#even if you don't see him with milton like I do | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

theplumsoldier · 1 year ago

Text

taking care

summary: on thursdays you and joel have a drink, but this time poor old joel is in need of a friend and makes a confession, which brings you closer than ever before.

pairing: joel miller x afab!reader

word count: 8,1k

warning: angst, alcohol consumption, talk of sad bad memories ;(joel tells you about everything that went down at the firefly hospital; killing-spree, lying to ellie, etc.), self-l oathing, crying joel, mutual pining, friends to lovers bro, vulgar language, some domestic bliss, friends to lovers trope!!! mdni 18+: mentions of masturbation and fantasizing about friends, oral (female receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v, breeding kink, praise kink, pet names. let me know if i missed anything! <3<3

You found it ironic how you had longed for the sun's blazing rays to warm your body all winter when summer had finally reached Jackson and now you were whining and moaning because it felt like you were being fucking boiled alive.

The sweat tickled down your skin, perspiration spread in your hairline, threatening to bunch into droplets and fall from your nose and brow. Joel felt himself tense up at the sight. Dressed in washed denim shorts, a t-shirt, and worn cowboy boots—it was a sight to behold. You looked like an angel to a southern man, and Joel had to clear his throat to make sure his voice wouldn't fail him.

"Still goin' at it? It's Milton's job to take care 'o the horses, y'know."

Chuckling, you shook your head and dusted your shorts as you stood. Running a hand over your horse's mane, you gave Joel a smirk. "You know she don't like nobody but me."

He chuckled. Joel had noticed that the more time you had spent with him, the more his own southern drawl began to echo in your own voice. Not much, not enough for other people to notice, he doubted you yourself even did, but Joel noticed—and every time he got a taste of that sweet honeyed punctuation, his stomach practically somersaulted.

Today, you hadn't been on patrol together, as you had the morning call and he had the evening call. You knew he'd just gotten back. Typically he would shower after duty, but today he hadn't and you knew him well enough to know why.

"Had a rough run?"

Joel huffed in response, forcing himself to pry his eyes off of you for a second. He had never seen you in this little clothes before and was finding it quite difficult not to give you a one-over when you had turned to him completely.

You had tied your flannel around your waist, leaving your arms bare for the sun to tan and it was then he couldn't help himself. Your cleavage was revealed in the little top you wore, droplets of sweat glistening on your skin as they trailed—

Joel cleared his throat once again, "ya up for a nightcap?"

A sly smirk landed on your lips.

Leading your horse May back into the stables, you walked with Joel to his house, to share a drink or two as you did every so often. You sensed a sort of tradition forming, recalling you had done this exact play every Thursday for the past few months. Five out of seven days a week you patrolled together. On Mondays when you were both off duty you played pool. On two out of seven days, you were in no way obliged to see one another and yet, here you were, making it a tradition—ensuring that you would not go as long as 24 hours without keeping each other company.

You wanted to ask about the day he had had but decided against it and settled on asking how Ellie was doing instead. Having come to know Joel quite well, you understood he would rather let work-related matters stay work-related and it seemed fitting to veer your attention at Ellie as you recalled Joel saying she was doing good at school. You should've talked about the weather. The weather was a safe bet.

"S'it turns out she didn't even go—keeps holdin' out on me," Joel worried, clearly contemplating what might be on Ellie's mind.

Some weeks back, Joel had been thrilled to hear that Ellie was doing good in the school in Jackson, but as it turned out, she had lied to him about going. He wasn't sure where she'd run off to, and that bothered him more than the fact that she was keeping things like this from him—how could he keep her safe, if he didn't even know where she was?

It was clear Joel blamed himself for a lot of things, and though you were well aware he didn't always tell you everything just as Ellie didn't tell him everything, you never hesitated to assure him he was doing a good job. You admired the way he cared for her - it was obvious he loved her and she loved him - although you doubted they ever spoke of that. One night Joel had shared with you a portion of what Ellie had been through, and even admitted that there was a time, a brief span where Ellie had gone through hell for him and he didn't even know what she had endured back then—he blamed himself for a lot of things that happened to her, constantly reminding himself that he was not good enough, that he let her down. Joel hated that feeling, that he was failing yet another daughter and he needed to get a whole lot more of his chest, to talk to someone—to you, about what had happened before they returned to Jackson. He just never could, never knew how to begin nor how to explain why he'd done all those atrocities—what else might one call it? It was fucked up, all of it, but the situation had been so very fucked up too and he just needed someone to agree with him on that, he needed you to ensure him he had been right to make the choices that he did.

But Joel had always been good at keeping his feelings bottled up, letting them mix together over the years until an occasion allowed him to relieve some of the stress that concoction produced.

You had confronted him about it once when you had felt a small fraction of his anger—he had admitted and apologized, for it was so very unprompted he realized when he took it out on you, which led to a much more calm and collected conversation where you advised him to relieve himself of all that weight he insisted on carrying like fucking Atlas lifting the universe. While you didn't want to act like you were any better at that yourself - getting help, that is - he agreed you were right. In that moment he understood and doted the fact that you were willing to let your shoulder be one for him to cry upon if need be. Of course, he wasn't going to do that every chance given (patrolling helped a lot with his anger issues, giving him an excuse to commence violence); nevertheless, Joel felt touched to know you would be there for him.

Instead of dumbing his shitload of stress on you, he found himself going out of his way to see you outside of your communal duties, your company somehow helping in other ways. Though Joel never initiated any deep conversations with you, they happened every now and again and those nights, when he'd go to sleep, it felt as if he could rest just a bit easier.

The sun gradually went over the horizon, the blue sky melting into a nuance of lilac, bringing with it the cold and quiet air of night. This was a peace neither of you had experienced in a long time before settling down in Jackson and therefore as sacred and precious as a promise.

You helped yourself to another drink and Joel quietly watched on as you poured the liquid gold. Holding up the bottle you tipped your head to look at him, silently asking if he needed a refill.

Over the years Joel had become a man of few words and meeting you he suspected he had found his match. You only conversed freely around people you liked and enjoyed the company of, not nearly bothered enough to spare even a glare at those who didn’t deserve your time.

You decided to joke to lighten the mood and hoped you weren't overstepping. "Come on, Joel. I know you're older than me but you must've been a teenager at some point."

It made him snort and his brow jumped at the change of topic though he wasn't about to object. You adored it when he looked at you like that; the way he glared when you teased him or made him laugh. "If I was I sure don't remember."

Joel downed the rest of his drink and held out the glass. You leaned forward and poured him a couple of inches and for a second Joel slipped, forgetting his guard and manners as he watched more of your chest expose to him. He wasn't sure when his attraction had begun, but he had noticed that lately he just couldn't seem to oppress it. Joel would waste away at night, fighting the urge to let himself give in to his desires and fantasize about you as he fisted his cock—and he was strong on that part. It was hard (and in more ways than one) but he felt disrespectful even thinking of you like that. He was supposed to be your friend; and what kind of friend would he be if he was ready to betray your trust when he was feeling lonely.

He gulped.

Finally prying his eyes off of you, Joel wet his dry lips and slushed the drink around the cup.

"You're a generous bartender," he remarked sarcastically.

You laughed.

"You've got expressive eyes, you know that?"

He stopped with the rim of the glass at the tip of his lip, pausing, fearing he had been caught. The thump, thump, thump of his heart resonated in his ears.

"'S that so?" he pondered. "What're they tellin' ya?"

Joel hoped you didn't notice the way his breath hitched in his throat when you leaned back in the rocking chair with a smug smirk on your lips.

"That you were a troublemaker," you grinned. "But you never got in trouble 'cause you were so damn charming as a kid. Probably shoplifted gum or some shit."

Joel laughed. You weren't too far off; he did occasionally get into trouble and he did usually get out of it with no problem—his mom had called him the luckiest boy in the world. The memory struck a cynical thought in his mind; he might have been lucky but not enough to miss the end of the world.

Joel decided to entertain your guessing game. "I ain't ever shoplifted. Didn't have the guts for it," he tutted before taking a swig. "'F I had it would've been condoms though."

Your eyes squinted and crinkled as you bit back a cackle. Your head fell back and your chest bubbled with laughter and he knew he shouldn't have made the last comment when he felt his cock strain against the seams of his washed jeans.

"Joel Miller—scared of a lil' thievin'?" you teased, moving your boot from the porch railing to shove at his thigh.

There was that southern accent you had obtained from him again.

He masqueraded his discomfort by shoving back at your foot with a chuckle—he wasn't sure why he kept his hand on your boot though, keeping it in the place you had put it.

"I didn't have sex till I was like 24..." Joel's expression turned sour as he noticed yours did the same and sensed a bitter memory. Then you mused, trying to make light of the bitter picture that flashed in your mind: "Thought it was love. Turns out it was fear."

You shook your head as if to shake the thoughts out. You'd been through a lot since then, toughened up and become brave enough to fight for yourself, but the memory was still clear. You had vowed to never trust another man again which was why it made this blooming attraction to Joel Miller all the more difficult. The last thing you had considered when coming to Jackson was to try and build a life, and yet; here you were, having built a life with friends and found family in a prospering community with a steady ass job and bars and cafés and all that shit as if the world had never ended.

It seemed almost like you had been feigning sadness for your mien changed so abruptly it caught Joel off guard. You said with casual indifference: "How 'bout you? Ever manage to find love in this fucked up world?"

Joel wasn't sure if you were testing him. You had said he had expressive eyes and completely misread his mind—now he wondered if it was on purpose. The way you nudged him with your boot (that he was still holding onto) told him you were very aware of what you did to him.

And you noticed—of course, you noticed the way his eyes would effortlessly glide over your body, down your body whenever you moved an inch. You had noticed his attention before, but not like this. Not when it shamelessly continued when you had caught him and it made you realize you were not making stuff up in your mind.

Joel wanted you, too.

Now you just wanted him to admit it.

"Once or twice," he finally admitted though his answer gave you little to work with.

You supposed it was the question and not the answer that was the problem; there's a fine line between loving another person, caring for another person, liking a person, and enjoying their company. You had once been told that one could determine if they loved someone, romantically, in just a few minutes by looking into the other person's eyes. It made you wonder—how long would it take you? Would you find that you did in fact love Joel Miller after just 3 minutes? Or would you find that there were more cons than pros to your relationship? Perhaps you might hate him, and this attraction was spurred on by a sadistic kind of hatred and a need to put him in a vulnerable position.

No. That seemed unlikely.

When you first met him you thought he was arrogant, manipulative, and cocky.

Now that you had spent so much one-on-one time with him, you had realized he was confident, persuasive, and fearless. He seemed impossibly skeptical because he was cautious, and he appeared bossy but that was just him being self-asserted.

You couldn't possibly blame a man for being confident when the trait suited him so well. Right now, you had just hoped he was confident enough to let you know how he felt.

Suddenly you shivered. The days had become unbearably warm but the nights were equally unrelenting with the cold.

"It's getting cold."

"Y'wanna call it a night?"

"I'd rather go inside," you shrugged blatantly as if it was not a big deal. It was. Despite how long you had known Joel and how often you were in his company, you had never been beyond this porch, never stepped into the humble residence. You pressed, watching him rather intently: "S'that weird?"

Joel's fingers were intertwined in his lap, thumbs picking at each other. There was a blank yet somehow inquisitive look in his brown eyes and you couldn't tell if it was because his mind was going over what you were offering or because the whiskey had caught up to him.

He let go of his lip with a tsk and shook his head. His gaze softened, and a faint but certain smirk tugged the corner of his mouth. "Not at all."

Joel made the move to stand up and your boot found the ground below with a thud. He grasped the two glasses in one hand and the bottle in the other, then pushed the door handle with his elbow.

Inside the walls were painted a deep orange and it reminded you of curry. Though it was not a nice color, it made the room appear warm and cozy with the lights on. There was a green couch which pretty much made up the living area. A bartop separated the kitchen from the dining room and there was a small mess atop the table where you supposed Ellie had been drawing. It was only then you noticed the art decorating the house, Ellie's drawings displayed in beautiful gold frames like in a museum. It made you chuckle.

"Where's Ellie anyway?"

Joel slouched down on the couch, arms spreading around the back and you looked over just in time to catch him parting his legs, thick thighs smothering the couch cushion, looking oh so big and handsome. What a slut, you thought.

You occupied the space left beside him, pulling your legs up under your body, and thanked him as he handed you your glass. In an effort to test the waters, you let your fingers brush over his knuckles as you accepted the drink, watching him closely. He shifted a bit, but in no way trying to distance himself from you. Your knees rested against his thigh and you could've sworn he only moved his leg closer to you.

"She's with that girl Cora."

"Flemmings?"

"Yeah."

Cora Flemmings was a sweet girl, not the type you would have guessed Ellie would want to hang out with, but you guess that's where your relationship with her ended. You had realized she was quite likable early on, witty and smart, too, but that was about it. She didn't allow a lot of people to get close, and you supposed that was fair all things considered—still, you couldn't help but feel you had let her down. It was stupid, really, but being as close a friend to Joel as you were, it felt like you should know her better.

A shared a couple of more drinks, just lounging on the couch, side by side, your shoulder pressed against his. It was not unusual for Joel to be quiet even when you would go on talking about whatever came to mind, but you noticed he was being more unresponsive than normal. You knew him too well to think he was getting drowsy from the mix of the late hour and the whiskey. His mind was on something else, and again you wanted to pry, but you knew better than to do so.

To your surprise, he let you in: "Can I tell you something?"

It was a stark contrast of serious pondering compared to the mindless rambling of life in outer space, going from negative numbers to a hundred in a split second. You were caught off guard, but tilting to look at Joel instead of the ceiling, you nodded softly.

It was difficult not to notice the tension in his body, sitting close to him and all. Feeling his chest rise with labored breaths, watching his jaw clench and loosen up, only to flex again, you realized something far deeper than extraterrestrials was on his mind.

Nothing could have prepared you for the burden he was about to unload. Joel resumed to tell you how when he had first met Ellie, she had been nothing more than precious cargo to the Fireflies, a girl believed to be immune to Cordyceps. It was his mission to get her to Salt Lake City, but when he and Ellie reached St. Mary’s Hospital, he discovered that the doctors would have to perform a brain operation. It would kill her. Everything that had happened up until that point had been for that specific moment. His bottom lip trembled as he told you he didn't even have to think about it before he grabbed the gun and started shooting. "It was easy," he said as tears welled up in his eyes. After spending months protecting and getting to know Ellie, getting to love her like his own daughter—he wasn't about to not rescue her from yet another certain death. He recalled how they'd had a brief moment before it all, where Ellie admitted she wanted to stay with Joel after the procedure. "Used it as an excuse," he cried silently. "She 'ad no idea she wouldn't come out on the other side."

