#david with a metronome

[amberinn]

Did this though still

[thebravestfell]

NEIL ATTAR, 45, BELIEVER

resident of The Grande Sonnerie

works in a bookstore, is an aspiring novelist, will have to keep rewriting the last act of his book

Elder Goth, Resident Weirdo, Suspicious AF (but actually innocent for the moment)

will be using the time loop to his advantage in the future aka becoming a hobbyist and learning new skills

aloof, would like to be left alone, but also curious about what’s happening

PLOT NEEDS:

people who think he's Guilty of something

people who know he's an excellent reference for finding books but also are wary of asking him even though it's his job to help

that one friend who is made of COLORS to balance his DARKNESS (i.e. makes him participate in the community)

other curious minds passively trying to figure out what's going on

people to bond with over learning new skills and hobbies

that one person who has read his short stories online and is waiting for his novel

and so much more!

[art-portraits]

Ronald David Laing, 1927 - 1989. Psychiatrist

Artist: Victoria Crowe (Scottish, born 1945)

Date: 1984

Medium: Oil on hardboard over acrylic underpainting

Collection: National Galleries of Scotland, Edinburg, Scotland

Description

This man is deep in thought. A crystal, an icon, a metronome and a woman's picture sit on a shelf behind him. Laing was a psychiatrist, turned psychoanalyst, who wrote a study on sanity and madness in 1960 called The Divided Self. The book became cult reading, its author, a cult figure. Laing experimented with psychedelic drugs, spent a year in a Sri Lankan Buddhist monastery and campaigned to create compassionate environments for the mentally ill in the West.

[soul-meister]

poly!lost boys x gn!marching band!reader : the lost boys : headcannons

note: i hope you enjoy these headcannons by a band nerd and i won't take any criticism if it includes marko

-let's start off with the bane of my existence, band camp:

-these boys--minus dwayne--don't understand that you're not going to leave your house, unless it's for dinner, after a day at band camp

-marko and paul want to drag you out to the boardwalk but that's a big no for you; one, you're really tired after being on you're feet for eight(8)+ hours, and two, you refuse to be around any loud noises after having a metronome and various instruments blasting in your ears for hours

-david does understand you're tired but doesn't understand that if you go to the cave with them and you will probably fall asleep there, meaning you'll be late the next day and that's just a really embarrassing situation to go through

-dwyane is the only one that's truly okay with staying in after band camp for about three weeks straight. like, y'all can read, cuddle, watch tv, listen to music. it's enough for him

-after the first week of staying in with you every night, marko and paul set up this every-other-day schedule where they'll stay in with you one night, and hang out around the boardwalk the next together as to not get bored

-if you like to get ready for band camp the night before--like packing your lunch or filling up your water bottle--david or dwyane will make sure it's done before leaving, and if it's not, they'll do it for you cause you're most likely asleep

-during marching season and the school year in general, the boys will wait for you to fall asleep before hunting

-there's a little something about marching band uniforms that really make a person's attractiveness go up another level and the boys see that

-after forcing you into the clothing the night you got it, they'll compliment you, call you beautiful/handsome, check out your ass

-guard uniforms are a different story, cause the uniform--not you--can either look beautiful or hideous, no inbetween

-if your uniform is just plain ugly, someone is laughing: david's smirking while trying to hold back an actual smile, there's definitely a look of amusement in dwyane's eyes as his lips quirk up at the corners, marko is at first trying to hide his smile behind his fist but quickly goes into critiquing it, paul is just out right laughing at you

-like with the marching band uniforms, they're checking you out, no matter how ugly it is; they got worried with how tight it is that you might flash someone so you had to explain you're wearing a unitard underneath

-if you're in guard, marko is helping out with your hair and makeup when possible and he probably gets it done faster than the other guard people

-marko also helps adjust your bibs if they're too long, maybe even zip you up or put on your gauntlets/shako for you. again, will help you put up your hair if it needs to go under your shako

-all in all, marko is a band mom that carries around safety pins for anyone that needs them... i could see dwyane, and maybe the other two, as prop dads

-the boys do get frustrated when it comes to after school practices because you have to stay late, and then when to do finish, you have to eat dinner, do your homework, take a shower/bath

-overall, you don't spend much time with them those days so if you have an off day from practice, forget spending time with your family or friends

-though, if you don't drive to school, they'll be glad to pick you up from practice, especially since that's not something they could do on a regular day... they also enjoy all the stares they get from your peers

-they'll also help you finish up your homework if it's due the next day and you're too tired to deal with it at the moment. and if david notices that your forcing yourself to stay awake to finish your assignments, david will use his mind manipulation to put you to sleepsounds like he's killing you

-during football games, the boys will at first be sat in your section with till they're kicked out by someone so they'll sit near you...then come back later in the game

-david and dwyane will definitely have to stop marko and paul from distracting you during stand tunes, especially if you're a drum major

-if you do front/back pit, there's not much to distract you from so paul and marko will talk your head off during the game

-if you're in color guard, it can go either of the two ways above: if you perform with the band during stand tunes, they're definitely watching and cheering you on from the side

-if there's anyone talking loudly during the band's on field performance, they might just become the boys' next meal

-also, they're not paying for those football tickets. you probably have to beg them to pay for tickets at band competitions cause that's where bands get most of their money

-and as much as i would love to say that the boys see all of your performances, they don't. they can't, especially if you're a smaller band or usually just perform during the day

-even if you did perform at night, probably a bigger band, they might not make it in time because competitions usually seem to happen at least an hour away from your school for some reason

-they'll still try to make it in time, even if it means breaking a fewmore than a few road laws...they probably enjoy terrorizing people to and from competitions

-if you have a solo, paul and marko will be the loudest to applaud once you finish, and sometimes they get carried away so david has to smack them upside the head to shut them up

-marko and paul have definitely tried to sneak on to the bus with you on the way back from a competition even though that means leaving their bikes behind? the band mom's obviously noticed, like with everything, and kicked the boys off

-they cannot stand those late night bus drives home because they just want you in their arms so they can congratulate you on your performance and if you got any trophies

-they'll be so proud for whatever trophies your band won, whether it be third place in a singular caption or grand champion overall

-you tell them all the band gossip, whether it be someone took a shit on the bus or two people were caught fucking in the band closet

-if your band does nationals, then how far it is from santa carla decides their mood when you tell them cause it could be a reasonable distance and you won't have to stay at a hotel or it could be a couple of hours away and you will have to stay at a hotel

-and if you do have to stay in a hotel, you'll have to deal with a few jealous vampires cause you'll be staying in a room with other people that's not them. so it's probably not the best idea to tell them who you're rooming with or you'll end up down a few band members

-if you have to take band class to do marching band--minus guard--then they're showing up to all of your concerts

-and if you show interest in joining winter percussion/guard, they're gonna definitely try to dissuade you from doing it because it'll again take your time after school away from them

extra : if they were humans/in high school (band) with you

-paul gives of alto sax vibes, and if your marching band has a guitar or drumset position, he's definitely trying out for that. would do winter percussion. did all-county freshmen year cause he didn't have to go to school those days, then realizes he has to play all day, doesn't continue

-david would probably start off as a baritone his first year then switch to drum line, going from bass(sophomore) to tenor(junior). senior year, he'd be drum major. might do winter percussion. does all-county and all-district, tries for all-state but doesn't make it, and this happens each year

-dwyane is definitely a tenor sax player who switches to bari sax his junior, maybe senior, year. is probably in jazz band. all-county and all-district for regular and jazz band

-marko totally starts out on clarinet in middle school and once he reaches high school, he starts branching off to try different woodwind instruments. he's probably taking multiple band classes his senior year so he can play various instruments(favorite is probably oboe). wouldn't be surprised if marko did winter guard. does all-county--because he gets out of school, but unlike paul, he actually enjoys it--all-district, and probably could do all-state if he practiced more

[rhianwen24601]

I like to pretend that I don't care what happens with Season 3 of Good Omens, but it's obviously been on my mind, because my brain has been spitting out absurd scenarios.

