grimaces. “And if your feelings are telling you to go in the other direction…listen to that, too.”

“Which one are you going for?” Liam asks quietly.

“I don’t know.” I shake my head. At this point, Mira knew she wanted to seek out Teine.

“You memorized the cards, right?” He asks, lifting his brows. “So you know what’s out there?”

“Yes. I just don’t feel connected to any of them.” I shrug. “And what about you? Do you have this ‘feeling’?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” He says. “I thought I felt something.”

“Which one was it?” I smile at him. He totally deserves to be chosen.

“One of the reds.” He grins. “I felt strange when you dated with the greens.”

“Hey! It wasn’t a date. I really thought that I’m done for good.” I narrow my eyes at him.

“Yeah, I shouldn’t have called it a date. I don’t want to upset a certain wingleader.” He winks.

“Liam!” I hiss and elbow him in the ribs.

And he just laughs. God, he’s annoying. A little. But I like him.

We’ve only seen professors this morning, but I know the second- and third-year riders are scattered throughout this valley in order to observe.

„If you go in groups, you’re more likely to be incinerated than bonded,” Professor Kaori argues with someone near the center of the valley. “The scribes have run the statistics. You’re better off on your own.”

“And what if we aren’t chosen by dinner?” a man with a short beard to my left asks.

Looking past him, I catch Jack Barlowe running a finger across his neck at Violet. So original. Then Oren, Rio and Tynan flank his sides.

So much for squad loyalty. It’s everyone for themselves today.

I better watch them. They’re a nasty group.

“If you’re not chosen by nightfall, there’s a problem,” Professor Kaori responds, his thick mustache turned down at the ends. “You’ll be brought out by a professor or senior leadership, so don’t give up and think we’ve forgotten about you.” He checks his pocket watch. “Remember to spread out and use every foot of this valley to your advantage. It’s nine, which means they should be flying in any minute now. The only other words I have for you are ‘good luck.’” He nods, sweeping his gaze over the crowd of us with such intensity that I know he’ll be able to re-create this moment in a projection.

Then he leaves, marching up the hill to our right and disappearing into the trees.

My mind whirls. It’s time. I’ll either leave this forest as a rider…or likely never leave.

“Be careful.” Liam pulls me into a hug and he tightens his arms around me.

“You too.” I squeeze him back and am immediately swept into another pair of arms.

“Don’t die!” Ethan orders.

That’s our only goal as what’s left of our squad separates, each heading in our own direction like we’ve been flung apart by centrifugal motion, at the mercy of a spinning wheel.

***

Guessing by the position of the sun, it’s been at least a couple of hours since the dragons flew overhead, landing in the valley in a succession that sounded like thunder and making the earth shake.

I’ve come across two greens, a brown, four oranges, and—

My heart stumbles and my feet freeze to the forest floor as a red steps into my field of vision, its head just under the canopy of enormous trees.

This is not my dragon. I’m not sure how I know, but I do.

I hold my breath, trying not to make a sound as its head sweeps right, then left, and my gaze plummets to the ground as I bow my head.

For the last hour or so, I’ve seen dragons launch into the air with a cadet—now a rider—on their back, but I’ve also seen more than a couple of plumes of smoke, and I have no desire to be one of those.

The dragon huffs a breath, then continues along its path, its daggertail flicking upward and catching one of the lower-hanging branches. The limb falls to the ground with a monstrous crash, and only after the footsteps recede do I finally raise my head.

I’ve now come across every color of dragon, and none of them has spoken to me or given me the sense of connection we’re reportedly supposed to feel.

My stomach sinks. What if I’m one of the cadets who’s destined to never become a rider? One who’s thrown back time and again to restart first year until eventually something puts me on the death roll? Has this all been for nothing?

I don’t want to die. I don’t want to be useless. I don’t want to be seperated from my friends.

I feel happy with them. For the first time in my life I feel important. And I don’t want to lose them. Liam. Violet. Ethan. Not even Xaden, despite our strange relationship.

The thought is too heavy to carry.