Your heart sank as it all dawned on you. Everyone involved robbed Ellie of any agency at all.

What seemed to be the worst part for Joel, though, was when he lied to her. Saying she asked him point-blank to tell her the truth of what had happened back there. He spoke through gritted teeth, his gravelly voice clawing its way through his heart in his throat: "Then I told her the fattest lie."

You wanted to jump in, reassure him he did what he thought was right and at least gave her a chance of life. But you couldn't. It was too big a mouthful, too tough to swallow it all at once and give him some not-thought-through assurance.

It was a lot to take in.

You had never doubted Joel would do everything in his power to protect the ones he loved, but this—it was all too visual to get behind. Impeding finding a cure, the rampage through the hospital, the lying. It was easy to see Joel hated every part of what he had done, though he did not regret it. It was horrifying to think, but it didn't not sit right with you.

That's what parents were supposed to be, right?

Protectors.

He might have acted out of his own interest; he might have stripped her of what she believed—what she wanted to be her destiny, but he did it out of love.

You couldn't possibly sit here and say you wouldn't have gone full-on Attica to save the ones you loved. You couldn't possibly tell him you would have done the same either. In more than one way, you were much like Joel, only you hadn't had that kind of bond with anyone in a long time, and so it was impossible for you to understand everything Joel had gone through, everything he still went through.

At this point became quiet, his soft sniffles reduced to staggered breaths. His hands shook in his lap as his fingers fidgeted. You reached across and took his hands in yours, the size difference almost comical in your smaller ones.

"I hate that you went through that, Joel," you began, biting your lip as you contemplated your words. "It was... It might not have been a difficult choice then, but it's no doubt difficult to live with."

You hated to think he had done that, but you could see that he, most of all, was disgusted with himself for lying to her. That would have hurt him more than anything else he had done that day, and it was evident he hated himself for that.

You squeezed his hands between your own, prompting him to look at you.

"You did what you thought was right. You did everything in your power to protect her. You can't possibly be wrong for that."

His eyes dropped and his face contorted, beating himself up. Although his head bobbed in a quiet nod, agreeing with you, your words didn't do much to convince him.

You wanted to cry, loathing the thought that you couldn't convince him he was not a bad man, couldn't help him.

A different approach then.

You were aware that Joel possessed an innate distrust in systems: He had shared with you his experiences with the government back in the day, his experience with the Fireflies, his experience with FEDRA. Nobody had ever worked in his favor.

You were so focused on helping him that you didn't even realize you had reached up to cup his cheek. Stray tears bedewed the upper edge of his stubbles, and you caressed the patch mindlessly with your thumb. You had never been this close.

"Hey," you whispered softly, keeping his despondent brown eyes on you. It broke you but you put on a determined face. "It's okay, you're okay, Joel—you're here. Don't beat yourself up about it, it's okay."

He didn't believe that. Joel's mind was in turmoil, his thoughts turning on him, torturing him.

His eyes squinted, forcing a new wave of tears to flow and you shook him, more harshly than you meant to. "Joel, hey—hey! Look at me, look at me, Joel."

He forced himself to snap out of it, a sharp inhale clawed its way down his throat, forcing his lungs to be filled. The scent of you, the scent of a day's work and macadamia shampoo, calming his senses.

It's okay.

You're okay.

You're safe.

Finally, his labored breaths ceased and he managed to stop trembling. Bringing himself to look at you, you didn't miss the way he gulped, his expression turning soft with the remains of deep lines carving his features.

"Good, you're doing good, Joel," you praised, too close, too deep in it not to brush the fallen strings of dark, matted hair out of his face. "Look whose to say these people had any clue what they were doing? Hell, even if they did manage it—say they produced a cure—what then? How'd they distribute it? How'd they manage to cure the last of us while the Cordyceps is still out there, constantly mutating? I—I mean they might be able to save a couple hundred, maybe thousands—but what's the use? People would get infected along the way, people like us, who are safe here in Jackson, we'd go out there again and risk our lives just to get the vaccine—a-and what for? We've already lost this battle. S'it really worth saving what's left?"

As the tension of your rant died down, you suddenly became very conscious of the way you held onto Joel. Your hands had settled on his shoulders for purchase, and the fleeting thought of how fucking broad they were this up close, made shame crawl your skin.

Dropping your hands, you watched him intently, looking for signs of discomfort, hoping you hadn't gone too far.

Though his expression was difficult to read, your gut told you he was grounded again, and you boldly leaped at the opportunity to provide that last bit of assurance.

You wet your lips and sighed.

"I won't act like I know what is right and what is wrong, but I can't blame you for doing what you believed to be the moral choice. You are not the villain."

Watching as he was deep in thought, a pang of guilt struck you. On more than one occasion, had you accused Joel of being prone to overthinking. From experience, you knew that entailed tossing words around to better fit the negative narrative in one's brain, and now you worried you might have said too much to have been any help at all.

Worriedly, you spoke your mind: "I hope I didn't say too much, make matters worse."

Joel didn't look at you just yet, but he instantly shook his head. "No, no," he muttered, collecting his thoughts. Breathing in was easier now, he noted, the pinching strain in his chest changed for something else. A small chuckle escaped him and he cleared his throat and shifted in the couch to cover it up, as if he didn't mean to let it slip. Turning to you, there was a small glint in his eyes. "Thank you. Really, I… You know, wouldn't 'ave vented to you like that if I expected you to keep your mouth shut. Trust me, you didn't make me feel worse, doll."

Doll. It played on a loop in your mind.

Doll, doll, doll.

"S'good," you mumbled, eyes flickering down his chest. "Cause, you know, really ain't what I was goin' for."

Joel's chest rumbled with a chuckle. There it is again, he mused to himself. That little accent he must have rubbed off on you and that thing in his body tickled his insides again. It had been a long time since he had felt this way, but it was unmistakable.

It dawned on you that you must have been looking at him with the sickly adoration of a girl in love, for when the grin faded it was replaced by—confusion, maybe? Curiosity?

"What?" you blurted, mentally deadpanning for albeit short, it was a sweet moment of quietness and you went ahead and made it weird.

Joel then looked puzzled, his head tilting like a bewildered dog asked if it wanted to go for a walk.

Your heart missed a beat at the look in his eye, another when the brown orbs dropped and lingered on your lips. As if the air had been knocked out of you, you suddenly felt breathless, frozen in place as if struck by fear and you wondered how you could be so stupid. What else could it be—not confusion, not curiosity but the need for knowing; if the same thing that was happening to his heart was happening to yours?

"I-I—" you stammered but were quickly cut off as Joel jumped from the couch as if he had realized he was late for something.

"I, uhh," Joel interrupted though he had no better speech prepared than you had. He scratched the underside of his arm, looking both bashful and hot with embarrassment.

The silence resumed and you stood up as well, trying to figure out what the hell to do with your arms so that you wouldn't look so awkward. "Tell you what, you uh—you go clean up and I'll make a little dinner and we'll eat and I'll get outta your hairs, then." The thought of leaving didn't sound as appealing as you thought it would. Making a fool of yourself, just a second ago, ruining whatever that had been, you would have jumped at the opportunity to hide under the covers, but now—you didn't like that idea one bit. You reminded him—but mostly yourself: "We still got an early morning tomorrow."

Joel frowned, shaking his head. "No, yeah, yeah—you're right, sure."

Without another stumbling attempt at conversation, he spun around and disappeared, feet trotting to the sound of his palpitating heartbeat.

Locking himself in the bathroom, Joel immediately started cursing as he scrabbled about, ending up with his palms firmly pressed against the sink.

Finding his reflection in the mirror, he stared into his own eyes for a minute, collecting his crumbling self. "Get it together."

Stripping out of his clothes, Joel turned the faucet on and stepped into the shower, not bothering to wait for the water to get hot. He needed to cool down, anyway.

He couldn't get the moment out of his head and wondered if he had misread the entire thing. Could it be, that he had merely been so entranced by his own emotions, that he resorted to some simple wish-thinking? Perhaps you realized, coming out of the sympathetic spell, that you cared for him no more than a friend.

Joel scrubbed harder down his body, heedless to the itch that burned around his newly acquired wounds and scratches.

He couldn't get the image out of his head: The way you had looked at him as you clutched his face in your hands, comforting him—it wasn't how friends looked at each other, no matter how much they cared for one another. Joel looked for signs of the same display of affection earlier in the night, and he recalled your banter, your boot teasingly pushing at his leg, and the way you watched him over the rim of the glass.

Stepping out of the shower, he had managed to get his spiraling thoughts under control, sweep them under the carpet, if you will. Drying off, Joel was about to leave the bathroom in nothing but a towel, as one often would in their own home, but reminded himself that you were in his kitchen.

Not wanting to make you uncomfortable, he begrudgingly jumped into a fresh set of clothes, sporting a pair of sweatpants and a tee when he reappeared in the living room.

Joel cursed his own stupidity when he saw you standing there, mindlessly swaying your hips to Y Andale playing in the background (you had found his stereo) as you stirred the pot. He should have put on a pair of briefs to hold the hardening outline of his cock in place.

When you turned around to place the pot on a felt coaster on the dining table, you gave a start as you saw Joel just standing there. He looked devilishly good in the plain outfit, hair damp and slicked back.

You offered him a smirk. “Hope you don’t mind—jus’ couldn’t help myself when I noticed the stereo.”

All the reasons as to why Joel couldn't do a thing about his attraction to you, all the strength he had just mustered in the bathroom to hold himself back; it all went down the drain as he became aware of the vividly domestic setting before him.

You had little time to assess the situation as Joel closed the space between you in just four strides. Before you knew it, one large hand cupped your cheek and another pulled you close by the waist. There was a split second of that something again, and then he pressed his lips to yours.

Your eyes fluttered close and you couldn't stop yourself from leaning into his touch (not that you wanted to). His lips felt dangerously soft and puffy, surprisingly warm and inviting as they passionately touched your own. In a delirious moment, the fresh scent of him veiled you like a pleasant comforter after a long day at work, those plush lips wrapping around yours, nibbling, sucking—all too much and not nearly enough at the same time.

Breaking apart for air, you felt light-headed, like the room was spinning and you were hot with fever.

It looked as if the black of his pupils had swallowed up the brown of his irises. You were weak, thinking you were the root of his lust. Joel breathed your name.

"S'this okay?"

Biting your lip, you blushed. Putting it into words somehow made it seem all the more real. Even if it was a dream, you hoped you would never wake up.

You let out a shaky breath, unable to hold back the small chuckle it turned into. "You don't have to ask, Joel."

He chuckled then, too, realizing it was probably a bit too late for that anyway. The way your teeth let your lower lip go only made his cock grow harder. Holding you closer, firmer against him, Joel sucked in a breath. "F'you let me, I don't think I can stop."

You prayed he could feel your heart beating against his chest, the way you could feel his cock poke your lower stomach.

Searching for his eyes, you nudged your nose against his. "I don't think I ever want you to stop."

He didn't waste another second.

Crashing his lips to yours, the kiss was more heated than the first, showing you exactly how much he wanted you. Swiping his tongue against your lip, you let him in without hesitation, tasting him for the very first time. Tongues dancing and teeth clashing, Joel snaked his arms down your body, lifting you from under your thighs with a grunt.

You were so caught up in finding his soft spots, kissing him gingerly on his neck, that you didn't realize where he was carrying you until you were splayed out on his bed, melting into the mattress.

Eagerly reconnecting your lips, you found yourself having completely forgotten about the soup, relishing the feeling of the open-mouthed kisses Joel pressed to your skin.

Moaning as he nibbled the skin below your ear, you pulled his face back up to yours, wanting to prolong the kiss. He gave in to your desires but trailed his lips down your neck as your fingers entangled with his hair and you began writhing beneath him.

Finding that sweet spot he had only gotten to graze before you pulled him away, he brought his lips close to your ears and whispered: "You gonna let me take care o' you now?"

Too lost in the sensation, the feeling of his warm lips brushing your skin, the press of his body weight against yours, you couldn't do anything but moan, whimpering a small “please”. He could do whatever he wanted with you.

Noting the bliss you were caught in, Joel chuckled, but he was determined on an audible confirmation. Grasping you by the jaw, he forced you back down on earth. "Tell me you want me."

Brows furrowed and hips desperately bucking up, you whined and responded, "please, please, Joel—need you."

Joel had to steady himself against you, feeling his muscles weaken at the sweet, sweet sound of your begging.

"S'a good girl," murmured he, letting his hands roam every curve of your body, every hill, and every cleft. Squeezing your hip, you felt the coarse pads of his fingers caress the skin beneath your top. "Take this off f'me, yeah?"

You quickly got rid of it, not particularly eager to move your hands from his body. Joel laced his fingers through yours, pressing your hands at either side of your head as he eagerly kissed you, his warm tongue darting out of its cave to invite you to dance.

His palm kneaded your breast, a low groan escaping him which you swallowed down, moaning when his coarse thumb swiped across your nipple.

"Can I take these off, baby?" he asked lowly, and you whimpered meekly, bucking your hips up in response.

Joel worked your shorts off of you, and it seemed to get ten degrees hotter in the bedroom. He had left your panties on and as he trailed a path of wet kisses down your body, you groaned pathetically.

"Joel, please," you begged, not sure whether you wanted his fingers or his mouth, his tongue or his cock.

"I know, pretty girl, I know," he hummed, but there was little sympathy in his tone. A wanton sound escaped you when one of his fingers expertly nudged your clit, like he already knew your body like the back of his hand. "Look at you, baby, so pretty and ready f'me."

You had never given it much thought, whether Joel was one for pillow talk, but you certainly didn't mind it. You couldn't even be flustered about the mess you must have made in your panties; not when his eyes were enlivened with adoration and words laced with desire, not when his touch felt so enticing.

Joel pushed your panties aside and ran his fingers through your slick, kissing and nibbling at your inner thigh.

Moaning, a chain of pleas left your lips. Another low chuckle escaped him and you barely managed to pout down at him before his tongue darted out, collecting your arousal in a long, painfully slow lick. Eyes fluttering shut, they rolled to the back of your head while your hands clutched the sheets so hard your knuckles turned white.

"Holy—f-fuck!"

His nose, so perfectly shaped rubbed against your clit and his beard tickled your sex, making you squirm.

Joel used his hands to part your legs further, giving them a squeeze to let you know to keep them in place. His fingers spread your sex and groaned when his thumb played with the bundle of nerves.