In a recent silly half awake speculation, David Tennant and Michael Sheen both noped out of season 3, so Aziraphale was recast as Jon Hamm in a white wig, and Crowley was recast as Jon Hamm in a red wig.

*White haired and redheaded Jon Hamms frantically making out*

Regular Gabriel Jon Hamm: Hey, guys, hope I'm not interrupting anything...?

Ginger Hamm: Nope, nothing at all!

White Haired Hamm: I have no idea what you're talking about! I don't even know this man!

*Beelzebub, also played by Jon Hamm, hurries in*

Beelzehamm: The Megatron is coming, we have to go!

White Haired Hamm: Oh no! Not the Metronome!

Metsy (also played by Jon Hamm): Hahahahaha, it is I, the Megaman! I hate love and happiness and it is my life's mission to make everyone addicted to coffee!

Ginger Hamm: Quick, everyone! To the Bentley!

*the Bentley - also played by Jon Hamm - rolls up, and Jon Hamm, Jon Hamm, Jon Hamm, and Jon Hamm ride Jon Hamm off into the night*

[lizzie-bennetdarcy]

Fic stats meme

rules: give us the links to your fic with the most hits, second most kudos, third most comments, fourth most bookmarks, fifth most words, and fic with the least words.

Tagged by @hippolotamus @stereopticons and @smblmn thank you, lovelies 😘😘

Most hits:

[Art] I'll take you apart with my teeth, sweetheart (nsfw link)

This has the most hits by like... a lot 😂

After an extended time apart, Alex and Henry finally have some alone time.

Second most kudos

(He) was a fast machine

The first time Patrick heard his neighbors having sex he had yet to meet them. Mostly, he was impressed, and a little turned on. It was incredibly metronome-like, rhythmic, and lasted nearly an hour. There was no doubt about it - someone was getting absolutely railed.

Third most comments (we're going with comment threads, since I try to reply to all comments)

One day you'll understand how much I love you

"Come on David, we're gonna be late!" Patrick calls up the stairs. He double checks the time. They're technically still plenty early for the airport, but he's been married for long enough to know that Rose Family Time works differently than everyone else's time.

"I'm almost finished, you know packing my knits is a delicate process," David yells back at him.

"It's the middle of summer and we're going to San Francisco. I don't think you'll need your knits, David!"

After a busy few months working at the rapidly-expanding Rose Apothecary, David and Patrick take a much needed vacation.

Fourth most bookmarks

Also (He) was a fast machine

Fifth most words

A taste of you

So here he is, alone. In this stupid Elmdale strip mall, in a space he is certain does not live up to health code standards. He looks around the room and sees mostly couples, which only serves to drive home the fact that he is so, so very single this holiday season.

Or...

David and Patrick meet at random at a holiday cake pop decorating class

Least words

24 hour photo

A quick conversation between Patrick and Marcy following David's olive branch.

(Aka the missing date night photo from Lock it up)

Tagging @wordthieve @walnuts-and-berries @hullomoon @swearphil @rosedavid @treluna4 @jesuisici33 if you wanna play!! 🥰

[sempiternal-peculiarity]

Soon enough they would all be forgotten and never spoken of or thought about again. This was the rhythm of the universe, as predictable as a metronome. Civilisations, great and small, come and go; some are remembered for a while, but all of them forgotten in time.

(Night of the Humans, by David Llewellyn)

[itsjustlux]

50% Crowley theory 50% Crowley Angst

Let's talk Crowley and religious trauma because I just got done rewatching s2, this time with the company of my mother (the absolute icon that she is).

Side note, this is 50% theory and 50% character speculation, so enjoy this behemoth of a post.

After we finished e6, my mom and I had a lovely little discussion about the roles of both the Metronome (yes, she actually called him this) and God. Much of the discussion revolved around wether or not God was a malicious/cruel force in the Good Omens universe. While my mom had made the argument that yes, God in this universe is not a sympathetic character, I ended up arguing the opposite.

And I can easily see how she would come to that conclusion. Heaven, after all, has been shown to be pretty morally dubious. But that's just the thing. Heaven and God are two completely separate entities. And that's a really, really, really important distinction (especially for Crowley's character). Crowley hates Heaven, yeah, but does he hate God? I would make the case that he doesn't. In fact, I think he might actually still love Her.

In s1 he literally talks to God about his fall. Obviously, he doesn't get any sort of reply, but he doesn't seem angry here in the slightest. He's just sad. Sad and literally begging God not to destroy humanity. That does not seem like hate to me. And if he resented God for his Fall, why would he still be talking with Her? Why would he be trying to reason with Her? But let's keep going. In season 2 when he sees God talking to Job, I don't get any anger here either. Unlike the scene in s1, I don't get sadness either. I get wonder, and just a hint of envy. He wants to be able to ask these big questions, to speak with God even if he doesn't get a proper answer. That means something to him.

But why would he still love God if She cast him out? Well, I actually don't think She was the one to do it. I think it was the Metronome (yes, I'm calling him that until the end of time). I mean, Crowley recognizes him immediately and Metronome over here recognizes him right back. And even more that that, the Metronome was the one at Gabriel's trial, not God herself. If the trial of the Supreme Archangel Gabriel doesn't warrant the appearance of God, why would Crowley's Fall? Crowley got in trouble for asking God too many questions. And what happened when Aziraphale tried asking questions in s1? He spoke with the Metronome. It's pretty reasonable to assume the same thing happened to Crowley.

So what does this do for his character? Well, it gives some additional context to his conversation with Aziraphale, especially that second "tell me you didn't". Because I get some genuine fear from David Tennant's performance in that moment, and this would definitely explain why. It also gives him some delicious internal conflict and adds to his whole wanting-to-be-a-good-person-but-that-puts-him-in-immortal-danger thing. Because loving God would be like, the ultimate demon no-no. Loving in general is pretty unacceptable, but loving God???? And that would just make his isolation among the demons that much more significant. Of course he became so set on helping Aziraphale. Aziraphale was (is?) all he had (has?) in so many ways, this is just another one of them. And adding onto all of that, knowing that a God, his God, would sit there and allow him to feel all these immensely painful feelings and then not even finding it in himself to be hateful or angry at Her...Just hateful of the systems build around Her 'ineffable plan'...There's something deeply compelling and deeply human about that, which I find very relatable.