Maybe if I could just see the valley, then I’d get a feeling like Professor Kaori was talking about.

I spot the nearest climbable tree and get to work, scaling branch after branch. Pretty sure the higher branches aren’t going to support my weight, so I stop about three-quarters to the top and survey the immediate area.

There are a few greens in plain sight to my left, standing out against the fall foliage. Oddly enough, this is the one time of year when oranges, browns, and reds have the highest chance of blending in. I watch the trees for movement and spot a couple more directly south, but there’s no pull, no aching need to head in that direction, which probably means those aren’t mine, either.

Relief hits me embarrassingly hard when I count at least half a dozen first-years wandering aimlessly. I shouldn’t be so happy that they haven’t found their dragons, either, but at least I’m not the only one, which gives me hope.

There’s a clearing to the north, and my eyes narrow as a flash, like a mirror, catches the sun.

Or like a golden dragon.

Guess the little feathertail is still out here appeasing its curiosity.

There’s another movement. There’s a woman with wihitis hair. Violet.

Then I spot three man entering the clearing.

Shit. They must be Jack and his group.

I climb down and keep my footsteps silent and race across the forest floor as fast as I can.

I am thankful I grew up playing hide-and-seek with Violet in the woods. This is one area of expertise I can confidently claim.

The clearing is closer than I realized, so I kick up my speed, my gaze darting between the leaf-covered path I’ve chosen and where I think they are.

The meadow is big enough for ten dragons, ringed by several large trees, but the golden one stands alone in the center, in front of the dragon is Violet.

I was right. The group I saw was Jack’s. They surrounded Violet.

Four man against Violet, and a dragon. Probably a baby if based on it’s size.

I feel my anger rising. I will kill them.

I unsheathe my sword but before I can say anything or take a step, I hear a low threatening voice.

„I would strongly recommend you rethink your actions,” a voice—his voice—demands from across the field.

My scalp prickles as each of our heads swivel in his direction.

Xaden is leaning against the tree, his arms folded across his chest, and behind him, watching with narrowed golden eyes, her fangs exposed, is Sgaeyl, his terrifyingly beautiful navy-blue daggertail.

#fourth wing #fanfiction #fourth wing fanfic #liam mairi #the fourth wing #violet sorrengail #xaden riorson #oc #the empyrean #xaden x oc #xaden riorson x oc #sgaeyl

[delopsia]

Thinking about Rhett and his Easter shenanigans...

It all started with Amy.

Easter celebrations ended the year Rhett turned ten, suddenly deemed to be too old to be enjoying the holiday as children do. Beloved Easter egg hunts and egg dying faded away into nothing but days of sitting in uncomfortable wooden pews and listening to the dronings of a preacher he forgot the name of. He forgets what it's like to wake up and run down to the kitchen in hopes that the Easter Bunny has paid him a visit.

Instead, he only associates Easter with one thing. Sneaking out with his father and Perry to buy Easter candy from the local Dollar General. His momma is a firm believer that such treats need to be earned; how are you meant to raise hard-working sons when you spoil them with sweet treats that they didn’t earn? But Royal’s got a wicked sweet tooth, and both of his sons have inherited it. While Cecelia is busy with her bible studies, her husband and two sons are buying candy and stashing it beneath their beds. Rhett always gets the bright pink Peeps, Perry yellow, and Royal blue. Jellybeans are too hard to hide, but cartons of chocolate-covered marshmallow eggs fit just fine.

Rhett's fifteen when Amy is born. Too little to really partake in Easter for the first two years, but on the third, the festivities come back in full force. Everyone has to sit down and paint at least six eggs each, then hide them around the house for Amy to find. It ends in tears, not because of anything necessarily going wrong, but because Amy’s upset that they couldn’t do it outside. The next year ends the same way because this time, it was outside, but the hunt was too easy for her.

The next year, Rhett’s hatched himself a plan. Armed with all the eggs Cecelia could find, both plastic and real, Rhett stays home from church and stashes those brightly colored eggs everywhere he can find. In the stable, behind saddle bags, and beneath shelves, in corners of the fences, and up in trees that Perry will inevitably have to climb up and get. A true hunt that puts Amy and her adventurous little heart down to work. He’s hidden fifty eggs, and Amy finds forty-nine.