As his tongue licked up and down your wet pussy, your legs threatened to close in on him and he must have noticed your struggling because he praised you, murmuring you were doing so good for him. You spread your legs as if on command, determined to be worthy of the praise.

While his thumb circled your clit, a finger prodded against your opening, coating it in your arousal as Joel slipped inside and he grunted. "So damn tight for me, baby girl."

So concentrated on holding your legs in place while he worked you closer to the edge, you involuntarily ground down on his hand, adding to the pressure on your clit, and felt his thick finger spread you so deliciously.

He chuckled, "y'want more, huh?" Adding another finger to the mix, he curled two digits against your spongy walls and you cried out. "I know, I know, baby. You're doing so good, pretty girl, clenchin' down real nice—fuck."

Joel allowed you to feel him as he worked his fingers in and out of your sex at a tauntingly slow rhythm, leaving you to feel the stretch when he was knuckles-deep.

"Fas—fuck! Faster Joel," you moaned, panting as you became increasingly impatient to reach the impending orgasm.

Joel watched you intently, jaw slack, and peppered open-mouthed kisses on your thighs. He picked up the pace, grinding his own hips into the mattress.

"Fuck, baby—that's it, keep makin' those pretty lil' noises for me. Doin' so good," he encouraged, feeling his mouth wet with drool.

"Please—want your cock, Joel," you whined needily.

"I know, I know, baby girl," he sympathized, squeezing your thigh as if to comfort you. It only made you shift beneath him, as his fingers seized pumping, curling against your clenching cunt. He lulled, "you can take a third, right?"

Any answer close to making itself audible was interrupted by his tongue lapping at your clit, adding to the euphoric sensation of three fingers prodding your entrance. A moan got stuck in your throat and your head slammed back down on the pillow, crying at the stretch.

Joel must've sensed your orgasm approaching for he increased the steady thrusting, his movements not once stuttering while his tongue persistently flicked your clit. A wave rushed over you as he coerced the orgasm to be ripped from your writhing body with inaudible praises, letting you ride out your frenzy on his now-soaked face.

Bleary-eyed, hands balling up the sheets, you willed yourself the strength to look down at the sight—and by God, it truly was a sight.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, revealing a smug smirk tugging at the corner of his lip. Your cheeks flushed red, and you pulled him into your neck to hide your embarrassment, as if he hadn't just eaten you out as if his life depended on it.

Joel held your face, eyes mindlessly scanning over your features. "Don't be shy now, baby, tastes goddamn delicious," he hummed with a satisfied lull to his tone, pressing his lips to yours.

"No one's ever done that," you blurted, not entirely sure why you would even admit that.

A frown settled on his face, something resembling disbelief and amusement, and then a strained touch of lust padded over his expression. He was not hesitant to admit that only turned him on all the more. Joel’s ego even told him you had been waiting, saving yourself just for him.

You reached between you to pull down his sweatpants and Joel was happy to let you help him out of his constraints: He had had to stop grinding into the mattress while going to town for fear that he might cream his pants. That would have been embarrassing, busting like some teenager finally getting some action. Though he was touch starved, he would hate to wait any longer—he needed to finally feel you—finally be a part of you.

You had always imagined Joel would have a big cock, but your fantasy scenarios did him no justice—he was long and thick, heavy as his weeping tip pushed against your entrance, and you realized why he had insisted on stretching you out first.

Your sex lives had never been a topic brought up in conversation prior to today, but you could imagine he knew it had been a long damn time. Feeling his cock prod against your sex, you felt thankful for the forethought.

"Fuck," Joel shuddered, sheathing himself in your cunt. His forehead bumped against yours. "So damn tight f'me, baby girl."

You latched your hands onto his shoulders for support, wincing at every inch he filled you with.

Joel hadn't noticed he had been holding his breath before he bottomed out in you, a ragged groan finally releasing itself from his dry throat. He caught your heavy-lidded eyes with a boyish smirk—he could hardly believe this was happening, after so long. "How ya feelin'?"

You let out a breathy chuckle, overwhelmed by the aphrodisiac that was the mixture of his smell and his touch. "Over the fuckin' moon."

The worry vanished, wiping his face clean to replace it with another expression, a search.

You tucked him closer, grasping his ass to feel him better. "Fuck me now."

Cock twitching, saluting your command, and obeying your wish, he pulled back, thrusting his hips forward in a grinding motion that had you gasping for air, eyes rolling back.

Joel pressed sultry kisses to your neck, to your cheek, and to the corner of your mouth. Cupping your face in one palm and holding himself up by his elbow, he forced you to come back to him. "Eyes on me, pretty girl."

There's a spot inside you, one you can't recall ever reaching, but when Joel does you're sure your fingernails dig little crescents into his skin. White hot blurs your vision, a string of wanton moans and curses leaving your lips, panting. "Holy shit."

Your hands roam over the expanse of his chest as his thrusts become harder, more relentless. The sun-kissed skin warms your palms and your foreheads brush, breaths shared.

"Fuck, it's like y'were made for me," he sighed, brows creased in concentration and eyes fixated on where his cock disappeared inside your cunt. The sounds of skin slapping were so fucking vulgar and he's right, you thought, and he was made for you, too.

His rhythm was designed to make you see stars. The coil in your stomach tightened and he must have felt you squeezing around him, for the motions only became harsher, his hips crashing into yours in precise strokes.

Joel's head drooped, nose brushing your temple as he shook his head. "M'not gonna last much longer," he confessed lowly.

Dexterous fingers snaked between your sweat-licked bodies and he rubbed your clit, desperate to feel you come around his cock.

Gasping, holding onto his shoulders as he rocked your body back and forth, you forced his eyes to lock with yours. "Come inside me, Joel," you begged fervently, and you knew it was risky, very fucking risky, in fact, but you couldn't care less—you wanted to feel all of him.

The didn't deter him one bit, however, if anything it spurred him on, the jolts of his hips becoming animalistic. He found purchase on your shoulders, holding you in place so that he could better fuck up into you. His hips began stuttering, sinful groans falling from his dirty mouth. "You want me t'fill you up, yeah? Want everyone to know who you belong to? That's it, baby, come around my cock 'n I'll fill you up real good."

Losing yourself to the mind-wrangling orgasm, your legs spasmed and you cried his name, repeating it like a prayer while he fucked you through yours, chasing his own.

With one, two, three thrusts, he spilled inside you, burying his cock deep in your cunt as his purchase buckled under his weight. You didn't care that he collapsed on you—you had never felt better, never felt more full.

Coming down from your highs, you held him close even when he slumped down against your side, his softening cock slipping out of your sex.

For a few moments, you just lay there, regaining your breath, feeling the reality of it all wash back over you. It felt silly having to summon the courage to face him again, but you couldn't help the blush that colored your cheeks.

Joel spoke first. "Can't believe it took us so damn long," he mused, somewhat dumbfounded with a grimace of disbelief. You melted when his strong arm cradled you closer to his chest.

You nuzzled your face into his neck, sighing quietly along to the rise and fall of his breathing. Yawning, you drowsily mumbled, "I don't ever wanna leave your side, Joel."

Joel pressed a sweet kiss to your forehead, holding you close as he felt sleep closing in on him. "You won't, sweetheart. I won't let you." Your heart was racing but sleep managed to pull you under its grasp. Joel relished the languid hum you offered in response, and he brushed the hair from your face, kissing you one last time. He could barely wait to wake up with you in the morning. "Sweet dreams, pretty girl."

#theplumsoldier #joel miller #joel miller imagine #joel miller fic #joel miller tlou #pedro pascal #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #the last of us #joel tlou #joel the last of us

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lost-in-fandoms · 5 days ago

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It's a weird feeling to head into the paddock while looking at pictures of Daniel in LA.

The rational part of Max's brain knows that Daniel won't be there, has known this for a few races already, but there's still a part of him, a part that may or may not be his heart, that hasn't wrapped itself around the thought quite yet.

He has seen Daniel not that long ago, and yet there's a weird ache in his chest at the knowledge that he doesn't know when he'll see him again, if not in pictures of him enjoying his life somewhere else. Somewhere Max isn't.

It's never been like this before. He feels like he's always known where Daniel is for most of his adult life. For most of his life, really, for as long as he's known of Daniel's existence. Even when he was the third driver, even when his hand was broken, even during summer and winter breaks, Max knew that wherever Daniel was in that moment he would have ended up in the paddock. With Max.

But now. Now everything is different. And for what feels like the first time in his life, he doesn't know where Daniel will pop up next, and when, if ever, he'll be within reach.

It's weird and it's wrong and Max hates it.

His fingers itch every day to text Daniel where are you? what are you doing? when can I see you? why are you not here? why are you not with me? but he never does. Both because he knows it's insane, Daniel doesn't owe him any information, Daniel doesn't owe him his presence, and because it would probably be cruel, to tell Daniel I want you here when it wasn't Daniel's choice to go.

And yet the itch remains, and having an alert on Daniel's name so he can catch every piece of trash news about him, obsessively look at his Instagram, and scrolling through social media in search of a glimpse of him doesn't help.

Not even the half a day he had with Daniel, playing padel and then sharing a short lunch, had been enough. The whole time Max had been itching and itching to reach for him, to grab his arm and tell him stay, to drag him to Milton Keynes himself and declare he wouldn't race unless Daniel was in a seat.

He hadn't done any of that, obviously, because that would be insane, and Max is doing his very best to not do any of the many insane things he thinks about, but it had still been hard to let Daniel go when he had hugged him goodbye.

And now he's back in the paddock, in Vegas as if everything wasn't bad enough already, one step closer to his fourth championship, and all he can do is look for all the places Daniel isn't.

It's stupid, and it's painful, and it's insane, and it's not something Max seems to be able to control. So he gives in.

Looks at the tables in hospitality and sees not-Daniel empty places. Does the stupid media tiktoks and thinks this would have made Daniel laugh. Walks in the paddock and thinks Daniel would have made a joke about all these stupid things.

By the end of media day he's tired and annoyed and his fingers seem to move on their own on the keyboard.

I miss you.

He doesn't press send. He wants to. He doesn't want to. He hates it all.

You should be here. It would be better if you were here.

He doesn't send that either, knows it would hurt the both of them.

I saw this hat and thought you would like it

He considers the picture, a weird Fernando-themed hat on some stranger's head. That seems innocuous enough.

He presses send.

The ticks switch from the grey of delivered to the blue of read as he watches, and he feels his heart beat a little faster, waiting for the dots of Daniel's typing to appear.

They don't.

#maxiel #my writing #i...don't know #i'm sorry? maybe?#im just projecting everything on max whops

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nthspecialll · 6 months ago

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Dutch Van Der Linde as the saviour and his early crime life.

Dutch Van Der Linde and his early life beyond the fact that his father died in the war and he ran away from his mother at the age of 15 is a mystery to us as players, however due to the fact he prefered a life of petty crime we assume that his mother was a terrible person, something that might not be true.

Unlike the majority of the gang Dutch does not have evidence of a terrible childhood, he was not orphaned, he was not fleeing from the government, he did not fear for his life and we cannot say that his mother was abusive, almost quite the contrary.

In Dutch's own words, he ran away because he and his mother "did not see eye to eye," and while this can indicate abuse the fact he follows up with "I was not always an obedient child" very much makes it seem like it was his own fault. He continues to talk about how they both loved one another in their own ways, meaning he ran away not because he had to but because he wanted to, especially as the reasons he was "not an obedient child" could very well be because he was young and rebellious.

What makes this even worse is that Dutch mentions having had a price on his head for fifteen years while he actually has been on the run for 29 as he is 44, this means for 14 years he committed crimes, did not have a price on his head, and had the choice to turn back to a "regular life." Now he might just have said 15 as a "about this many years but not the exact" but you don't get it wrong by 14 years.

Dutch mentions that he did not know that his mother was burried in Blackwater but was only told a few years later by an uncle. His mother died in 1881 (her grave can be found), he met Hosea in 1876, met Arthur in 1877 and had been on the run since 1870, meaning he was still in contact with his family at least in 1884, seven years after meeting Arthur.

Milton talks about Dutch being a Messiah, a savior for the people, and Dutch keeps saying "we" this and "we" that but the truth is he is nothing like them, Dutch chose his situation and had many chances to turn back but didn't, while the others in one way or another was forced into it. He also has many advantages, such as being in contact with his family, something which a character like Javier is forced not to and we only see one other character cannonically do, Pearson. Not only that but Dutch often reinforce his role as a boss by having his own tent, having expensive clothing, telling Molly that she doesn't need to work for the mere fact that she is his girl. He does not need to do this, everyone is already loyal to him, yet he does it for nothing more than to serve his own ego.

Now some would say he ran away to make a better world, but there is something wrong with that theory.

Dutch's favorite author is Evelyn Miller who is based on the real romantic/transcendentalist writer Henry David Thoreau. Romanticism is a philosophy that dislikes the wealthy and the industrialization and wants people to embrace a more "authentic" life, which is why Thoreau as a more wealthy man wanted to do an experiment for two years where he moved into a cabin. He wanted to, for the experience of it, live in the woods, such as Dutch did not run away from his possible rich life because he needed to but for the experience of it.

Dutch did not spoil his chance at a normal life for love, he didn't spoil it for "a better world," he didn't spoil it for necessity, he spoiled it for fun, for the experience.

Imagine being Javier, hearing the man who claimed to understand you, say that he still is in touch with his family while you don't know if your sister is even alive. Imagine being Arthur, hearing the man who claimed to understand you, say that he chose a life of crime as an experience while you were forced into it to survive and now hate yourself for it. Imagine being Charles, hearing the man who claimed to understand you, say he chose to hurt for fun while you wish you had another way.

Based on conversations I had with @werewolfarthurmorganenjoyer and @heavenlymorals.

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kneelingshadowsalome · 1 year ago

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Hi! If you're still taking requests I'd love request a drabble about the moment when Konig and Reader first noticed each other and what they thought/felt during that moment based on your "Just Friends" fic.

Btw I love your work and oh my god, it's perfection, absolutely amazing. Super excited to read chapter 3&4 (no rush take your time!!)

Thabj you!!!

Even Demons are Lonely

Wordcount: 3.8 k

Summary: König sees reader for the first time. Soon, the promise to never touch someone as lovely as her turns into a vow to never leave her side.

Tags/warnings: F!Reader, König POV, Just Friends universe. Angst, twisted & fluffy feelings, pining, obsessive behavior, stalking, panty stealing, mentions of past trauma, abuse and patricide, yandere!König falling in love (=being delusional). Mild sexual and violent themes.