[dustedmagazine]

Ryan Davis & the Roadhouse Band — Sing Dancing on the Edge (Sophomore Lounge)

Ryan Davis is an intricate wordsmith, backed by a crack band of country-fried weirdos who pull a second shift as the Krautish puzzle palace oddities of Equipment Pointed Ankh. Here on his first album under his own name (he recorded in the previous decade as the much beloved State Champion), Davis dives deep into rustic psychedelia, spinning out home-cooked surrealities to rickety Casio beats and stretching mournful twanging absurdist poetry to epic length. Lately named to Pitchfork’s 37 best rock albums, Sing Dancing is really a country album, though in the skewed, knotty way of David Berman.

In the live setting, Davis seems to be betting hard on his shorter, more conventionally shaped material, the yelping, gulping, yodeling, burnt romantic “Learn 2 Re-Luv” and the graceful reprise “Bluebirds Revisited,” and indeed both are startling, thought provoking pieces of work. But if you want to get right to the heart of what makes this album amazing, head for the ten-minute epic head-trip “Flashes of Orange.” Like the other cuts, it dredges the depths of emotional experience, the blackest, bleariest dead of night vision (“there’s a black space between the back of my head and the back of my face”). It’s so dark, indeed, that Davis hallucinates color in it, “knocks of red,” “flashes of orange.”  The cut seethes with emotive pedal steel, one of music’s most reliable indicators of angst, but it also rears up into something like rock triumph in the climactic chorus “I have these dreams we’re hitting the road again/But i always wake when the engine roars.”

That’s the song where Davis and his mates open up the throttle musically, but if I had to pick a favorite for lyrics, it would be “Junk Drawer Heart.” Here’s him catching the female protagonist in a life drawn sketch: “Her daddy was a hypnotist/Her mother was a metronome/Her mortal coil is not so much a curse/As it is a stepping stone.” The junk drawer becomes a capacious metaphor for memory and identity, with bits of treasure mixed in with useless junk. “She knows there’s something of use deep down/In a rare coin corner of her junk drawer heart,” sings Ryan nailing the mixed bag that human beings are in a couplet.

The band is excellent and even more so live where Davis trades in ricky-tick drum machines for a full kit, and the songs so rich with musical and lyrical ideas that it takes a while to bring them into focus. Spend the time, though, and this album is a universe, harsh and shadowy but shot through with beauty.

Jennifer Kelly

[cyberpunkonline]

Zipping Through Pixels: The Gameboy Shmup Scene

Picture this: the year is 1989, your screen is greener than a vegan smoothie, and the pixels are so chunky they could be in a 90s boy band. Enter the Gameboy, a glorious handheld beacon of gaming freedom, albeit not quite the haven for shoot 'em ups (or shmups, for those in the know). Yet, like a pixelated David against the Goliath of hardware limitations, a few brave shmups soared into this monochromatic fray. Let's lock, load, and have a cheeky gander at the shmups that dared to buzz the humble Gameboy.

1. "Solar Striker" - The Vanilla Ice Cream of Shmups

Imagine the basics: shoot, dodge, boss, repeat. That's "Solar Striker." It's your grandma's recipe of shmups—nothing fancy, but it hits the spot. It had a rhythm as predictable as a metronome in a sleep study, yet it was the comfort food for any Gameboy owner itching for a vertical scrolling shooter. True to the genre, you had to blast a conga line of foes, upgrade your pea shooter to a slightly heftier pea shooter, and face bosses that apparently never learned to move anywhere but down.

2. "Nemesis" - Not the Villain We Deserved, But The One We Got

When Konami shrunk "Gradius" down for the Gameboy, they called it "Nemesis" – because naming confusion is just what the '90s did best. This pocket-sized port packed everything a shmup aficionado could want: power-ups, enemies galore, and a difficulty curve steeper than your average learning curve. "Nemesis" was the go-to for any gamer who thought, "I wish I could squint at bullets on a tiny screen," and it delivered with more charm than a lo-fi beats playlist.

3. "R-Type" - A Love Letter to Masochists

"R-Type" on the Gameboy was akin to performing surgery with a sledgehammer – it was a meticulous ordeal, often ending in tears. You'd think translating one of the most punishing shmups onto a handheld console was a dare that went too far, yet there it was. This game made every pixel count, with monsters that seemed to have flunked out of charm school lunging at you with all the grace of a moose on roller skates.

4. "Operation C" - Contra with a Sprinkle of Bullet Hell

They took "Contra," added the shmup sprinkle, and out came "Operation C." This was not just a run-and-gun; it was a run-and-don't-you-dare-stop-or-you'll-eat-a-bullet sandwich. This game was the answer to the question nobody asked: "What if we mixed 'Contra' with a shmup and made it so hard it could scratch diamonds?" But, boy, did it scratch that itch for relentless challenge.

5. "Aerostar" - The Genre-Bender

Last on the list is the hidden gem, "Aerostar." It didn't just break the mold; it played frisbee with it. Part shmup, part action-adventure, it was like the genre's rebellious teen that listened to synthwave and wore neon sunglasses at night. Its unique selling point? A little button that swapped between flying and land modes, because why settle for just annoying the birds when you could irritate land creatures too?

In the grand tapestry of Gameboy titles, the shmup selection was like finding a needle in a haystack—a needle that occasionally exploded in a tiny, satisfying burst of pixels. These games didn't redefine the genre; they simply survived on a platform that treated color like a luxury and screen space like premium real estate.

In the end, the Gameboy's shmups are a testament to gaming's wild west era – a pixelated reminder that sometimes, it's not the size of the ship in the game, but the motion of the "B" button. So, here's to the Gameboy shmups – they aimed, they shot, they mostly missed, but when they hit, it was with the sweet satisfaction of an underdog's triumph.

- Raz

[pyth1a]

Loony Bin Basketball by Mary Karr

For Phil Jackson

The gym opened out

before us like a vast arena, the bleached floorboards

yawned toward a vanishing point, staggered seats high

as the Mayan temple I once saw devoured by vines.

Each of us was eaten up inside — all citizens of   lost

             and unmapped cities.

Frank hugged the pimply ball

over his belly like an unborn child. Claire

dressed for daycare in daffodil yellow and jelly shoes.

David’s gaze was an emperor’s surveying a desiccated

battlefield. Since he viewed everything that way, we all

            saw him the same.

The psych techs in Cloroxed white

were giant angels who set us running drills, at which

we sucked. The zones we set out to defend were watery

at every edge. We missed close chest passes, easy combos.

Our metronomes run different tempos,

            John proclaimed.

Then Claire started seeing

dashes stutter through the air behind the ball.

Then speed lines on our backs, and then her own head

went wobbly as a spinning egg. She’d once tracked

planetary orbits for NASA and now sat sidelined

            by her eyes’ projections.

Only Bill had game.