When Perry’s head hits his pillow that night, he finds the fiftieth.

What problem they don’t predict is how out of hand Easter is about to get. Only becomes obvious when little Amy chatters her momma’s ear off about the hunt Uncle Rhett made for her and how she hopes it's harder this year. Royal’s not happy about his youngest being taken out of work just to hide a bunch of eggs, but Cecelia will let nothing come between giving her grandbaby the Easter she deserves. While Perry sweats up a storm and Royal curses the Spring heat, Rhett’s giggling to himself as he hides eggs in the most inconvenient of places.

It's a tradition that only grows in intensity because as the years pass, Rhett gets better at hiding them, and Amy gets better at finding them. But it doesn't stop there; no, she gets bored of the plainly colored eggs she's been dying with Grandma. She wants carefully painted eggs with patterns that take hours to complete.

You meet Rhett for the first time on Easter Sunday. Only there to visit a friend and attend the Easter brunch the local church is hosting, but instead, you find yourself fondly watching the sight in front of you. A messy-haired cowboy sitting in the back of his pickup, covered in splotches of vividly colored paint, as he and his niece paint her Easter eggs. Sweat beads at his pale forehead, exposed to the elements because he offered his beloved hat to Amy, more concerned about her than himself.

"I uh...hi?" He stammers around the paintbrush held in his mouth; the sun is blistering, but you don't think the red in his ears is from the sun.

Amy pokes her head up, a too-big cowboy hat falling into her face as she offers you a plain-white egg, "do you want to paint one?"

You think that watching Amy hunt for her Easter eggs is a one-time deal. That this is the only time you'll watch this stuttering mess of a man offer you one of the jellybeans that Amy's just stuffed into his shirt pocket.

Until the next year rolls around, and you're finding a bent Easter basket on your kitchen table, stuffed full of overly-sweet treats and topped off with a plushie of a cow wearing bunny ears. You haven't the slightest clue when or how Rhett snuck this in without you hearing it.

There's a plastic easter egg shoved in your toothbrush holder, a little note, and a candy hidden inside of it. 'Good morning, I love you! :)'

It's not the only one. There are four in your car and one in your purse; they're outside, hidden in your plants and in the crevices of the windows, beneath the sink, and balanced on top of door frames. Your living room is covered. No matter where you look, there are eggs filled with pieces of candy and shakily written notes.

"You must think you're real cute, huh?" Shaking the bag of collected eggs as you walk down the dusty Abbott driveway.

And Rhett just smiles, looking down at his feet as he shoves his thumbs into his pockets, "jus' a lil' bit."

After dinner, you find an entire bag of jelly beans shoved into your purse. The same bag Cecelia buys Amy every year because she thinks it's her favorite because it's the first thing that's gone every time. The same bag that Amy shuffles off to Rhett because she doesn't like them. Rhett doesn't even care for them, but he eats them anyway.

Like it did with Amy, the festivities only grow worse. You try to catch him in the act every year, but without fail, you wake up every Easter Sunday to a bunch of eggs sprawled about in the strangest of places. A lot of them are found, but when you're packing up to move into a place together, you find two dozen. Candy suspiciously dated but coupled with notes whose meanings never waver.

He gets an egg stuck behind the dresser one year; it's still there because you can't reach it, and the dresser is too hard to move. Living under the same roof as him is even worse because now he's even more familiar with the layout and all of the hiding spots that come with it. His carefully painted eggs all revolve around you; your favorite flower, your initials, your favorite color, and pattern. So intricately painted that it hurts you when it comes time to crack and put them to use before they go bad.

Amy's hunts never cease, going beyond the age of ten, because those Abbott rules never apply to Cecelia's beloved grandchildren. Every year it's the same, and every year you find yourself rolling your eyes as Amy finds the eggs in the most ridiculous of places. So far, your favorite has been the eggs found in the gutter, placed there exclusively to piss off Royal.