A/N: I did take my time with this one... 🩷 And it's only König POV, but I hope you enjoy! 💋

"Abashed the Devil stood, and felt how awful goodness is, and saw Virtue in her shape how lovely – saw, and pined His loss..."

– John Milton, Paradise Lost

Purgatory.

That's the word that stuck to him when he was learning English at school, simply because it was an accurate definition of how he felt.

Adults used to say there is heaven and hell, and then this world, the world of humans, somewhere in between. They said he would go to heaven after he died and that bad people would go to hell.

They were all liars because hell already existed here on Earth. He had lived there ever since he was born.

The first memories of the cutting are shallow and pale, like they happened to some other boy. With every hit and cut and every cry, the sounds turned muddy until he was mute too, until all he could hear was mother's crying and Papa's roaring. The old man always got more mad when people cried and cowered.

That's when he knew he would someday do something about bad people, that crying and cowering and begging wasn't going to help. It was the birth hour of hope and heaven. He dreamed of killing his father, killing his "friends", killing everyone who looked at him like he was a freak.

He soon learned that this was not what people associated with heaven at all. He learned that there was a word for people like him, for phantoms who were morbidly interested in death and decay.

Ghoul.

A grave robber and a corpse feaster he was not, but neither was he going to pretend that some people didn't deserve to be gutted. If being normal meant he should just play along and pretend that there was justice in this world, then he was happy to be morbid. A little ghoul boy who grew up in hell, who dreamed of heaven, who slipped behind the thin veil between the worlds when he was four, who learned how to make the knives dance while everyone around him suffered.

He learned to cry and beg before he learned to speak, but when the words finally started to make sense to him, he had no use for them. No one wanted to talk to him, so he settled to observe. Life was a film reel running by, and words were useless when all he wanted to do was roar. There was a growing, gaping maw inside him, shrieking and spitting blood while he was without a voice.

It took a while to make Papa cry and beg. But he begged, eventually. In his last words, he tried to hide behind a woman’s skirt.

"Don't do this to your mother," was a plea that didn't ignite mercy: it drove him off the ledge. Looking at the horrible excuse for a man squirming at his feet made him realize he should've released his mother from this demon years ago. He was too weak, and he vowed to himself, to the whole world, that he would never be weak again.

………………

Sometimes, a glimpse of true heaven can be seen on a clear summer's day when the sun shines, when bees are buzzing and a beautiful voice sings a love song on the radio. Beautiful, peaceful things only add to his suffering. They are simply evidence gathered – examples of everything he will never have.

The air clots inside his mask with a brew of old sweat and acrid gunpowder. It's usually enriched by a hot desert wind or the stench of dust and emissions, a city's rotten core. It would feel odd to be met with a fresh breeze or the smell of rust and smoke than have them dampened by the baggy mask. He's certain that it would only be painful to feel the full brunt of the world on his naked face again. His enemies can't see him when he kills them, so they can't haunt him either.

He is the only ghoul here. He is the one who haunts.

He's learned to let love and peace go. He came here to reap; that's his job. Ghouls cannot love or be loved. They are supposed to get rid of the plague, do what normal people can't do, what good people deem hideous and wrong.

People have always been alien to him: they both know something he cannot seem to decode and are unaware of the constant presence of the Maw. He has to feed it in order to not be swallowed by it himself. It helps with the constant yelling for a while.

His father was the first demon to be punished, but he has learned that all demons are liars when they beg. They don't know what real hell is like. That's why he didn't give mercy to his father, and that's why he doesn't give mercy to them, either. It's not hell, it's not heaven, so he must be in a limbo state in between.

That's why he calls this place purgatory.

………………

He sees a woman under the sun one day.

The sheer sight of her sitting there on her little blanket spread over the grass, dressed in a pure white dress is like a torturing dream from above. It stops him in his tracks like there is suddenly an invisible wall in front of him, forcing him to halt.

His heart is pounding, but that's not new. His heart is always tight and racing, and that's why it's better to have a heavy gun in his hands than hold onto nothing at all; it's better to do something than do nothing at all. The only thing that calms the endless roil inside him is work; when there's no work, it helps to go outdoors, somewhere between the shadows between thick trees.

Trees are better than people...

But they're not better than a woman like her.

He knows his mind plays tricks sometimes with females. That is why at first he thinks that the creature before him is not from this world either. How could someone like her even end up here? There are few ladies in the base, and none of them have picnics; none of them look like angels.

She looks up at the sky, at the single cloud drifting across the cerulean blue that hurts his eyes. Sun shines on her exposed throat, her stare is dreamy as she basks in the warmth and raises an apple to her lips.

He stops breathing as she takes a bite, fearing it might stain the beautiful white dress from how juicy it is. The runaway apple juice drips down her chin, but she catches it with her finger, then sweeps the sweet taste of it back into her mouth.

Her lips hug the finger gently as she savors the treat, and his breath returns to him, heavy and with a pang, like someone just punched him between the lungs.

She can't be human...

He wonders if she's even real.

He's hungry, but the need to devour this woman turns into a need to worship her before he can even decipher what is happening to him. He would grovel at her feet if that's what it took to get her to feed him some of that fruit. His mind goes numb from the need to march there and hug her. Just hold her, so close that he forgets what it is to breathe.

He knows she would only scream, and it's good he's been walking in the shade. It's good that she can't see him unless she turns her head. Because she must be an angel, and angels have no business with ghouls.

He should go and leave her be... Mortals he can want, humans he can torture, but a celestial being he could never touch. The wind carries a whiff of apple juice to his nose; it overrides the stench of sweat and gun oil and smoke.

And then the angel turns her head.

It's Judgment Day, but she doesn't condemn him. She blinks a few times, lashes fluttering like he's another sun, the dreaded black sun, and she can't bear to look directly at him. But there's no disgust, no uneasiness, there's no fear. There's only shyness and the smallest smile.

The pain inside his gut turns into a brutal stab, pure suffering. He hasn't hoped for anything for a long, long time. Now hope bleeds into his stomach with golden tingles, like those rays of sun that caress her skin.

He thought good things would feel… well, good, but to his horror, they feel painful too. She's painfully sweet. Even the demon inside him falls silent, the only demon he cannot destroy. It's finally quiet, as it should be. Everything in him bows to this greater power of Her.

But she can't be real... His mind is sick and has finally conjured up the most beautiful thing he can never, ever have. He's been called a freak, he's been called a dumb ugly giant, he's been called so many things, but he's not stupid enough to think that the creature hugged by the golden aura of light is meant for him.

So he squares his shoulders and pushes through the invisible wall, back behind the veil, back to where he belongs, and leaves the heavenly apparition in the sun.

………………

The next time he sees her is after a mission and inside the base.

He brings mud and blood inside after a few rainy days spent in the mountains. He's so soaked that not even the 3-hour flight managed to dry all the dirt. She's waiting for him, or that's how it feels like when she gives him a small, relieved smile and starts to clean the mess he and every other operator leave behind.

His angel is not only a celestial visage but a cleaner.

She keeps the building that houses people who destroy life, clean. She scrubs the filth killers like him bring inside the cold, dead compound built on what used to be a forest full of birds, life, and wind through the trees.

No one thanks this girl as she humbly dusts a table or mops the floor. No one understands that she's a saint for coming to the purgatory and making it a more decent place for the demons and ghouls to live. And she's relieved every time he comes back unharmed. She's happy to see he's alive. There's someone waiting for him. And not just someone, not just anyone, but an angel.

It's unbelievable how no one has claimed her yet. She has no one to keep her safe, and it makes his hands twitch. If he was her protector, she would never have to work again.

She's not like the rest of them: she doesn't turn her gaze away when he flicks a knife out. She likes to watch him make them dance. It's a ritual that makes him invincible on the battlefield. He used to do it every morning before school to stay safe – there were no angels back then to keep him alive.

He almost stops the first time he sees her watching how he goes through the rite.

No, look away, little angel... You're not supposed to see this; this is a death dance, it's filthy, demonic magic.

But she's not afraid of his blades or the way he weaves his spell of protection. The girl follows his moves entranced. Her eyes shine, and he nearly drops the blade – he hasn't dropped a knife since he was ten – because there's hunger in her stare. Not as fathomless as his, but deep enough for him to recognize it.

His angel is lonely and trapped too.

He completes the dance, returns the knife to his pocket, and looks back, straight back.

She doesn't look away. She doesn't wince or lean back, no: she leans forward, and he can see it, the way her pulse flutters on her neck, the way her mouth opens even more, how a tiny pink tongue sweeps across her lips as she looks back into the jaws of damnation. It takes him a while to realize his angel must be wet, just from seeing how good he is with a knife. The notion doesn't only make his cock jolt; it throws him headfirst into the abyss.

You'll never get rid of me now, the demon growls before he can choke him silent.

Her wet eyes, her wet, promising lips belong in a realm of madness. She's not filthy; his angel could never be filthy. But she's seducing him, which means she might seduce other men too.

Has someone claimed her already…?

What if she has a lover? Do they make her legs shake, do they make her mew?

Who does he have to kill?

………………

He breaks into her room that night.

He only meant to stand watch and see if someone creeps to her in the cover of darkness. He thinks about different ways to kill her lover as he waits near her door. Should he just strangle them when they enter her room? Make her an offering, let her know she could have a far more powerful male if she wants?

No, he must use a knife... She will get wet if he uses a knife.

But no one appears: he is the only shadow in the dark hall, and after midnight, he decides to take a look at his innocent, sleeping angel. Just one look.

Her domain is full of softness, and he has to take a few deep breaths before he continues. Her world is so different from his that he nearly turns back and closes the door to paradise. But then her breathing calls to him, causing him to take a few steps. She sleeps with her window open, likes to listen to the sound of night birds before she falls asleep – just like he does…

The demon is awake in an instant and grabs him by the throat.

No.

Don’t look. If you look, she will steal your soul.

He freezes before he reaches her bed. His gaze sweeps her room instead, and the demon pants at the sight. Her dresses are laid out on a clothing rack: they salute him like a row of colorful flowers. Flowing and singing like a river, they hit him with a breeze made of life and all things good.

She has a little armchair filled with cushions, and there's more softness and beauty everywhere he looks; he can see it even in the darkness of the night. Her delicate perfume that follows him as he follows her around the base lingers in the air and mixes with the distant birdsong and moonlight that shift the curtains in her room.

There's art on her walls, lively houseplants on the window sill, she has collected a cavalcade of cute little things on top of her drawer: nail polish and sea shells and beeswax candles and a piece of driftwood, a bottle of that perfume she uses, decorative lights above it all, placed around a small mirror.

He wants all of that.

He wants light and living things and greenery – he never had plants at home – he wants softness and cute little items, he wants to listen if the seashell still roars with the crashing waves were he to bring it to his ear. His mama always told him seashells remember the ocean because it used to be their home…

He wants her to light a honeyed candle and give him a bite of that apple, catch the juice as it runs down his scarred chin, or better yet, kiss it away before it falls. He wants to taste what's between her thighs. She must taste like honey and heaven.

One of the drawers is open, and from it, a torrent of cute little underthings is spilling out; they almost cascade on the floor. In different colors, too, and his hand reaches out and takes one before he can even think. He steals it like it's candy, then turns around with a stiff back and shoulders heavy from the sin he just committed.

He's about to go to the door, but her soft breathing calls him back. He tries to calm the demon - the girl can't steal anything: there's nothing left to steal. He has no soul, so he doesn't have to fear her either.

Taking a few steps, he takes the peek he shouldn't take because it will only prolong his sentence in purgatory. Little does the demon know that he would suffer eternally for one little glimpse…

She's not cocooned inside her blanket as he thought she would be. He thought he would find her coiled into a fetal position, curled into safety, but instead, she's sleeping on her back, arms spread next to her face, looking like she just fell from heaven and is feeling a little dizzy from the fall. She's calm and innocent as the moonlight brushes her cheek, her face free from all worry.

Why is she so cute, why is she so sweet?

She has no right. She should be up in heaven.

He almost crawls on top of her right then and there, because blinding want is nothing compared to this. He wants to breathe her, breathe with her, hold her gently, and have her smile at him when she wakes up. He doesn't want to ruin her… He just wants a taste, see if an angel would like to have a demon worship her. If his worship would mean anything, if it had any power to persuade her to like him...

He would never kneel before anyone, but he would kneel before her. In spirit, he is on his knees, and the only thing that makes him suffer is the fear that she might not want him, a ruined temple haunted by old, hateful spirits.

The madness was right. Apparently, there was a soul to steal, a tiny broken mosaic piece left, for the angel has it now. She owns what's left of him, the haunted temple is hers if she would ever want to come visit. He would restrain all those monsters so that she can walk freely and explore all the things buried under the rubble.

Her underwear burns his palm like a flower on fire. He only then realizes that there are no actual flowers in her room. He wonders if she would give him a kiss if he were to bring her one. Or two. Or an entire bouquet…

The demon inside cuts him with a searing blade – stupid idiot – she doesn't want to kiss your mauled face or love your ghouls. There's no treasure hidden inside that filthy rubble, there's only shit and blood and festering vomit. Better to just take her right now, see how tight she is, how wide her eyes go when a proper man comes to assert his will and authority. The demon tells him to at least ruin that cute thing in his hand and throw it on the table. Imagine her shocked little face when she wakes up…

Tears brim, and the maw of hell laughs with a roar of raging fire. He forces both down with a swallow and a wrench that shuts his heart.

There's no way she would ever let a man like him inside her. He's a sickness; no, he's an entire plague. He could try to make love to her, and she would only cry and bleed to death.

The smooth place between her brows gains a wrinkle as if she can hear his thoughts but doesn't agree with them. A little whimper escapes her nose, her head nods on the pillow; it looks like an attempt to hide while you're tied and cannot move.

Pretty angel is having a nightmare, and it's no wonder. Of course she can sense she's being visited by a monster.

He turns to leave, and notices another colorful thing on the floor: her underwear, and not clean. She's slipped out of it before bed: his angel is naked under that blanket. His angel sleeps naked…

He wonders if she has touched herself before sleep. Not with feverish, stern hands, like he does, but softly, under that blanket, with her features melting into pleasure as she comes with sighs and a series of desperate little whimpers.

His blood turns to hellfire as he drops the underwear he's holding. It falls right next to the intoxicating thing he picks up instead. Taking a deep inhale, he can finally smell her. Not just her perfume, but her. She smells of an angel and a woman, raw, perfect woman, and he knows he's lost. This is worse than any dream or demon; this is worse than anything ever before. There's no going back now.