Catatonic Bill whose normal talent was to schlub

days in a tub chair — his pudding face scarred

with chicken pox — using his hand for an ashtray,

belly for an armrest. Now all that peeled away, and he

            emerged, clean as an egg.

He was a lithe

and licorice boy, eeling past all comers, each shot

sheer net. He faked both ways, went left. Beneath the orange

rim his midair pirouettes defied the gravity that I

could barely sludge through. He scored beyond what even

             Claire could count,

then he bent panting,

hands on knees as the orderlies held out water cups,

and the rest of us reached to pat his back or slap

his sweaty hand, no one minding about the stench or his

breath like old pennies. Then as quick as that

             he went.

Inside his head

some inner winch did reel him back from the front

of   his face bones where he’d been ablaze. He went back and

back into that shadowed stare. Lucky we were to breathe

his air. Breath is God’s intent to keep us living. He was

             the self   I’d come in

wanting to kill, and I left him there.

[possumcollege]

O, I love my stupid creatures the most!

Columbo, as a character AND a show metronomes back and forth between competent, engaging storytelling, touching moments of empathy, and literally taking 5min off for Columbo to do a tuba solo over footage of a dancing fountain for a group of schoolchildren. Are the cases legally realistic? Absolutely not. It's the show thick with padding and bizarre inclusions? Yesssss! Some episodes are bad enough to be unwatchable but I still LOVE it.

I liked A Life Less Ordinary for fuck's sake. A romantic comedy about angels trying to attempted-murder Ewan McGregor and Cameron Diaz into falling in love. I probably talk more shit about it than I praise it, but I can't stop liking it.

I re-watch Ravenous every year. It's more of a TV pilot that accidentally killed all of it's characters but I show it to everyone, like 'Yes, David Arquette is super annoying but he's not around much and they do kill the sex predator principal from Ferris Bueller."

If we don't try to castle our identities in media then we don't need to feel personally attacked or pretend the bullshit isn't bullshit when someone doesn't like it. More klunky, meandering repetitive Mass Effect Andromeda as a monster-dating-sim for you!

Let people attack it. They can't actually take it from you, and if you agree with like 10% of their points and still don't care, they're the ones trying to bite the wind.

This also means you don't need to waste your ammunition on people who are so dug in to their terrible, toxic fandom that they're happy to make it their tomb. Maginot Line 'em. Have fun pretending I'm crazy for finding everything about the Wizarding World incredibly racist. No point in stopping to fight when I could be watching The Magicians and processing my own trauma while hating on Penny's outfits right now.

If someone needs to get viscerally angry defending a bad show, it means they're probably projecting something of themselves into it, and aren't self-aware enough to notice or let it go. You usually don't need to fix or even acknowledge that mess.

Love your stupid babies. It's fine. If it's dumb and liking it makes you dumb too then fuck it be dumb while it's on and have a nice time.

i’ll never understand people who can’t make fun of their faves a little. like yes i love this character and would defend them to my grave but also they’re stupid sometimes and they do dumb things and imma make fun of them for it

[sammarketer]

The Fiercest Competitors in Cricket: Top 10 Most Aggressive Players

Cricket is a sport that has witnessed numerous players who bring not just talent but also a fiery passion to the field. These cricketers are renowned for their aggressive style, both in their play and their attitude, leaving an everlasting impression on the game. Below, we delve into the top 10 most aggressive cricketers in the world, highlighting who is the most aggressive player in cricket through their relentless spirit and sheer determination.

1. Virender Sehwag (India)

Virender Sehwag’s approach to cricket was nothing short of revolutionary. Known for his ability to attack from the very first ball, Sehwag’s aggression was not just physical but mental, as he consistently put pressure on the bowlers with his fearless stroke play. Whether it was a Test match or an ODI, Sehwag played with the same level of intensity, making him one of the most dangerous batsmen in the world.

Why He’s Aggressive:

His aggressive style of starting innings with boundaries set the tone for his team.

Scored two triple centuries in Test cricket with a level of ease that stunned opponents.

His mindset was to dominate, often turning the tide of the game in his favor within a few overs.

2. Shahid Afridi (Pakistan)

Shahid Afridi, also known as "Boom Boom," is one of the most iconic aggressive cricketers. Afridi was famous for his explosive batting, characterized by an extraordinary ability to hit sixes at will. His aggression wasn’t confined to his batting; he was an attacking leg-spinner who often broke crucial partnerships with his bowling.

Why He’s Aggressive:

Known for one of the fastest centuries in ODI cricket, achieved at a young age.

His six-hitting prowess made him a crowd favorite and a game-changer.

Afridi’s fearless attitude on the field often inspired his team and intimidated opponents.

3. Mitchell Johnson (Australia)

Mitchell Johnson’s aggression was best displayed through his blistering pace and the hostility with which he bowled. During the 2013-14 Ashes series, Johnson was a terror for English batsmen, his fast, short-pitched deliveries making him one of the most feared bowlers of his time. His aggressive nature was not just physical but psychological, as he often got into the minds of the opposition.

Why He’s Aggressive:

Consistently bowled at speeds above 150 km/h, making life difficult for batsmen.

Utilized aggressive tactics, including bouncers, to unsettle and intimidate his opponents.

His ability to maintain aggression over long spells made him a key weapon for Australia.

4. Glenn McGrath (Australia)

Glenn McGrath was not known for express pace but for his incredible accuracy and relentless pressure. His aggression was subtle yet potent, as he constantly attacked the batsman’s weaknesses. McGrath was a master of mind games, often engaging in verbal battles and using his metronomic precision to frustrate and dismiss top-order batsmen.

Why He’s Aggressive:

Had a unique ability to consistently bowl in the right areas, forcing mistakes from batsmen.

Known for his psychological warfare, often unsettling the opposition before they faced a ball.

His competitive spirit and unyielding accuracy made him one of the best fast bowlers in history.

5. David Warner (Australia)

David Warner is a modern-day cricketer known for his aggressive approach to batting and his fiery personality on the field. Warner’s strength lies in his ability to take the attack to the bowlers right from the start, often changing the course of a match in just a few overs. His aggression is not just limited to his batting; his on-field demeanor and willingness to engage in verbal exchanges make him a force to be reckoned with.

Why He’s Aggressive:

Frequently delivers explosive starts in both Test and limited-overs cricket.

Known for his confrontational style, both with the bat and in his interactions with opponents.

Plays with a fearless attitude that often disrupts the plans of the opposition.

6. Shoaib Akhtar (Pakistan)

Shoaib Akhtar, famously known as the "Rawalpindi Express," brought raw pace and aggression to the cricket field. Akhtar’s ability to bowl consistently at over 150 km/h made him one of the most feared fast bowlers in the world. His aggression wasn’t just about speed; it was about the psychological pressure he exerted on batsmen, often leaving them rattled.

Why He’s Aggressive:

Holds the record for the fastest ball ever bowled, clocking in at 161.3 km/h.

Utilized his pace to intimidate and dominate the best batsmen in the world.

His fiery temperament and aggressive nature made him a challenging opponent for any team.