You know all of his hiding places now; after spending so much time with Rhett, it's become easy to figure him out. He goes for the crevices, his favorite being the places up-high and out of reach, and the eggs tend to match the place they're in. Never out in the open. Never visible at first glance.

That's why you're so confused when you get in bed and find an egg sitting there. Innocent, bright, and definitely wasn't there when you made the bed this morning. No, you would have noticed it.

When you pop it open, you find that the usual note is wrapped around the band of a dainty little ring. And in the shakiest handwriting, you've ever seen, it reads four little words that you could never have expected.

'Will you marry me? :)'

From the doorway, Rhett just giggles, as bashful as the day you met him, red ears, paint on his face and all.

You marry him that next Easter, not an egg in sight when you say your vows or when you lock lips for the first time as a newly wedded couple. Throughout the entire ceremony, you only find one egg. It's on top of the cake, and it's only there at your request. Suspicious.

"No eggs at all?" You find yourself chirping on your slow walk to the car. A cautious hand braces around your waist, ready to catch you if your tired, achy legs go out from beneath you. These shoes were pretty, but a hell of a mistake.

Rhett clears his throat, eyes darting toward the car. "No eggs yet."

It takes you three days to find the unholy stash of plastic eggs in the backseat.

#rhett abbott x y/n #rhett abbott x reader #rhett abbott #oneshot #rhett abbott outer range #outer range fic #outer range #outer range amazon #rhett abbott imagine #rhett abbott x you #reader self insert #self insert #x reader #reader insert #delgato's warmups #delgato's thinking

[portraitsofsaints]

Saint Mary Faustina Kowalska

1905 - 1938

Feast day: October 5

Patron of Mercy

St. Maria Faustina Kowalska was born in Glogowiec, Poland in 1905. The third of ten children from a poor family, she had little formal education. After applying to various convents in Warsaw, she was finally accepted by the Congregation of the Sisters of Our Lady of Mercy in 1925. For years Saint Faustina received revelations and visits from Christ. On Good Friday 1937, Christ appeared to her and dictated to her the prayers that He wished her to pray in a novena from Good Friday through the Octave of Easter, now known as Divine Mercy Sunday. Saint Faustina died in 1938, in Krakow, Poland, of tuberculosis. 

Prints, plaques & holy cards available for purchase here: (website)

#St Faustina #Saint of Mercy #Patron of Mercy #catholic art #artist on tumblr

[punisheddonjuan]

Over the last week I've been back in my hometown of Hamilton staying at my parents' house and sleeping in my old bedroom. I had that optometrist appointment earlier in the week, it's Easter on Sunday, and I need to order my prescription at the pharmacy here on Monday anyway. So, an extended visit was an obvious choice. It's been nice. This afternoon I did a little dig through my closet after my mom mentioned that she would like to clear out anything in there which I wasn't keen on keeping. So I took a look, and while there was definitely stuff in there I am fine getting rid of, and in many cases can't remember why I hung onto it for as long as I did, there was also a bunch of neat old stuff in there.

Everything in that closet is thrown into a few banker's boxes, I wasn't quite sure what was in each of them. The first box I dove into turned out to contain all of my university coursework, all five years of it, and much of it disorganized and in disarray. I must have just thrown things in there, because there were loose sheets of translation work interleaved out of order, folders stuffed to breaking with photocopied journal articles and book chapters from different courses, syllabi and unrelated essays in messy piles, and various notebooks, loose notes and revisions. Organizing it all is not a task I'm up doing any time soon, and part of me doubts that I'll ever get it done, it's hardly important anymore. Surveying it all made me think on what a shame it is that I never have any occasion or reason to write things out by hand. I miss using my fountain pens, and my cursive was really quite nice.

I also found my official transcript, of which I have seven copies for reasons that have been lost to time. Presumably I ordered more copies because of grad school applications, but I can't remember.