Her scent calls to him, those hands frame her face in a gesture of surrender. She smiled at him on that day under the sun, and she smiled at him today.

What if he's spent enough time in hell? What if it's possible to have a taste of heaven?

He can't help but wonder if his angel wants this too...

“Engel,” he whispers into the night.

It takes only a second before she whimpers again. It's an answer, it's a yes, and his heart is full of tiny needles; they pinch him with terrible love and hope. The wrinkle has smoothed out, and his angel is smiling very, very softly.

She's calling for him. How could he refuse?

His angel is full of light as he makes his decision. He whispers his apology, only in his mind and only in German, trusting that angels must know every language in the world. He asks for her forgiveness for all the things he's about to do to her. Then he promises he will come for her, that she doesn't need to worry: she has a guardian now and always will. She will be forever safe with him by her side. He will drive even her nightmares away.

Then he returns to his room so different from hers, returns to the realm of death and worships the thing he just stole, spraying it with hot, white love - the only thing inside him that can be called pure, the color of angels. It's only a matter of time before he gets to worship her in the flesh, unite with her, the soul who forgave his sins and slipped him the key to heaven.

#könig x reader #könig x you #könig fanfiction #yandere könig #soft yandere #male yandere #obsessive love #cw: stalking #cw: dark content

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johnwickb1tsch · 6 months ago

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👀👀👀 (I’m not sorry at all jsyk)

I KNEW YOU'D SEND THE FUCKING FOOT GIF!!!🤣🤣🤣 I love you @treedaddymcpuffpuff !!!😘😘😘😘

Peep Toe Pumps - Kevin Lomax x fem!Reader

warnings: nsfw, foot fetish? fire divider by X

"You have pretty feet."

It's the first truly personal thing your new boss, Kevin Lomax, [Esq.] , says to you after months of working for Milton & Lomax. Maybe it wasn't entirely professional, wearing open-toed heels to the office, but it had been a looong winter in New York, and the first nice day of spring you couldn't resist.

He couldn't either, apparently.

You should have been suspicious, when he breezed into your cubicle and threw down a thick stack of papers, totally out of order, and said you were going to have to stay late to sort it all out. He was the boss, and it wasn't like your collection of houseplants were going to miss you...

And be real. One searing look from those burning dark eyes mixed with that sugar-sweet southern accent, and you would have done The Little Teapot dance on your desk in front of everyone if he asked you to. That man just has a magnetism. It's almost supernatural, the way he can sway people.

You guess that’s why he makes The Big Bucks.

It's late and the office is practically deserted, by the time you've finished collating the mishmash of the court file. How had that even happened? Almost like someone dropped all the papers on the floor and deliberately mixed them together badly. And maybe, maybe you feel the slightest trill of alarm, as you realize how alone you are on the floor, making your way past all the empty cubicles. But you push it away, down down down with all your other little intuitions about this place, because you don't really have a choice. This city is expensive, and you are not going home.

You knock on his office door, and receive a muffled invitation to come in. "Here you are, sir," you say, resting the tome-like stack upon his behemoth of a walnut desk. He's sitting by the window in his shirt sleeves, black suspenders stark against his white button up, cuffs rolled up over powerful forearms. Though you know he’s a widower, he still wears his wedding ring. You don't know why the sight seems almost intimate to you.

It's late, and you are tired.

"Thank you, y/n." You nod, and make to go. "Want a drink?" The offer makes you freeze in your tracks. It's not something the partners usually extend to a lowly secretary like you. But as he lifts his drink your way, swirls an amber liquid with ice cubes clinking in his cut-crystal glass--he is the very embodiment of temptation. You don't even really like hard spirits, don't know how you'll drink it without making a ridiculous face in front of your boss, but still you find yourself nodding slowly, almost as though you don't have control of yourself.

He smiles at you, knowing, but not unkind.

It must just be the reflection off his wire rimmed glasses, but for a moment, it’s almost as though his dark eyes glow.

He gets you the drink himself, waves for you to sit down across from him. You have to admit you are happy to get off your feet. You take a small sip, and do your level best not to grimace.

“Good?” he asks, and you can tell he is laughing behind his own glass.

“I don’t know,” you decide to answer, setting your tumbler down with a sigh. You take a moment to look out the window, the lights of Manhattan like your own galaxy twinkling below. “Quite a view you have up here.” You don’t get to see the lights like this, on your ground floor in Brooklyn.

“It’s breathtaking,” he agrees, and your heart does a little dance in your chest, when out the corner of your eye you realize he is looking at you.

You shouldn’t be here, that little voice in the back of your head whispers. You know it’s right, but you just can’t convince yourself to get up and go.

You are used to men staring at you in this city. Men will be men. But usually they’re looking at your breasts, or sometimes your mouth. Your legs, even, what they can make out protruding from your knee-length business skirts on the subway.

This is the first time you have ever noticed a man blatantly, lustfully, staring at your feet.

“Those hurt?” he asks, pointing at your heels with his chin. You cannot help but think he resembles a king in his court, sprawled in the comfortable leather chair across from you. It’s the most at ease you’ve ever seen him.

You laugh a little nervously, not entirely sure what you’re getting into here. “Only since about 4:30,” you admit, which would have been the point you would have changed into your Nikes for the slog home, on a normal day.

“Poor thing,” he laments in that cloyingly sweet drawl. God. Before you started working here, you thought men who sounded like that toted shotguns in denim overalls and hunted gators. How your perceptions have changed. “Give ‘em here.” Those long fingers make a ‘come hither’ gesture from his knee–and you think you might expire.

“Sir?”

He smirks at you, a sparkle in his dark eyes that utterly steals your breath away. “Or not. Never met a woman who didn’t like a foot rub after a long day, but maybe you’re the first.”

Lomax makes you feel silly, when he says it like that. Like you’re the odd duck, balking at your boss touching your feet. Or–embarassed by how very much you would like for him to. You start to reach for the buckle at your ankle, but he leans closer, eager. “Allow me.”

That is how your foot ended up in his beautiful, strong hands. How he almost ceremoniously propped your shoe on his lap, on trousers that probably cost a month’s pay for you, so deftly undoing the little buckle by your ankle with clever fingers and sliding your foot free.

It does feel heavenly, if you’re being honest, and the corner of his mouth ticks just a notch as a sound escapes you when he squeezes the ball of your foot. “Like that, sweetheart?”

“Too much, maybe,” you admit with a shaky little laugh.

What in the ever loving FUCK do you think you are you doing?!

He traces the curve of your ankle bone with the blade of his thumb, and your eyes slide closed as though he touched you somewhere very different, your painted toes curling in his lap. This is magic, if you’re being honest, and you’re not sure you realized how much you miss being touched until this very damning moment, alone after hours with your very hot boss.

“No such thing,” he insists with that little smile that you’re sure has enticed multitudes of people to sign their lives away on the dotted line. “You’ve been working hard. You deserve a treat.”

That’s when your eyes flick down. You just can’t help it. And you see the bulge at his crotch, his burgeoning erection straining against the fabric of his pants. A spear of lust splits you down the middle, like a lightning strike to your loins–and you know this is very, very, wrong.

Oh. God.

“Sir–”

As though he senses your sudden need to bolt up and flee he leans towards you–without thinking, you plant your foot right on his chest, preventing him. A beat later you are horrified by your action, but you get zero time to dwell on it. With a wicked smile that melts your panties he takes your foot in his big hand–and brings it to his mouth.

Your toe disappears between his luscious, kissable lips, his tongue tickling the bottom of your foot, and you discover you really might die of wanting. The strangled sound you make as his tongue explores between your toes is pure desire, and you know you are a ridiculous thing but your throbbing clit demands more and don’t stop.

His lips trail up your instep, the line of your calf–is it just the light, or do his teeth suddenly seem sharp, somehow? You blink and he is on his knees before you, pushing up your skirt so his trim torso can wedge between your legs, his big hands on your thighs beneath the fabric. It takes you a moment to realize that little scream came from you.

He looks you in the eye, as though he can see to the very depths of your soul, his pink mouth pulled in a smirk. He’s laughing at you, sure, but he still doesn’t seem cruel about it. That counts for something, somehow.

“You want me to stop, Miss Y/n?”

Your hands are on his broad shoulders, your nails digging into the webbed fabric of his suspenders, your breath a quick and elusive thing in your chest like the fluttering of birds. He is the very embodiment of temptation, and though you know you should say yes, you simply can’t. You shake your head no, and that smile widens slightly.

“I’d like to hear you say it aloud. An oral agreement, as it were.”

He surely feels it, as you squirm beneath him just at hearing the word.

“No, Sir.”

You can tell that you please him, and that should not make you feel so accomplished, so right, so liberated.

“That’s my good girl.”

Hearing that should not fill you with a searing heat that settles between your legs, warm and wet and so wanting.

And that is how your boss debauched you, how he kissed you silly and ate you out in that fine leather chair, before carrying you to the desk for proper fucking. That is how he ended up inside you, you still only wearing one shoe, your legs wrapped around his waist as he railed you on top of all his important papers. You flail for something to hold on to, knocking the file you so painstakingly stayed late to organize, the pages scattering across the floor.

“Oh no,” he pouts through a devilish grin, filling you with his thick cock until his tip kisses your cervix. “Looks like you have to stay even later now.”

“Fuck,” you moan, but it has nothing to do with your impending workload, and everything to do with the way he’s rearranging your insides, stuffing you full with that beautiful dick while his thumb flicks your clit. “You are. A devil,” you pant, so close to climax, the pleasure building and clawing in your pent-up loins. You would do anything, anything, for just a little more, right there.

“No, just his son,” he answers through another sharp toothed grin.

“What?” You’re not sure you heard him, over the sound of your desperate moans, your heartbeat deafening in your ears.

“Nothing, baby girl. You cumming with me?”

“Yes sir.”

He laughs, a wonderful, almost boyish sound, before his teeth sink into your shoulder and his hips lock against yours, spilling himself inside you as your needy little cunt flutters around his dick, milking him with the tremors of your pleasure. Utterly spent, wrung out, and more than a little ashamed, you collapse back on the desk. Still inside you, he brings your foot to his mouth again, kissing it lovingly with that wicked glint in his eye.

“Wear those little peep-toes anytime, beautiful,” he teases you, his accent thick and sweet as molasses. Yet somehow–you sense he’s serious.

Jesus fucking christ.

You’re going to have to go shoe shopping.

#kevin lomax x reader #kevin lomax x you #kevin lomax #the devils advocate #keanu reeves #keanuverse fic #tried to make it a drabble #think its more a one shot tho lol #i lurve u hannah!!!!!!!!

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idkwhyyouaskingm3-blog · 3 months ago

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Before the next episode I thought I'd stick all the information I found on Error on here. It's all a bit messy but I spend an embarrassing amount of time doing this over the past few months so might as well share it (I'm so normal about this podcast):

Timeline

(If the monster in episode 1 is Error then it is at the Magnus Institute Manchester on 12/05/22)

09/03/24 - Magnus Institute Manchester - Appears to be trapped under a trap door until Sam drops a key and it manages to escape

20/03/24 - Milton Court Open Space - Violet Abigail Parker is found dead. Statement taken presumably the pervious night in an Ally way.

22/03/24 - Ally outside of Gladstone Arms, Lant Street - Alice finds a victim of Errors full of water and narrating how she drowned. Tape found next to body.

12/04/24 - Old Warehouse address not given - Error 'saves' Gwen from Ink5ouls by claiming her as its own. (Error may have taken a statement from Ink5ouls as well). Leaves Tape Recorder with Ink5ouls and it bites them.

14/04/24 - Park within walking distance of 17 Gransden Avenue, Hackney - Error takes Mr Jarrod's statement. Having him run around the park in circles. Mr Jarrod is found by Alexander who seems to snap him out the compulsion. Error states it's an archivist, records Mr Jarrods final words then leaves without the recorder.

13/05/24 - Outside OIAR Royal Mint Court - Takes Sam's statement. Appears to be looking for information about the Magnus Institute and stops when Sam thinks about Hilltop Road. Leaves Sam alive but laying in the rain with tape recorder

13/05/24 - Paddington Station - On a train that's on it's way to Oxford

Known locations on a map

Tape Recorder

Starting off with something obvious. Tape recorders are present every time Error is. We don't know if Error has multiple or not. They also seem to be alive. We see them moving on multiple occasions and Error leaves without the Tape Recorder whenever we've seen it take a statement. We don't know what happens to the Tape Recorder once the statement is taken. Other people can hold the tape recorder but they do bite. Ink5ouls hasn't been seen since they touched the Tape Recorder. (Notes below)

Error Description

Error is on 'screen' in a number of episodes. It calls itself an archivist which makes sense given it came out of a trapped door in the archive.

It has laboured breathing and speaks in short sentences in a raspy female voice.

Characters don't see it coming as it emerges and recedes from shadows even when it's sunny. It's been described as being cloaked in shadows and pained whispers. To me it sounds like it's surrounded by pervious statements.

It's also described as having too many eyes and as a watching figure. Even when it's eyes can't be seen you can still feel it watching you. (Notes below)

Episode 1 has a 'monster' that sounds similar to Error but it should be still trapped under the trapped door and it uses modern tech when Error uses Tapes. They both are watches, stalkers, and associated with eyes.

Statements

This is more of a feeling than a fact but the cases taken from victims seem to fit more with the original fears than the other cases.

The drowned woman Alice finds statement fits well with the buried. Her description of drowning is very similar to how Daisy describes being in the coffin just water instead of dirt. What's interesting is the water is salt water but the closest water source is a river. Salt representing the body in alchemy

Violets seems to hit on a lot of the stereotypical Lonely statements (fog, no one will find me, locked doors, literally ends with "I'm alone") Mentions of yellow which could link to alchemy. Daffodils are probably another reference to William Woodsworth.

Mr Jarrod's running and being chased which feels a lot like a hunt statement.

Gwens statement is about a fox full of maggots so feels a lot like a corruption statement

Sam's seems a lot like a flesh statement. More so as the statement goes on.

Ink5ouls I struggle to place and feels a lot more like a standard TMAGP statement.

Victims

Victims seem to get stuck in their worst nightmare. While they're still seen in the real world they seem to have physical reactions to the nightmare. Drown victim drowns, Violet ends up miles from her home, Mr Jarrod runs until he's caught.

Victims seem to come back to the real world when they interact with other people. Mr Jarrod briefly see's Alex, drown victim dropping in and out of the water could be when she bumps into people, Ink5ouls continues to interact with Gwen basically the whole time she's giving the statement so never fully goes to the nightmare. Should be noted that Gwen, Sam (and Ink5ouls) don't die in the nightmare and as a result don't die in real life. Other victims do.