7. Jacques Kallis (South Africa)

Jacques Kallis is widely regarded as one of the greatest all-rounders in cricket history. While known for his technical proficiency, Kallis had a fierce competitive edge that surfaced in critical moments. Whether with the bat or the ball, Kallis’s aggression was measured but deadly, often tilting the balance in favor of his team.

Why He’s Aggressive:

Blended technical excellence with a willingness to play aggressively when the situation demanded.

Delivered key spells with the ball, often taking crucial wickets through sheer determination.

His competitive nature made him a pivotal figure in South Africa’s cricketing success.

8. Ricky Ponting (Australia)

Ricky Ponting’s career is a testament to aggressive cricket, both in terms of batting and leadership. Ponting was known for his ability to dominate bowling attacks, particularly with his powerful pull shots. As captain, his aggressive tactics and uncompromising approach helped Australia become one of the most formidable teams in cricket history.

Why He’s Aggressive:

Played with an attacking mindset, regularly taking on the world’s best bowlers with confidence.

As captain, led his team with a fierce determination to win, often employing aggressive strategies.

His confrontational style on the field was matched by his ability to lead from the front.

9. Brett Lee (Australia)

Brett Lee was another Australian fast bowler who epitomized aggression. Lee’s speed and intensity made him a constant threat to batsmen around the world. His aggressive bowling style, coupled with his high-energy celebrations, showcased his passion and commitment to the game, making him one of the most exciting players to watch.

Why He’s Aggressive:

Maintained high speeds throughout his career, challenging even the best batsmen.

Used his pace to intimidate and dominate opposition batsmen.

Played with a contagious enthusiasm that energized his team and thrilled spectators.

10. Gautam Gambhir (India)

Gautam Gambhir was a cricketer who combined aggression with a deep sense of responsibility. Known for his intense focus and combative attitude, Gambhir played some of the most crucial innings for India in high-pressure situations. His aggressive nature was evident not just in his batting but also in his willingness to stand up to opponents, making him a key player in India’s success during his career.

Why He’s Aggressive:

Played pivotal aggressive innings in high-stakes matches, including World Cup finals.

Known for his confrontational attitude, often engaging in heated exchanges with opponents.

His determination and fighting spirit made him a respected and feared competitor.

READ ALSO:- W.G. Grace: The Father of Cricket and His Impact on the Game

Conclusion

The most aggressive cricketers in the world have left an indelible mark on the sport, bringing intensity and passion that have thrilled fans and terrified opponents. These players, through their aggressive batting, bowling, and leadership, have not only achieved great success but have also redefined the way cricket is played. Their legacy of fierce competition and unyielding determination continues to inspire future generations, showcasing who is the most aggressive player in cricket and what it takes to dominate the game at the highest level.

[lizzie-bennetdarcy]

Hey there! No pressure, but I'd love to see your recs: Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love ❤️ (in your case, it can also be art 😘)

Well when you throw art into the mix, this gets really difficult to decide!!!

In no particular order:

A taste of you

So here he is, alone. In this stupid Elmdale strip mall, in a space he is certain does not live up to health code standards. He looks around the room and sees mostly couples, which only serves to drive home the fact that he is so, so very single this holiday season.

Or...

David and Patrick meet at random at a holiday cake pop decorating class

How long till we reach the door?

They stand in awkward silence for a moment before the elevator doors open with a ding. Dreamy Eyes gestures for David to go first, and David gives him a tight smile as he steps into the elevator. It's quiet, uncomfortably so, and David is about to say something when– Thump! The elevator creaks and shudders to a halt. The lights flicker, and everything goes dark.

Or, David and Patrick meet in an unconventional way

(He) was a fast machine

The first time Patrick heard his neighbors having sex he had yet to meet them. Mostly, he was impressed, and a little turned on. It was incredibly metronome-like, rhythmic, and lasted nearly an hour. There was no doubt about it - someone was getting absolutely railed.

[Art] what we didn't see at Stevie's

Art for David and Patrick's night at Stevie's

[Art] Shhhh...

David and Patrick have to keep quiet at Ray's

🥰🥰🥰

[zooterchet]

The Order of the Progress State (Trump)

During the Holocaust, a Jewish star was applied, with a metronome, for "chet". "J". If refusing to admit Jewish, and marry Wehrmacht, you were sent to the camps. Otherwise, admitting Jewish, you were admitted to the Schulzstaffel.

A government compliance code.

Out of New York, since the 1970s, Donald Trump has waged the same, for "cop".

I was a cop; but I killed anyone on, a forced badge demand.

These are the units I served.

NSA HUMINT: The interdiction of criminal forces under racketeered logic of Rabbinical German; the Cohens and Hitlers and Bulgers.

CIA Prosecutor's Agent: The legalization of marijuana under tree surgeons standards, and tax stamps according determining the transit of cannabis.

UMass-Amherst CI: The interdiction of peace activists, serving on demand of police drafts of any capable of serving as a CIA agent in overseas France, Eastern Europe, and Turkey.

Homeland Security: The interdiction of DC Comics and its cumulative relation to Bellevue hospitals for the removal of the academically competitive if practicing lotus position; in accordance with Cardinal Bernard Law, outside of lawsuits for admission of Lutherans.

Army Reserve: The informed civil prudence and jurisprudence on Unitarian spies inside companies of logic and scholarship, and resulting hunts of forces affiliated with international crime syndicates out of corrections staff.

Sinn Fein: The hunt for British psychologists on FetLife and related boards like Collar Space, Encyclopedia Dramatica, 4chan, 8chan, 420chan, Alt, and Tumblr; the removal of the German Nietzschean police of semen theft to write lyrics, through continuing CIA precognitive experiment; "David", "Artificial Intelligence", as printed by Stephen Spielberg.

[eupheme]

I am revisiting this fic as I was thinking about your moodboard (and shamefully realizing I had never left notes!!! I think I was too shy, at the time! And wanted to leave some love, now) 💖 and remembering how incredible it is. I am always so excited to see when writer marks a fic as something they felt proud of writing, because I know that there is an extra dose of love woven into it. 💕

This was so atmospheric - the carnage, the falling snow, the cold, how he’s past the Joel she knows and is now this rattled thing she doesn’t quite recognize. (And as a game player I loved the hints in there!)

And I love how you wove reader in, how she’s so going with him, the beauty in this line and their lives align:

You set your whole life to the pace of each of his steps, a monotonous metronome. / It’s bizarre, especially as he guides you into a death trap with an unknown sum of threats, but you find yourself thinking you’d be happy for him to lead you anywhere.

And how much love they have for Ellie - going in that building. How she still as so much agency in that she handled David herself, love you how emphasized her actions and terror and how awful that moment was (how Reader is part of the family but it’s Joel that she needs)

That humans, people, are the true sickness.