I guess I did pretty well. And even though grades don't matter at all after you graduate, I did have to do a double take and think back for a minute trying to remember how the hell I managed to bomb Beginner's Ancient Greek II winding up with a C after getting an A in Beginner's Ancient Greek I (and then back to getting As after that). The memory did eventually resurface; I had deferred the exam on account of illness, but when it came time to write the exam in the summer, I wound up running a fever anyway, and on top of that, I was writing it a little over a week after my girlfriend had broken up with me. To be entirely honest, that summer and back half of the year is something of a blur. Welp, oh well.

Oh and hey, in one of those messy piles I found the paper for which I won a departmental essay contest and then third place in the national CAC undergraduate essay writing contest.

The professor's comments were far too kind. It's an okay paper for an undergraduate, I'd change a lot of things looking back at it now. I wonder what Dr. Corner is up to these days and if he finally finished his book. We had lunch together when I first moved to Toronto but that was years ago now. He was the professor I was closest to, a real mentor.

Buried behind the coursework box was another banker's box containing something entirely unrelated but very cool, these:

It's my old iPods! The 30GB iPod Video is completely dead, but the 160GB iPod Classic booted after I found a cable and gave it a quick charge. The headphone jack is busted, if I recall correctly, I had already paid to get it fixed once, and then it died a few months later. By that point I was fed up with having it fixed, and replaced it with an iBasso DX80. The electronics in it are still functioning fine; I might give a go at modding it into something I could put to use. Modding iPod classics is a whole scene these days and you can buy custom DIY replacement parts like microSD card readers to replace the harddrive, and there's custom firmware that allows the iPod to support higher capacity storage. Modding it shouldn't be too difficult and wouldn't even require much soldering. I'd replace the headphone jack, pull the 160GB HDD and replace it with a dual or quad microSD card reader and cram as many 512GB/1TB microSD cards it can take, and replace the battery with a higher capacity one. I stream my music collection from my media server to my phone via PlexAmp these days, but it would be cool to have an offline option, or something I can just leave permanently plugged into the Aux port of my stereo. My dad says he's got a 120GB model that half works floating around too, maybe I'll mod both of them.

There were a few other neat things in that second box like playbills from when I used to attend the opera. Which is yet another thing I used to be able to do and now miss terribly. That double feature of Bluebeard and Erwartung was phenomenal.

There was also a copy from one of the godawful and glossy annual "All About Sex" supplements the University newspaper published. I won't share pictures of that because there are a lot of half-naked semi acquaintances in there, but be assured, it's godawful.

In a third box I found approximately half of my physical PC game collection:

Check out that copy of X-Wing on 3.5" floppies and the sticker advising Windows and Pentium users that this is a DOS game. That's the very first PC game I ever got as a kid, received it as a present for Christmas '95. What you see there is less than half of what I know for a fact that I own on CD-ROM. Just off the top of my head I know I have physical copies of Half-Life, Red Alert 2, Tiberian Sun, Dune 2000, Emperor: Battle for Dune, Sid Meier's Alpha Centauri, Sid Meier's Civilization, Total Annihilation, Unreal Tournament, Star Wars Dark Forces II: Jedi Knight, Mechwarrior 4, Star Trek: Bridge Commander, Doom 3, Medal of Honor: Allied Assault, Thief 2: the Metal Age, Deus Ex and most of those games' attendant expansion packs. I didn't find any of them while clearing out the closet, which means that they're almost definitely up in the attic above the garage, along with the sci-fi and fantasy novels I had from adolescence which I didn't take with me when I moved. Getting up into that attic is a pain in the ass though, and it's cramped and stuffy once you're up there. Maybe next time I visit my parents I can put aside a day to go up there and locate everything. I'd really have to be feeling up to it though. I'm pretty sure my hardback copy of Good Omens is up there, as is my copy of Neuromancer, and the Black Company omnibuses. None of which I've read in years.

The only other things of note were a bunch of pewter figurines of wizards I had for unknown reasons and a few nice and largely unused (with the exception of a few pages that I must have torn out years ago) notebooks that I can put to good use.

Actually, I just figured out the reason I owned these and hung onto them. It's because they're rad as hell. Wizards rule.

#blog #personal history