My theory is that Error is using the victims statements and the tapes filled with them to stay in this dimension and not get kicked back out. It lives off of the fear and this universe isn't the fears. That's why it doesn't walk in and walk out. It appears and recedes. That's why Sam "recedes" into the statement.

Magnus Institute Manchester Ruins (Burned down in 1999)

Error first shows up under a trapped door under the Archive in the Magnus Institute Manchester. It's in a similar place to the one in the TMA Archives.

In episode 1 we get a description of the institute in 2022. It's described as being badly burned but the flooring being in a good state. Alternatively, just 2 years later, the floor is badly rotten to the point where Alice and Sam fall through it multiple times. It appears that there's more water damage done to the institute between 2022 and 2024 than between 1999 and 2022. This could be due to RedCanary maybe waking something up or letting something out?

RedCanary didn't find any paper while Alice and Sam find a lot. This could be because RedCanary never entered the Archives. (Making it even less likely that RedCanary didn't have a link with Error but maybe something else).

In both 2022 and 2024 symbols are found around the institute. RedCanary describing them as graffiti while Alice describes them as looking more like a worm eating the wood on the floor.

Notes below:

Air / Breathing & Water

Similar to Error itself a lot of the victims have trouble breathing due to the statement. It seems to be breathing in the Statements and surrounded by the 'pained whispers.' Error also only seems to turn up when water is present. Some of the examples are more of a stretch than others but I don't think it's a coincidence that it turns up when it's raining or in areas near the water. Notes below

This could be a link to alchemy. Water and Air being 2 of the 4 classical elements.

Not an expert on Alchemy (this is off of wikipedia) but the important part is that air linked with the start of life while water is linked with the end. Could Error be trying to preform some kind of rebirth into this universe. It's living in the water but it's trying to get into the air.

#the magnus protocol #tmagp #tmagp spoilers #the magnus protocol spoilers #magnus protocol #magnus protocol theory #tmagp theory #the magnus protocol theory #tmagp error

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tyrantisterror · 7 months ago

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While we’re on the subject of characters who “make you truly question makes one villainous”, what do you think of the take that villains, or at least ‘true’ villains, shouldn’t be sympathetic at all. That villains should simply be motivated by petty selfishness and cruelty. On one hand, that doesn’t sound like it makes for compelling stories, but on the other… most real-life villains really are motivated by nothing but greed and selfishness. And gain power by making people sympathize with them.

"Villain" is a word that has a lot of nuance to it that people in turn tend to overlook in favor of reducing it to "the guy it's ok to hate." "Antagonist" has the same problem, perhaps even worse, but that's another conversation.

Definitions don't help because more often than not they end up being intensely reductive of the broad scope of meanings the word has - again, another word with a similar problem in this regard is "monster," which can mean a bunch of a very different things that are all nonetheless recognizable by bearing some element of "monstrosity" to them.

So, like, one valid definition of villain is "an evil and unsympathetic character the audience is meant to hate." And I imagine if you gave that definition to most people, they'd agree - until you get to sympathetic characters who are still unmistakably villains. Like, would anyone say the word "villain" shouldn't include people like Doctor Octopus in Spider-Man II, or Mr. Freeze in Batman the Animated Series? Is Shakespeare's Macbeth excluded from the realm of villains because the play hinges on us finding ways to sympathize with him despite the horrific evil of his actions? Is Milton's Satan, perhaps the most iconic take on The Devil Himself, excluded from the conversation because Milton gave him pathos?

Villainy can be about the nature of your actions, and it can be about your relationship with society, and it can be about your choice of fashion and hobbies. It can be all of these things or none of them. Villainy is a form of being othered, one that has so many tropes attached to it and folded under it that the aesthetics of it can be divorced from the morality assigned to them easily. Villainy is so vast and complex a concept that a story can analyze it from a dozen different angels and still not capture the full scope of it.

Or, as one movie on the subject put it so succinctly:

youtube

It's about presentation.

As a writer and a reader of fiction, I love looking at time-tested tropes from a lot of different angles, and prying them apart to see how they work, and then seeing how far they can bend and twist until they break and become something else. I think locking yourself into one simple definition of what a villain can be is very limiting, creatively speaking, and think it's far more interesting to explore the concept from different angles. There's room for simple, pure evil bastards, sure, but there's also room for multifaceted evils, or characters will all the trappings of a villain but actions that ultimately speak to a nobility of spirit others have overlooked. The complexity of the trope is beautiful, why not explore it?

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allykakamatsu · 2 months ago

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Playing XC2 if you played Torna first is a very different experience

Aka, a rough list of all my reactions to things that I shouldn't of reacted to on a first run cause I played Torna first-

(Note, I played both games for the first time years ago, this is just a recreation of my reactions.)

(Chapter 1) Aww Azurda has new adopted human and this one calls him Gramps that's adorable!

meeting new Torna for the first time Aww it's a cute Gormotti girl-! Why is Malos here-?! JIN WHY ARE YOU WITH MALOS WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?!

Okay so Malos has a blade now, checks out given that his core is probably wrecked after what Mythra did to him but I guess Aegis's can be Drivers now.

JIN WHY DID YOU STAB A CHILD WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?!?!?!

Oh, so Pyra is Mythra's new self. She seems sweet but I want my sassy girl back.

(Chapter 2) Yay Gormott! Glad to see it's not burned to the ground anymore.

If I had a nickel for every time Brighid attacked us thinking we were criminals I'd have 2 nickels. Which isn't a lot but it's funny it happened twice.

Why isn't Pyra's fire affected by the water- oh is it cause of Mythra?

Oh, so Mórag is Brighid's new driver. Should've figured that out sooner but they're a cool looking pair. Wonder where Aegeon is though.

(Chapter 3) Hey Cole's scar kinda reminds me of Minoth, wonder what happened to him.

In between my tears over what just happened MYTHRA'S BACK FUCK YEAH!!!

(Chapter 4) Addam why the hell are you wearing a cloak you weren't wearing it in that scene.

MYTHRA I GET THAT YOU'RE UPSET AND PROBABLY STILL DEPRESSED OVER MILTON I AM TOO BUT I'M SORRY!!!

Wait.... COLE WAS MINOTH?!?! Jeez man what happened? I know you said you were a failed Flesh Eater but I didn't realise that meant this...

Also Minoth man, I love you but I think old age has made you senile why the hell are you sending us to Amalthus?

get's control of Mythra YES!! And omg her specials are her old arts that's adorable!!

Oh so this is the 'Evil Tifa' I've heard people joke about- wait.... MIKHAIL?!?! MY SON?! Okay this means you survived whatever the hell Amalthus did that's good, but it's been 500 years how are you still alive regardless? Also he's evil now which is bad but at least he's with his dad Jin.

WHY ARE YOU MAKING ME FIGHT MY SON GAME?!?!?!

Okay upside, Brighid's back at least and yup she's still awesome. And her specials are her old arts too that's still adorable.

Haze my babygirl you're back-! Wait, Fan la Norne? I'm with Mythra on this one when did that happen? And why is half of your core gone?

(More under cut)

(Chapter 5) Okay yeah I'm doubly with Mythra something happened to Haze and I am concerned.

Okay I can see why Addam picked this place for the Tornan refugees this place is beautiful.

Wait, Zeke's the Prince of where? I have not heard of Tantal before, is it new or am I forgetting something? (it was in-fact, relatively new)

in the same tone of 'Dinkleberg' Amalthus..... I can't prove it yet but you're the one behind Haze's missing core aren't you?

YES!! REX!! AMALTHUS WAS MALOS'S DRIVER DON'T TRUST HIM!!

Jin, I again ask what the hell happened to you?

Empty Moment- OH GOD THAT'S HIS LEVEL 4 I DID NOT WANT TO KNOW WHAT THAT FELT LIKE AAGGHH!!

Jin what are you doing- HAZE NO!!! JIN I KNOW HAZE HATED AMALTHUS AND HE PROBABLY DID SOMETHING TO HER BUT WHY DID YOU DO THAT?!?!

after I'm finished crying Oh, hey Aegeon, was wondering when you'd show up. And that's the Emperor of Mor Ardain? Aww, he looks like an even more baby Hugo-! Wait... Hugo.... oh no.

(Chapter 6) Niall what are you doing no no no-! NOT AGAIN!!!

Okay, Nia, thank you for stopping history from repeating itself.

The Tantalese are descendent from Addam, that can't be right Addam went to Leftheria-! Zettar started this, didn't he?

No tier lists I don't care if Aegeon sucks I'm gonna use him anyway because I am biased.

'Cadet Branch of the Royal Family' Yup, Zeke is descendant from Zettar, RIP my man having to be in the same bloodline as him.

GAME WHY ARE YOU MAKING ME FIGHT MY SON AGAIN-!! WHY DOES MIKHAIL HAVE A CORE CRYSTAL?!?!

Pyra Mythra no no no you two aren't just made to destroy don't go with them no no NO!!!

(Chapter 7) Ah, so this is where Addam hid the third sword. 5 minutes of gameplay later I can see why he hid it down here, this place would drive anyone mad.

Is this what it feels like to be on the receiving end of Addam's talent art? Cause all these reinforcements have to be equivalent to being perma toppled and launched with how long this takes.

Addam drop the hood already.

Malos you fucking bastard when I get my hands on you....!! Jin you can stay but you're on think fucking ice pardon the pun.

YES!! REX GIVE THOSE GIRLS THERAPY THEY NEED IT!!!

(Chapter 8) You know, I'm pretty sure most people picked Pyra here calls Pneuma Mythra but I am not most people

YAY!! I can play as Jin again! And he is somehow even more overpowered than before!

Jin why are you lying to Brighid, she's more mature but she's otherwise the same.

Jin... ate.... oh... I should've.... figured but.... oh god.... I just thought loosing Lora messed him up but having to eat.... yeah between that and Amalthus no wonder he's like this.

Torna......

Aww, nice Jin's still in there, he let us go and told Brighid the truth.

(Rest of the game cause I love it but I forget the chapter markers) So.... um.... Jin I'm glad you were able to find love again after Lora but why did it have to be Malos? Like this is weirdly sweet but this is a weird progression.

AMALTHUS I KNEW YOU WERE THE ONE WHO MESSED WITH HAZE MALOS YOU ARE OFFICIALLY PRIORITY 2 THIS BASTARD DIES FIRST!!

Okay that's how Mikhail survived this long so I guess Amalthus was good for one thing.

No no no no no no no- MIKHAIL!!!!! Why.....?!?- Oh god they're showing the scene where he met Lora and Jin again GAME WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?!?!

Okay I wanted to help Jin and stop Amalthus anyway but now I'm doing it for my baby boy.

Don't worry Jin I've got your back. THIS IS FOR LORA HAZE MIKHAIL AND EVERYONE ELSE YOU BASTARD!!!!!!

...... J... Jin...... chapter 9 is living up to it's name because I was a rainstorm of tears after this

Malos for Jin's sake I don't want to kill you anymore can you please stop- damn it!!

Never thought I'd be sad to see Malos go but, here we are.

Pyra, Mythra, what are you- no no no no NO!! POPPI I KNOW YOU'RE KEEPING YOUR PROMISE AND WE HAVE TO LEAVE BUT LET ME GO I HAVE TO SAVE THEM!!!!

bawling crying until the two come back and the tears become happy tears Heh... thank god....

#xenoblade #xenoblade chronicles 2 #xc2 #torna the golden country #this is very random but I'm in a xeno mood so whatever.#jin #malos #pyra #mythra #addam #brighid #aegeon #amalthus #haze #fan la norne #mikhail

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russellsppttemplates · 9 months ago

Note

max taking you to milton keynes for the red bull launch and celebrating valentine’s day

"Are you sure you don't mind?", Max asked again, "I get that it can be boring for you, I'll come back as soon as I can and we'll do our own celebrations", he said. He appreciated your good side on wanting to go with him. It wouldn't be the first time you were adjusting your schedule so support him, like many times he had done the same to his own so he could accompany you to your events and achievements.

"I really don't mind, love", you reiterated, "all I want is to spend time with you, so if you don't mind me going, I'd love to attend", you smiled genuinely.

"Of course I don't mind, I want to have you there! But not at the cost of your sanity or to make you melt down from boredom", he chuckled as he finished writing the e-mail, informing you'd join him after all, ensuring the team were counting with you.

As soon as the launch was dealt with and Max tended to his duties, he was quick to whisk you back to your room, a box on top of the bed with your name on it, "I told you I didn't want anything", you shook your head as your hands met at the back of his neck, nudging your nose on his neck, "I like to think of it more of a gift to myself actually", he smirked, letting you shower first while he got his own outfit ready.

When he was showering, you opened the box to see the most beautiful dress you ever held in your hands. It wasn't extravagant and it wasn't sparkly. It was you, as Max had thought when he saw it. Simple, elegant and classy. Not flashy, but he was sure the minute you'd put in on, everyone would turn their heads to look at you.

"Wow, you look even better than I imagined, liefje", Max mumbled as he came out of the bathroom, shirtless and only with his dark jeans on, lips kissing your earlobe softly and sending a shiver down your spine.

"It's not a fancy one, because I know you hate those, but it came highly recommended by a lot of people from the team for today's dinner", Max said as he parked the car, opening the door for you as you took in the small restaurant.

"Thank you for this, love", you smiled, kissing his cheek and lacing your hand in his, "thank you for being here and for supporting me, I love you, Y/N".

(Thank you for your submission ✨️)

#max verstappen blurb #inês writes blurbs #f1 blurb #f1 x reader

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bananaactivity · 29 days ago

Text

Kickin It X Lab rats???

Naw jk kinda…

Billy Unger was in Kickin it for realies as a Character called Brody. Technically he was a good guy by the end but I changed that so that he and Kai are literally besties. Like imagine how Jerry and Jack are. That’s what these two are like…. But evil

LMAOO I could’ve done this with Carlos and Jay, I probably will.

Kai is like way shorter then everyone else which is funny because he’s the most violent and the leader. He’s like an angry wet cat.