Yesss, such a killer line!! And loved your usage of The Black Dog, how Joel needs comfort too, after what happened - to know that she’s alive. (My heart breaking again at the Old and Broken line!! 😭). The way you wrote the smut was to tender and so perfect for how emotionally and physically fragile they are - so much said in their actions, the emphasis of her heartbeat. This was absolutely gorgeous and I just love how you dove into how traumatic this part was for all of them, and how carefully they put each other back together after. 💖

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐖𝐀𝐑 || 𝐉𝐎𝐄𝐋 𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐑 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

summary: When Ellie is taken by David, Joel breaks open the part of him locked away since his hunter days. As the guilt eats him alive, you try to help him subdue the black dogs of mental warfare.

word count: 4.1k

warnings: Very 18+. It’s giving morally-grey Joel. Depiction of gore, violence, mentions of cannibalism, mentions of David that is a warning in itself. Very vague insinuation of SA as shown in the game. Discontent for Christianity (don’t like, don’t read my dude). Angst, guilt. Hurt-comfort. P in v sex, unprotected sex.

authors note: This got so dark it actually caught me off guard! I am so incredibly proud of this piece. I started it 5 whole weeks ago, and spent up until the night of posting (March 5th) editing and retouching. I hope it does Winter, my favourite part of the game, proud.

tease: “I jus’ need to be close to you.”

Continuous dripping sounds from the radiator, drip, drip, drip. Globs of blood seep down the grooves of the heater, falling when the droplets reach the edge and settling in a pool of coagulated gore. A headless body leans left, slumping against the metal the handcuffs chain it to. What’s left of its skull plasters the walls, the ceiling, and the steel pipe discarded in its lap.

Another lifeless body lays strewn sideways, the chair it’s tied to thrown haphazardly across the floor. Its neck is angled awkwardly; its eyes rolled back so only the whites show.

When you manage to tear your eyes away from the carnage, you can still hear the panicked shouts of the captives before Joel slaughtered them, rattling inside the cavern of your skull. Joel’s callous answer rings in your ears.

“Fuck you, man. He told you what you wanted. I ain't telling you shit!”

“That’s alright. I believe him.”

Snowflakes stick to the window of the home Joel had appropriated as a slaughterhouse, the wooden planks weathered and falling apart after years of neglect. The cold creeps in through the holes in the ceiling and the gaps in the wood, but you find yourself doubting the chill responsible for the goosebumps littering your arms.

Inhaling slowly, you will yourself to speak, but the words die in your throat before they even form on your lips, melting away on your tongue. Your pleas for reason would fall on deaf ears, and you know it—Joel’s far beyond reasoning with.

He’s pacing up and down the room, the floorboards creaking under the weight of his boots as he studies the map gripped between his imbrued knuckles. It’s unlike him, you note, to be so rattled. In the years you’ve known Joel, his steadfast resolution had been comforting, a certain. Not now. The men he’d butchered had mentioned details you could only describe as buzzwords that had Joel’s survivor alarm bells ringing.

David’s newest pet. The Town. Cannibals.

Heaving breaths he expels from his lungs vaporise in the air, still catching his breath from pummelling radiator-man’s brains out. If you couldn’t hear the wheezing in his chest from his laboured respiration, you could damn well see it.

Stepping forward, you wince when the floorboard beneath you creaks. “Joel—“

“They got Ellie, Darlin’,” your partner leaps into an eerily calm rundown of the dire situation despite you having been in the room for the entire interrogation. “They got Ellie, an’ they’re gonna kill her.”

Nodding slowly, you reach across the small distance between you to hold onto Joel’s bicep. Blood splatters the fabric of his brown winter coat, and you can feel his body heat radiating beneath the layers of cloth as his body fights infection. The gaping wounds in his back and stomach from the protruding rebar he was impaled on, thanks to a scuffle with a looter at the university, have stopped weeping puss. However, Joel was still largely incapacitated by the pain — despite the feral display of resilience against these two bandits.

“I know—” you try to ease him, but Joel’s buzzing with adrenaline.

“I gotta go get her; you can’t stop me doin’ this, Darlin’ I have’ta-“

“I know,” you speak firmly, and Joel stops dead in his tracks, clearly not having expected you to green-light his suicide mission, “I know I can’t stop you, which is why I insist upon going with you.”

You expect Joel to make a scene, to lose his temper and tell you that you weren't going anywhere, that it was far too dangerous and losing either of you would crush him. You know about Tess; Ellie told you everything when you joined them in Pittsburgh. She detailed Joel's heartache, despite his desperate attempts to appear indifferent. It's times like these that you can't blame him for being overprotective, knowing he had lost so much.

However, your expectations are not met. Joel looks at you, the whites of his eyes tinted red, and the skin beneath shadowed dark with exhaustion. He nods slowly, evidently realising he cannot compete with an army of cannibal bandits single-handedly with the state he’s in. He surrenders.

Wordlessly, Joel grabs your backpack and begins to sift through the items within. Apparently, he decides you don't have enough ammo, sacrificing his El Diablo pistol and offering it to you.

You accept it without fuss, knowing damn well that leaving with him is out of his comfort zone. Making a scene would make him change his mind.

It doesn't take long for Joel to spread out your limited supplies. Within five minutes, he's lifting his heavy backpack onto his shoulders with an agonised groan. You move out silently, Joel holding the door open for you as you step out into the blizzard.

You hear the frozen grass and layers of snow crunch beneath the rubber soles of Joel’s boots. You set your whole life to the pace of each of his steps, a monotonous metronome. Sometimes, on hot days in the summer, you can smell the rubber melting on the tarmac if you stand still for too long.

It’s bizarre, especially as he guides you into a death trap with an unknown sum of threats, but you find yourself thinking you’d be happy for him to lead you anywhere.

-✩-

Snowflakes cling to your eyelashes, eyes weeping from the cold and freezing the coarse hairs together. It's so cold that you’re convinced that the tears that develop as a result of the stinging cold freeze before they can drip down your cheeks.

Even without the natural eyelash glue, it's hard to see Joel ahead of you in the chaos of the bandit’s town. The blizzard has intensified, casting a light grey fuzzy haze over what you can see— or rather, what you can't. You're not even sure that the shadowy figure in front of you is Joel, but you're too afraid to ask in case a stranger turns around and shoots you in the stomach.

When you and Joel arrived, it was pandemonium already, armed bandits practically running into you as they attempted to reach their battle stations. The whistling of the wind muffles gunshots, and the bell from the church tower rings deafeningly loud across the snow plains in warning. What exactly had happened, you are unsure, but what you do know is that the cracking of the bronze bell will draw in runners from miles away.

You had to find Ellie. Quickly.

"You all right?" Joel calls out above the din, his Texan accent a welcome relief. It takes you a second to find your voice, the cold having momentarily stolen it.

"Yeah!" You shout back, trembling fingers grasping tightly to your gun.

There is a roaring sound on the wind, rising in volume as you continue to trudge blindly through the snow. The gunshots are more frequent now, yet still too far away to be a threat to you. You wonder if Ellie is raising hell or if the infected have already arrived. Neither scenario was good.

An orange glow peers through the blanket of falling snow that distorts your vision. You'd noticed the flaming barrels as you wandered through the town, but this was different. It was huge. The closer you got to it, the clearer the sound met your ears. It was crackling, wood-burning and billowing acrid black smoke.

Joel whistles, the pitchy sound catching your attention over the deafening thunder of the fire. You can't see his expression, but you can vaguely make out his silhouette pointing toward the building swallowed by flames. You were going in.