Here’s the info on the two

Kai

Kyle “Kai” Andrew Brewer:

18 yrs old Born: Oct 31

Leader of the White Inferno (Second degree Black Belt)

Wassabi Parallel: Jackson “Jack” Garfield Brewer

Catchphrases: “ You're gonna regret that…” “Weak Shit.” “Im leading a pack of dipshits.” “ Ill scramble your fucking insides” “ Oh this isnt fruit juice on my clothes ,trust me.” “ I'm the best of the best, If anyone says anything to the contrary I'll kill them”

An absolutely stacked martial artist who spent lots of his time training not just for revenge but for the love of it. He is a spicy guy who has fun while being a downright dangerous man. He can get along with anyone but would rather give them heart attacks with a mere glance. He rollerblades and plays bass guitar. He's strong and agile with a domineering presence and is down right bloodthirsty (He craves confrontation and validation, nothing makes him smile like beating people to bloody pulps LMAO) He's also an asshole, don't get it twisted he's a massive dick head. Literally look at him he is a JERK.

Dragon Relationships:

Carson: His second in command who he generally trusts and his sparring partner

Brody: Someone he knows is the actual second best but also knows that competition keeps him sturdy and likes him much more than Carson. That’s his literal bestie

Frank: An idiot who tests Kai daily and of whom he's had to man handle many times, still at least a good fighter

Arthur: An absolute quack at martial arts whose spot on the team is paid. He's funny though.

Wasabi Relationships:

Jack: Kais cousin of whom he considers a weak, traitor who he's NOT even with. He will absolutely crush him like a bug if given a chance.

Kim: A girl whom Carson is obsessed with.

Jerry: A dancing buffoon

Milton: A nerd who once hit him with a crab leg. That was unforgivable and Kai is plotting his murder.

Eddy: Someone almost as talentless as Arther

Brody

Brody Edvin Carlson:

18 yrs old Born: Aug 19

3rd Rank of the White Inferno (1st Degree Black Belt/ close to second degree)

Wassabi Parallel: Jeremiah “Jerry” Tomas Martineiz

Catchphrases: “I'M THE BEST! ME. ME. ME.” “Not my problem brochacho” “I WIN. YOU LOSE. I'M THE BEST. DEAL WITH IT.”

A tough disciplined Martial Artist who respects authority immensely. He has a high skill level mixed with natural talent and quick learning that makes him a force to be reckoned with. He holds back on Carson; in respect to how Kai placed the ranks. (He's obsessed with Kai fr tho, kinda a D rider tbh) He can act crazy and have fun but seriousness is typically required to maintain respect especially in front of the WW so that they feel inferior.

Dragon Relationships:

Kai: Literally Carson is obsessed with the man as he wants to be that revered and respected for his raw power and skill.

Carson: Someone Brody will do anything to one up and desperately wants his spot as second.

Frank: His sparring partner who he sees potential in

Arthur: A rich guy

Wasabi Relationships:

Jack: Enemy number 1 but still respects his talents.

Kim: Enemy number 2, no feelings were at play for what he did to her

Jerry: Enemy number 3, a goofball with no sense of respect or discipline

Milton:Enemy number 4, a nerd but focused

Eddy: Enemy number 5, someone not to be overlooked but no match for Brody

BESTIESSSS YASSSSSS

#kickin it #leo howard #billy unger #kai brewer #jack brewer #kim crawford #chase davenport #lab rats elite force #lab rats

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tinycoded360 · 7 months ago

Text

Sterling household-Chapter 1- Cozy

Milton Borrowfield crept within the walls of the giant household. It was dark and late in the evening, but to borrowers, this was prime time. Unlike their bigger counterparts, borrowers slept during the day and went about their night as if it were day.

"Papa!" came a small voice. Milton turned to see his daughter Agnes emerging from one of the side passageways leading to the bedroom quarters for the children, a cozy nook lined with scraps of fabric and down feathers. She ran to give him a quick hug.

"Where are you off to?" she asked.

"I've got to check our supplies. Winter will be here before we know it." Milton patted her shoulder.

Agnes nodded seriously. She knew how hard it was for borrower families like theirs to stay warm and fed during the cold months.

Milton headed further down the winding passageways within the human’s home, past the tiny nook containing their kitchen where his wife Cassia was boiling thimblefuls of tea. He gave her a wink as he passed. She blew him a kiss in return.

"Be safe, my love," she said.

He lifted a loose bit of wallpaper and slipped behind it into their pantry. It was neatly organized but sparse. They were running low on everything. Milton sighed. He would have to take more risks if he wanted his family to survive the winter. Although some things were easy to borrow in a human house, getting what they needed was always risky. The human was very neat and clean. This made it harder to get into the food supplies; the human Sterling was very good at keeping his food stored and sealed. The only saving grace was that the human was oblivious; Milton had some very close calls before, where he swore he was done for. In the warmer months, Milton and his family took advantage of the outdoors and got what they needed from the human’s garden. But as winter approaches, it would be harder to borrow food from the human, the risk of being seen would increase. But it would be worth keeping his dear Cassia and their children happy, healthy, and cozy.

Milton emerged from the pantry, brows furrowed with concern. His youngest, Finn, waddled over to him, arms raised expectantly.

"Uppy, Papa!" the four-year-old boy demanded.

Milton smiled and swept Finn into his arms. At least his children were still blissfully unaware of their precarious situation.

He carried Finn into the kitchen, where Cassia ladled hot tea into thimble cups. She glanced at Milton knowingly.

"I told you, we needed more, what’s the damage?" she asked.

Milton nodded. "We've got enough for maybe another week or two. After that..."

He trailed off, not wanting to upset Finn. The boy squirmed out of his arms and scurried off to play with his siblings.

Cassia stepped closer and put a hand on Milton's shoulder. "We'll figure something out. We always do."

"But winter is nearly here. I don't know if I can provide everything; we must keep the children warm and healthy. Especially with the human spending more time indoors now."

Cassia nodded, her expression serious but unafraid. "It won't be easy. But we've prepared as best we can, and we still have a couple of months left. And I have faith in you, my love. Your cleverness has gotten us through tough times before."

Milton pulled his wife close.

Cassia smiled up at him, pride and trust shining in her eyes. "Now come, the tea is getting cold."

Milton's mind raced as he held Cassia's hand, sipping tea and eating breakfast with his family. The bitter cold of winter was nearly upon them, and the thought of his children suffering from frigid temperatures twisted his gut. It wouldn’t be so bad if the human turned up the temperature in the house, but the human seemed content to only use blankets. And every time Milton tried to change the temperature on the thermostat, the human would turn it back down, grumbling about broken machines and raising costs, whatever that meant.

When the lights in the giant's home went dark tonight, Milton would make his move. He would creep through the hidden passageways, scurry across the massive floor, and climb into the giant's bedroom. There, he would take what he desperately needed - a pair of the thick, woolen socks the giant wore to bed each night. The giant had so many pairs that he wouldn’t miss these.

It was terribly risky, but he pushed down his fear. For his children, he would brave anything. He met Cassia's eyes, seeing his own steely resolve reflected back. She knew what he planned to do and had faith in him. Her quiet strength gave him courage.

When the moment came, Milton hugged each of his children tightly.

"Be good for your mother," he said. "I'll be back before you go to bed."

Then, with a final kiss for Cassia, he slipped into the darkness. His footfalls made no sound as he navigated the secret paths through the walls. Upstairs, he crept beneath the giant's door and scanned the massive room. His heart pounding, Milton scurried directly to the dresser, climbed up the side, he was in luck the drawer was open, enough for him to wiggle into, he then dove into the sock drawer.

Milton's nose twitched as he burrowed into the pile of fuzzy socks. They were soft and warm - exactly what his family needed to make it through the harsh winter. Carefully, he selected two pairs and rolled them up.

Just then, the floor began to shake as the giant lumbered into the bedroom. Milton's blood turned to ice. He dove under the piles of socks just in time as the dresser drawer slid open. A massive hand reached in, nearly grabbing Milton as it rummaged around.

Milton held perfectly still, clutching the socks close. After what felt like an eternity, the giant removed his hand and moved to slide the drawer shut. The giant cursed as the drawer snagged, not closing all the way. Milton heard the deep rumbled of the human’s voice as he muttered about getting the ‘dam drawer fixed’. Milton sagged with relief, then pricked his ears up. The giant was still in the room - he could hear its thunderous footsteps.

Ever so slowly, Milton peeked out from his hiding spot. He crawled to the opening of the drawer, peeking out. He would have to be quick and clever to return to his family undetected.

Milton watched as Sterling opened his book, the pages crinkling loudly in the quiet room. Milton cursed his luck and the humans’ love for his books. He’d have to wait until the human got tired and went to bed.

After what felt like an eternity, Sterling finally closed his book and yawned loudly. Milton stayed perfectly still as he watched the human get ready for bed.

*****

Milton's heart pounded as he watched the giant human stir in his sleep. This was his chance - he had to make a run for it before Sterling woke up.

With nimble feet, Milton scurried across the top of the dresser; he held his breath as he darted behind a framed photo, peering around the edge. The giant let out a rumbling snore, his mountainous chest rising and falling.

Milton made his move, scrambling down the leg of the dresser and onto the carpeted floor. He was so close - just a few more feet and he'd be safe in the walls.

Suddenly, the giant rolled over with a groan. Milton froze, pressing himself flat against the floor. Holding perfectly still, he watched as one massive eye fluttered open, scanning the room. Milton didn't dare breathe.

After a few tense moments, the giant's eyes drifted shut once more. Milton sagged with relief. He was about to get up when a shadow fell over him. Milton froze, eyes widening. Whiskers! The cat had spotted him from her perch on the windowsill. She leapt down, sharp claws clicking on the hardwood floors as she prowled towards Milton.

Thinking fast, he scrambled as fast as he could for the baseboard. He squeezed through the crack and into the dark safety of the walls, his heart hammering against his tiny ribs.

Whiskers released a frustrated mewl and tried to reach her paw after him. Milton scooted back out of her reach, his heart hammering.

Clutching his prize, Milton hurried home, eager to present the socks to his beloved Cassia and their children.

Milton hurried through the narrow passages within the walls, retracing the steps back to his family's cozy home.

Rounding a corner, he spotted a familiar knot in the wood paneling and knew he was close. "Cassia!" he called softly. "Children! I have returned!"

"Papa, you're back!" little Finn cried, rushing to hug Milton's leg.

Milton picked Finn up and spun him around. "That's right, my boy. And look what I brought for you." He held up the fuzzy socks.

"Oh, they're wonderful!" said Lila, running her hands over the soft material.

"With these, we can make some cozy little beds," Milton said. "Now, let's get to work. Agnes, Pippin - you two gather up all the cotton and fabric scraps you can find."

The older children scurried off, eager to help.

Soon, they were all busy at work. Pippin and Agnes returned, arms loaded with stuffing and fabric pieces. Cassia began sewing blankets.

Finn toddled around, trying to hand out supplies. "I help too!" he said. Milton ruffled Finn's hair.

"That you do, son."

They worked together, creating cozy little beds from the odds and ends available. The children were vibrating with excitement.

Finally, the beds were ready. The family gathered around to admire their handiwork.

The children cheered and immediately burrowed into their new beds. Sighs of contentment echoed around the room.

Milton and Cassia smiled at each other. It filled their hearts with joy to see their family safe, happy, and comfortable once more.

Cassia settled into the cozy blanket nest she had made, pulling Lila close. The little girl snuggled against her mother's chest, yawning.

"Tell me a story, Mama," Lila murmured.

Cassia stroked her daughter's hair. "Hmm, let's see. Once upon a time, there was a brave borrower named Lila..."

As Cassia wove a tale of adventure for Lila, Milton sat with Pippin and Agnes on their beds.

"Did the giant human almost squash you, Papa?" Pippin asked, his eyes wide.

Milton chuckled. "Oh, he came close a few times. But I was too quick for him!"

"Wow," Agnes breathed. She fingered the soft sock that served as her pillow. "It must have been so scary in the big house."

"It was, at first," Milton admitted. "But then I remembered how cold you all get at night. So I kept going, as quiet as a mouse."

"Tell us more!" Pippin begged. The two leaned forward eagerly.

Smiling, Milton regaled them with the tale of his mission, embellishing some details to make it more thrilling. The children gasped and cheered at all the right moments.

Milton finished his story, concluding with a dramatic escape through a mouse hole as Whiskers' giant paw swiped at him.

"You're the bravest borrower ever!" Agnes declared.

Milton chuckled. "Well, one day, that will be you too."

He tucked the blankets snugly around them. Pippin let out a huge yawn.

"I think it's time for my little mice to sleep," Milton said fondly. He bent down to kiss each of their foreheads.

As the children's eyes fluttered closed, Cassia came over and squeezed Milton's hand, leaning over and giving him a tender kiss.

Next part

Author Note: This was initially made for last year's October prompt word list. I made an outline for many keywords, but I never got around to flushing it out. I greatly admire anyone who can write a short story in a day. I can't do it, but you're amazing if you can. This one prompt was 'Cozy'. You'll be seeing more of the Sterling household. These characters I made specifically for the prompt challenge because I find it hard to keep coming up with character names, lol.

#g/t #g/t writing #giant/tiny #g/t community #g/t writers #original work #borrowers #giant tiny #gt fluff #gt community

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siriusleee · 1 year ago

Text

up to light

a/n: so part 1 and 2 were the only parts of this story that were originally going to be published. i did this to wrap the story up, so it is narratively different because the first 2 parts were a story of like being enamored and panic, and all that. this is about becoming better and healing. i did a lot of research into ptsd in returning soldiers for this. tags: PTSD, arguing, some domestic arguments, breaking shit, fighting, blood, redemption, some religious imagery, did not proofread because I am lazy “Long is the way and hard, that out of Hell leads up to light.” ― John Milton, Paradise Lost part one | part two

He has fits of rage that shock him: chairs broken into pieces, plates smashed in the sink, his hand through the window, a hole in her dashboard. Sodom and Gomorrah beneath his hands. He expects her to react in kind; more than once he begs her to retaliate, to scream at him.

She refuses, but she doesn't speak to him when she wraps his knuckles, wiping the blood away with a sting. He fixes each broken item the next day, a silent apology that he'll do better the next time he gets angry.

Once he wakes up and expects her to be in the kitchen like every morning, the golden light filtering through - a cup of coffee already made for him on the counter. She's not there. He knocks on her bedroom door, but she doesn't answer. He doesn't know what to do with himself, so he paces, carving a trail in the carpet. He sits at the kitchen table and flashes back to seeing her above him. He can't sit there long.

It takes an hour for her to come back, grocery bags in her hand. He barely registers what he's doing when he grabs her by her shoulders in a bruising grip and shakes her. He doesn't yell, but he's close to it.

"Where the fuck were you? You were supposed to be here!"

The bags hit the floor, contents spilling out onto a disarray. She shoves him, harder than he would have expected her to be able to; he stumbles backward, surprised at her strength.

Scream at me. Please.