One step forward and the blaze is singeing your freezing skin, burning the peach fuzz on your face. You swear you can smell your eyebrows smoking, the flames so strong that you're almost scared to step into the building.

Despite your concerns for the integrity of the structure, Joel is quick to pursue the only lead he has to Ellie. He feels blindly all along the entrance, hissing as his palms come into contact with red-hot glass panes. It's a wooden door inset by small rectangular windows. The frame is deep brown and littered with orange, glowing embers embedded within the grain. You're scared, and open your mouth to dissuade Joel from doing anything rash. He doesn't give you the opportunity.

His shoulder slams into the weakened, charred door without hesitation, the windows falling from their frames and shattering on the wooden floor. The blazing heat inside the building wafts over you, causing sweat to bead at your brow.

Desperate, Joel pushes through and stumbles into the building, which you now discover is a diner. The smoke burns your lungs, and your eyes sting so much that you're almost blinded by the tears prickling your waterline. The dark grey clouds are so thick that you're suffocating, unable to take in any oxygen. Had it not been for the noises piercing through the terrifying roar of the fire, you would have aborted the entrance in fear of asphyxiation.

High-pitched grunts of exertion and the sound of metal slamming into wood catch Joel's attention. He looks up, alarmed by the noise and yet scrambles towards it despite the danger.

"Ellie!" Joel shouts out, running on adrenaline as he rushes forward. You let out a sob of relief, knowing that Joel has eyes on her, but the consolation doesn't last long.

When you catch sight of her, you find Ellie in a blind rage. Her bloodied hands hold onto a machete handle with a white-knuckled grip, raising the weapon above her head and bringing it down into the mess of the fractured skull and smashed brains of the body below her. Blood sprays across her face with the sheer force with which she plunges the blade into the meaty mess, tears of fury leaving tracks in the crimson on her cheeks.

"Stop! Stop," Joel wraps his forearms around Ellie’s chest, dragging her away from the mutilated body to a chorus of devastatingly broken ‘no's’. Ellie screams, fighting Joel’s grip and clawing at his arms in an attempt to free herself.

"Don't fucking touch me!" She sobs as Joel hushes her, wrapping his arms around her body and holding her to his chest in a desperate attempt to prove to Ellie that she is safe. He sets her in front of him, forcing the broken young girl to look at him and recognise him.

"It's me," he speaks firmly, trying to access the rational part of her brain as he holds her still, his palms settling on her bloodied cheeks and inevitably smearing the ruddy liquid across her skin. "Look, look. It’s me."

Her tearful gaze settles on Joel, still in a panic as she searches his face. It takes her a moment, but relief swallows her expression and she practically falls into Joel's embrace.

“Oh,” she sobs out, eyes falling to the blood-streaked floor as the shock kicks in, “He tried to-“

“Oh, Baby Girl…” He murmurs brokenly, clinging to her as though he feared the world would snatch her from him again if he didn’t hold her in a vice-like grip. “It’s okay. It’s okay….”

“Joel…” Ellie sobs, burying her face into his chest and soaking his already bloodied clothes with yet more gore and tears. Joel presses his head to hers, repeatedly murmuring that it was okay, that he had her.

As Joel speaks to Ellie, you allow them this delicate moment of solitude. Of course, you were part of this family, but the bond Ellie and Joel shared far outweighed anything you could offer. A found father-daughter relationship that filled the holes in each other's hearts. It wasn’t your place to intrude.

Casting your teary eyes to the ceiling, you catch sight of a rudimentary hanging sign made from a white mattress topper. Scrawled upon it in mostly black paint, the lettering bulky, and only one word is written in scarlet.

“WHEN WE ARE IN NEED, HE SHALL PROVIDE!”

Bile rises in your throat as you take in the quote reminiscent of bible scripture. It turns your stomach, knowing what this man would have done, what the town no doubt did do to others, all while justifying it with thinly veiled Jesus worship.

It was an odd realisation, one that left you feeling quite numb as Joel helped Ellie from her knees. The comprehension that for the past 20 years, humanity had been coming together to fight the Cordyceps virus in the hope of removing the scourge and returning to normal life. Instead, the happenings in the diner, in this town, proved that the Cordyceps virus had little impact on the real plight.

That humans, people, are the true sickness.

-✩-

You are fearful at first that Ellie wouldn't be able to sleep after the trauma of her ordeal. She had, at first, been delicate on the journey back to the cabin that Joel had been recuperating in since his accident. Exhibiting signs of shellshock, she refused to elaborate on anything she had seen or heard during her captivity, and both you and Joel decided it best to leave her to unpick her thoughts in her own time.

The brass bells in the cannibal town had drawn the attention of a ginormous pack of runners, and you were scared that Ellie would be unable to find it in her to fight for her life.

However, as Ellie often did, she proved you wrong. Perhaps that is why she retreated to a dream world the moment her head touched the pillow. The sound of her steady breathing is the only noise permeating the silence that had settled in the cabin basement.

Joel retreats into the shadows when Ellie finds sleep. Leaning his back against the rough brick wall, he groans in agony as he sinks into a half-comfortable position. You watch him settle, eyebrows pinching together as you witness him fall back into the blackest corners of his mind.

You hesitate. You've only ever seen Joel like this once, distraught by the deaths of Henry and Sam after barely reaching freedom beyond the Pittsburgh Bridge. He had withdrawn into himself for weeks, the guilt eating him alive despite not belonging to any of you.

The black dog of mental warfare was a friend you knew Joel had come to know well. Before Sam and Henry, there was Tess, his hunter days, and of course, Sarah. Each time, the darkness would require him to carry a heavy burden of culpability despite his lack of fault.

"I'm glad," Joel's gruff voice cuts through the silence. He sounds broken, battling an insidious infection that you can't see. Similar to the Cordyceps virus, it encroaches on his mind, turning it against him. “I'm glad she killed him."

Again, you withhold your innermost thoughts as Joel battles to admit his feelings. He looks up at you, resting against the opposite wall. His expression is cold, but his eyes reflect a tragic pain within him.

“I’m relieved she killed him. Because I dunno what I would’a done.”

The black dog has returned, settled at Joel’s feet, and with it the guilt lands in his lap.

"Joel," you whisper, rising to your feet and approaching your crestfallen partner with delicate steps, "It’s not your fault."

Shaking his head Joel refuses to acknowledge your exoneration, beginning to launch into a tirade of self-hatred. "No. No, if I'd‘ve-"

You interrupt him, a firmness quite unlike you seeping into each syllable. "It's not your fault."

This time it appears to strike home, Joel slowly nodding his head in acceptance as you sink to the floor with him, resting your head on his shoulder as you settle beside him for warmth. The following silence isn't as emotionally charged. Joel appears to find comfort in your embrace. The black dog slinks out of the room through the crack in the open door.

You gently press kisses to the soft expanse of skin peeking from underneath Joel’s collar. It's a comfort, one that you regularly award Joel before sleep. He tilts his head in the opposite direction, offering you further access to the skin layering his jugular.