She doesn't move, fist clenched at her side - an archangel ready to strike him down. She rubs her hands on the thighs of her jeans, eyes downcast before she speaks to him.

"You can break everything in my house if you want, but the next time you grab me like that, you will regret it."

She is the wrath of God; Simon expects her to strike him down at any moment: his angel showing her true strength. He feels her anger radiate off her in waves. But she leaves it, dropping to her knees to grab the apples that have rolled across the floor. Simon's hands shake when he bends down to help her; the first box he picks up is the brand of tea he mentioned last week.

***

You teach him how to garden; repenting to the dirt for all the harm you've ever caused. The dirt cakes under his nails and in the evenings he lets you wash them. You trace your fingers over the bruised and raw skin of his knuckles before he pulls away and disappears into the spare bedroom.

He stays up in the long watches of the night; you hear him through the thin walls. He showers quickly - you don't even think five minutes pass before the water shuts off. You wonder if he wears his mask to the shower.

He's there to watch your cook dinner every night, a shepherd of the potatoes.

"Here," you say, shoving the vegetables towards him, "cut these up for me please."

You both eat in silence, your eyes downcast so that you don't see his face. He eats everything quickly, finishing his second plate before you can even finish your first.

He leaves you at the dinner table to check the locks, to make sure the windows are latched shut against the outside world. He rotates through each of them twice, reassuring himself that they're impenetrable. He checks the shotgun behind the front door before disappearing into the spare room. Through the door, you hear the sound of a bullet being chambered; you know he puts it underneath his pillow and there's another on the bedside table.

***

Simon spends more nights at the bar than he'd like to admit. She's always there to unlock the door for him to stumble in, feet catching the edge of the stairs. He leans on her and she helps him to bed. She doesn't complain about his weight. She slides his boots off, fingers catching in the laces. Her hands trail up lightly, pausing at the scar she knows is below his ribs, before pushing down gently on his shoulders.

Simon lets himself fall heavily back, he pretends not to feel her run her fingers across the top of his mask, nails massaging his scalp through the fabric before she leaves him.

One night he lets himself fall into temptation, his hand snaking out to grab her wrist when she turns. His thumb traces the inside of her wrist, she smells like apple blossoms and spring. Redemption.

"What is it, Ghost?"

She speaks so softly to him, it makes the room spin around him.

"I'm sorry I'm a disaster."

In the moonlight, her eyes soften; she pulls her wrist from his hand. For just a moment, their fingertips linger together.

"Go to sleep, Ghost."

It spills out of him, a prayer he wants her to listen to.

"Simon."

"Go to bed, Simon."

She leaves him in the dark.

***

You go out with Simon when the New Year comes; he promises he won't drink as much as he usually does. It's a tradition - an obligation the two of you can't seem to shake off from all the years before each other. You nurse a rum and coke for hours and watch him disappear into the dark corners with his drinks. When the fireworks go off early outside, it takes you by surprise; you push through the crowd, drink spilling onto your wrist. You find Simon in the back, hands bleeding where he gripped his glass hard enough to shatter it.

Outside a firework explodes in the sky, bright enough to shine through the dingy windows of the bar. Simon doesn't look at you when you wrap your hands around his wrist, trying to pull his attention to you. Beneath your fingers, his muscles are taunt - ready to run.

"Simon, come on. Let's go home."

He lets you pull him towards the back door of the bar, and into the dark parking lot, but his muscles don't - can't - relax under your touch. Outside the air crackles around the two of you, the fireworks screaming in the air. You lace your fingers through his and pull him towards your car, blood pooling where your hands connect. Three men watch the two of you, the cherries of their cigarette burn in the darkness.

One of them jeers at you - come on babe, ditch him and come with us.

Simon rips his fingers from you, his anger exploding in the night.

***

He is Apollyon in the darkness; he comes to when his feet connect to the door of the guy's truck. It crumples beneath his boot, caving in. He hears the guys screaming at him; one tries to grab him and Simon shoves him off. Dents litter the side of the truck the guys were leaning on and one of the men has his hand pressed to his nose, blood running between his fingers.

His lungs burn in the cold air. The guys are still screaming at him, minglings of you fucked up, and call the fucking cops. Shame burns through him when he finds Hazy, her hands hanging limply at her side, illuminated by a street light. Her face is screwed up; Simon knows she's about to cry. His blood stains her jeans - he's slammed back to her begging him for his name, hands trying to stem the flow of his blood- back to her pulling him from the nightmares.

Hazy.

His angel.

He leaves her in the parking lot - the shouts and fireworks behind him.

The door is unlocked when he gets back to her place - the sun tinging the horizon. His heart stutters - she never leaves the door unlocked, but it stills when he sees her curled up on the couch. She's under the blanket from his bed, hair haloed around her. He lowers himself down to the floor beside her and falls asleep with his head by her knees.

***

You slither from behind Simon, fingers tracing his shoulders as you try not to wake him, but he stirs beneath your touch. You lower down beside him, back pressed against your coffee table. His eyes shine in the early morning glow, the skin below dark from exhaustion.

You reach forward to grab his hands gently, flipping them over to inspect the clotted blood from the night before.

"I'm sorry," his voice cracks from the lack of sleep. You trace one of the cuts with your thumb before cradling his hand in your lap.

"I know you are."

"I don't know what's wrong with me," it comes out half a whisper; you grip his wrist tighter. You push yourself up enough to crawl in front of him, resting your knees between his. You hold yourself up by leaning on his thighs, hands pressing into the rough material of his jeans, dirt and blood that wasn't there the night before staining your hands.

"I'm ruining everything." His voice is rough and he looks at the ceiling above you.

"Simon," your voice draws his eyes down to yours, "you're still learning how to come home. It's not easy - I know."

He reaches down to grab your wrists, pulling your hands up until they're level with his chest. You can see he wants to say something; he struggles to form the words. His eyes stay locked where he holds your wrists.

"I'm - I'm worried I'm going to hurt you."

"I can take care of myself."

Simon squeezes your wrists, hard enough that you know you'll have a thumbprint bruise there tomorrow.

"I know you can, angel."

***

Johnny shows up a few months later banging on the door. Simon's fingers itch for the pistol beneath his pillow at the sound, but he can't make it across the room before Hazy swings open the door.

"It's for you Simon," she yells over her shoulder. She lets Johnny in, muttering something about another one showing up.

"What are you doing here Johnny?"

Johnny grins at Simon from his spot on the steps.

"Just wanted to check on you L.T.; make sure you were surviving."

"Fuck off Johnny. You came to eat for free."

***

Simon and Soap - no Johnny is what Simon called him - sit outside and smoke on the front steps while you finish dinner, beating the chicken until it's paper thin. Their cigarette smoke floats through the window - the same window Simon put his hand through after one of the neighbors complained about him cleaning his gun on the front steps - and curls around you. It makes your stomach turn, reminding you of how you and your Boys had sat with your feet dangling outside of the helis and passed a cigarette along when you were finally pulled out, the way you all smoked on the back of a smoking Stryker when it got hit by an EFP - the copper lodging itself just inches from your own sergeant. You hadn't been able to smoke since you came home years ago.

The chicken sizzles in the oil when you drop it into the pan - the sound of Johnny laughing cutting through the air. You hear Simon laugh just slightly beneath him, a sound you hadn't heard since he showed up at your door.

You call to the boys from the open window, chastising them to wash their hands before they dare touch the dinner you slaved over.

It's horrifically domestic, you think, watching the two of them eat at the dinner table from your spot in the living room. Simon has his back to you; you can see his balaclava pushed up around his nose, the two of them angle themselves towards each other. Simon's loose, shoulders slumped in comfort at the way Johnny speaks to him. The way Johnny can touch Simon's shoulder without Simon flinching away from him.

All at once it hits you - a wave of jealousy in the pit of your stomach. You leave the two of them in the house, your feet pulling you towards the rain-soaked pavement outside; the smell of ichor overwhelming you.

***

Simon hears the door shut behind Hazy - Johnny stares intently at the door, eyebrows knitted together.

"I think your girl is upset."

"She's not my girl Johnny."

"Oh?" Johnny's eyebrows go up, disappearing into the hair he's growing out. "So you just live here and nothing? You don't fuck?"

Simon's hand hits the top of the dining room table, hard enough to knock over Johnny's glass of water.

"Shut your fuckin' mouth; don't speak about her like that."

Simon can see a dangerous glint in Johnny's eye, in the way Johnny leans closer to him. It makes Simon's skin prickle.

"So she's open for business? I might stay awhile; I was hoping to share her like-"

Simon slams into Johnny, the chair beneath shattering like matchsticks. They land heavily on the ground, Simon's hands fisted in the front of Johnny's shirt. Johnny doesn't fight back - his hands out to the side of him, ever forgiving on the cross, as he grins up at Simon. Simon lifts him up once before slamming him back into the ground, but Johnny never winces.

The anger rolls and bubbles inside of Simon, hellfire ready to overflow. The stupid fucking grin on Johnny's face makes it worse. Johnny's hand wraps around Simon's wrist, limply, but enough to remind Simon that Johnny can still kick his ass.

"Be honest with me L.T.."

Simon's fingers falter in the slick fabric of Johnny's shirt.

"I'm going to hurt her Johnny."

"L.T.-"

"I get so fucking angry at everything. I grabbed her once. I'm worried I'm going to do it again."

It scared the fuck out of me.

***

You notice one less chair when you get home, hair stuck to your neck from the humidity. Johnny is gone, a thank you for dinner note scrawled in chicken scratch handwriting on the counter. The sink is empty, dishes washed and dried, and put away.

You can see in the small backyard, Simon sitting on the back steps. His mask is off; his hair, brown and cut short, makes your fingers itch to run through it. He's cradling his head in his hands - you want to go out to him, to rub your hands across his back, but you don't.

The shower water runs hot, burning your skin red. You let it wash over you, a Lazarus pit trying to pull you back into the mortal realm. The backdoor slams shut, hard enough to shake the walls around you. Outside of the shower, your hair drips onto the carpet of your bedroom as you dress, drenching the back of the t-shirt you pull on. It takes a moment for you to realize it's Simon's, hanging to your knees; it must have gotten mixed up in the wash.

Simon's on the couch, balaclava pulled back on. You drop down heavily on the other end of the couch, the distance a chasm between the two of you. Unceremoniously Simon holds out a wrinkled pamphlet towards you; you take it, wet fingertips indenting the paper. PTSD for Veterans.

"It's a group; Johnny goes to it."

You trace your fingers over the words without reading them.

"I went to one like this when I got out," you tell him, handing the pamphlet back to him. "It helped a lot."

Simon doesn't speak, but he tucks the pamphlet back into his jeans.

Next Tuesday, he comes home sober.

***

Simon sits in the back of the group for weeks, his usual balaclava switched out for a plain black surgical mask to keep everyone from staring at him. They talk about ways to reduce anger, to get your mind back here and not there.

The next time he curls his fist, he remembers what the group leader said about pausing and being in the moment. His hand unfurls slowly. He sets the glass he thinks about shattering back in the sink. Beside him, Hazy hums, slicing mushrooms into precise slices. He reaches around her to grab the dish soap; his hand lingers at the small of her back for a moment too long; he sees how Hazy stops cutting the mushrooms, how the next cut is uneven.

They don't speak at dinner; the sound of their forks on the plates punctuates the silence. Hazy goes to wash the dishes, but Simon beats her to it. He can feel her eyes on him, piercing him from behind as he slops the dishwater onto his shirt.

Hazy leans across the counter, watching as Simon meticulously dries each plate, each fork tine until they shine the way he wants them to.

"Do you want to go on a walk?" She asks as he finishes. Simon wipes his wet hands on his jeans as he looks at her.

"Sure."

They pace beside each other, the hot pavement cooling beneath their feet. They're crossing the street when Hazy reaches out and takes Simon's hand; the first time since New Year's. Simon remembers his dreams of her, golden haloed and tracing the scars on his body.

They walk in silence, a quarter-mile trek until they circle back home, Simon's heart in his throat the entire time. He knows something is different when the door clicks behind them; in the dark, he can see Hazy fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. Simon pushes the bottom of his mask up enough to hook over his nose; when she turns back around, she doesn't speak, her hand lifts up to trace Simon's jawline, but pulls back before she can actually touch him. She starts to pull away, but Simon catches her and pulls her hand to his face.

She's so soft and warm, the way he dreamt she would be. She traces a scar on the underside of his chin and Simon feels his knees buckle, just a bit.

"Can I touch you?" His voice is soft, so quiet he can hardly hear himself. Hazy's breath catches in her throat, fingers teasing the edge of his mask. She nods; Simon wraps the piece of hair that hangs down in front of her face around his finger before resting his hand on her shoulder. He can feel her pulse quicken beneath her skin.

"Are you scared of me?"

Hazy's hand trails down past his chin to rest on his chest, nails lightly digging into his skin.

"Are you?"

His thumb rests on her clavicle; his hand tights against her skin.

"Absolutely. I wake up every day worried I'm going to hurt you."

Hazy presses herself closer, Simon's hand reaches up to tangle in the hair at the nape of her neck. Her hands slide under his shirt, tracing the scars below and Simon sees his angel again, she pulls him back from the darkness.

"You're not going to hurt me, Simon."

"How do you know?"

Her answer is to kiss him, pulling him down to her height. Her tongue traces the edges of his lips, pushing through until Simon can taste her. Simon's grip on the back of her neck tightens, and he pulls her closer until Simon can feel the heat of her through his clothes.

She guides him to her room, fingers soft and pleading against his belt buckle. When Simon freezes at her touch, she doesn't push him farther, she stills until Simon can move again. Later, when the sheet is tangled beneath them, and she's straddled over him, fingers splayed out across his chest, tracing the scars that crisscross at random, Simon brushes her hair out of her face.

"I thought you were an angel when you were above me on that table. I dreamt about you - a golden halo."

And this.

The corner of Hazy's mouth twitches up, and she presses a kiss to the middle of his chest.

"I thought you were going to die there; I begged god to keep you alive."

Simon's hands grip her hips, stilling her.

"Why didn't you ever come back and see me?"

Hazy traces her fingers in circles slowly around Simon's skin, and he waits for her answer.

"You called me an angel that day when you woke up. It scared me, someone so enamored with me like that just all at once. I didn't know what to do. I thought I would disappoint you when you got your senses about you."

Simon flips the both of them, hovering over her, studying the way the light glitters in her eyes. He wants to tell her how his angel could never disappoint him - how she keeps him alive every day, but he can't make the words come out of his mouth. Instead, he presses a kiss to the base of her neck, fingers dipping below her shirt.

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