Without question, you continue to pepper his skin with endearment. He wasn't one to regularly ask for it, so you took this as a sign that Joel required some tenderness right now.

"’m sorry," he mumbles, embarrassed by his needy behaviour, “'m just-“

"You don't have to explain anything," you whisper, the curve of your lips dragging against his pulse point as you speak to him. He hums deep and low, eyes slipping shut as you continue your ministrations.

Achingly slowly, you drag lips across his jugular, pressing kisses to spots on his neck that you know are reactive. The soft valley behind his ear, the curve of his jaw, the junction between his neck and his shoulder. They all receive your affection, and you begin to hear Joel's breathing labour ever so slightly.

Joel’s infectious fever bleeds into something akin to fervour, his ribcage rising and falling with heavier, unsteadier breaths. His eyelids flutter closed, the searing, sour pain blending with the pleasure that sparks in him when your lips brush over his pulse point.

“Darlin’-“ He whispers, and it’s utterly broken. Pitchy and cracking in his throat when your fingertips work at his shirt buttons to expose more of his clavicle. His hands are settling on your hips as you swing your thigh over his lap slowly, thumb pads sweeping over your hip bones in delicate patterns.

“What is it you need from me, Joel?” You murmur softly, nose nudging at the bottom of his throat, at the v where his collar bones meet.

“F-Fuck,” he chokes, eyes cast skyward as he attempts to piece the broken pieces of his mind back together and find an answer. “I jus’ need to be close to you.”

He thought he’d lost Ellie. Thought he’d find her strung up with pieces of her flesh scattered about an unsanitary butcher's room. No doubt his mind was spinning with all the possibilities. What if you’d been shot trying to get her back?

Joel needed to be confident you were alive. Needed to feel your pulse thrumming against his palm.

“I can do that,” you promise him gently. You never pledged anything to Joel; nothing was certain. However, right now, you could offer your word. Could swear to ease his trepidation.

“I’m here.” Your words are spoken with conviction, his head nodding slightly as you take his wrist in your hand. “You can feel it. Come here.”

Delicately, you lay his bloodied, trembling hand across your chest. He lets out a quivering breath through his nose when he feels the thump of your heart against the lifeline of his palm.

Your free hand settles on the brass button holding his jeans together, popping it open and exposing the trail of dark, greying hairs that trail down his naval. His eyes flicker to your own, chapped lips parting slightly as you pinch the zipper and drag it down with a quiet ‘zzzp’.

The thud against his palm picks up the momentum as you feel him harden beneath the denim of your jeans, and you catch his lips pull up. A short, single scoff of disbelief- relief- as you gently work the jeans down and over his hips.

“Does this old man really do it for you that much?” He whispers, his fingerprints teasing the stitches of your collar. Your flannel is worn, threadbare and velvet soft, and your skin is burning hot beneath. “Even greyin’ and broken like I am?”

“Joel,” you whisper, pressing a delicate, lengthy kiss to his forehead, between his eyebrows. Fumbling with your cargo pants, you have them over your ass in no time, dragging your panties along with them. “You are the only man alive that makes me feel this way.” Your lips brush against the creases on his brow; frown lines etched deep into his skin after years of misery.

“Mhm,” his rich, oak eyes drag down your form as he watches you undress and expose your soaked cunt, thighs glistening wet in the low lighting. “That ain’t hard when most of the population died out.”

“Joel,” you repeat with a less-tempered tone, nose nudging at his hairline as you wrap your fingers around his length. He grunts quietly, careful to smother any loud noises to avoid drawing Ellie’s attention. “There wasn’t anyone before outbreak day, either.”

“Not even that actor-… What was his name, George Cloo-oh fuck,” his stupid joke dies on the tip of his tongue when you slowly sink down onto the head of his cock, walls fluttering around the stretch of him. His voice is hoarse, whisper breaking into silence as he slowly pushes the crown of his head into the terracotta brick walls.

“No,” you chuckle softly, watching him struggle for logical thought as you take more of him, and slip him further in. “No, not even him.”

Joel grunts, digging his teeth into his lower lip as you take him to the hilt. He nudges your cervix in this position, the sensation almost like a mild bruise, but you love it. Love that it will match the hickeys he leaves on your shoulders- marking you inside and out. Claiming you as his, Death and His black dog be damned.

“Oh C-Christ,” he lilts, and it sounds like a whimper as you squeeze around him, “I can feel it. Can feel your pulse-“

“See? I told you I’m alive,” You muse, wrapping your fingers around his wrist as you slowly begin to grind your hips forward in a circle. Joel just nods dumbly, his previously pale cheeks flushed slightly.

No bouncing, no thrusts. Joel is too fragile, his immune system fighting a nuclear war inside of him as his white blood cells try to secure the perimeter of the wound in his abdomen. You focus on rolling your hips instead, slowly inching off his cock and sinking back down onto his velvety length.

“Hoh- uhng, fuck-“ his illegible groans make your heart batter his meta-carpel bones, compelling him to acknowledge your vital signs and their optimal function.

He’s twitching inside you, the slow rise and fall of your hips forcing him to feel you stretch around each ridge and pulsing vein of his cock. Joel looks like he could break down, the sensation of his building orgasm such an overwhelming sensation in his already exhausted body.

Pushing your fingers through his soft curls, you clasp the back of his skull and lean forward to hold his face to your chest. He can hear it loud and clear now, the shell of his ear cupping the cavity of your chest where your heart batters against his cheekbone. His arms wrap around your waist, squeezing you as tight as his septic-fatigued muscles can hold you.

It doesn’t take much for you to work yourself into your own fever. Joel’s cock always manages to find that spark inside you, nudging it and coaxing your orgasm to bloom between your thighs.

“M’gonna cum,” he rasps against your chest, his hot breath fanning across your skin. Joel’s pressing sloppy, clumsy kisses there, exhaling heavily with each roll of your hips.

“Mhmm-“ you muffle your cry by biting your knuckles, focusing on the clench of your walls and the buzz of your orgasm surging up through you. It’s like a whirlpool, pulling you under and drowning you in the wave of bliss that overtakes you.

Joel’s follows almost immediately after, his whole body tending despite the pain as it pulses through him, his cum painting your insides. His hips stutter, burying deep within you and letting out a ragged breath of relief that edges into a moan of your name.

Passing carbon dioxide between you, your foreheads press together as your breath fans over each other's faces. His eyelashes flutter with exhaustion, and you can feel them tickle the peak of your cheekbones. It’s so tender, so unlike Joel.

“I won’t let him take you.” His voice is so quiet the words almost don’t form, just barely leaving his throat in a sigh. His hand, not having left its rooted spot above your left breast, slowly inches towards your throat. You feel his index finger prod at your pulse, sealing his conviction that you are safe.

In honesty, you’re unsure who he means. Death, probably. David is long gone, but Joel’s fever is tipping him closer to delirium than reality.

One thing was for certain; you had managed to stave off the Black Dog for now. It lay at the doorway, stuck beyond the threshold it was forbidden to pass over, waiting until Joel allowed it back inside.

END

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