#gunpowder supply

[damez1979]

Assassin's Creed Unity - Destroying Lafrenière's Gunpowder | La Halle aux Blés Mission Walkthrough

[alanide-arts]

Chief Botanist at the beginning of the game: Gentle, quirky plant man. So soft, could do no wrong

Chief Botanist at the end of the game: Will most likely commit arson for you

[dailygunpowderboys]

[skhardwarevers1]

Studied! All I have learned is the answer is either champa rice or gunpowder

[carmillatism]

HER. GOD. MY WIFE.

I cooked up a quick Tim i hope you guys appriciate her

If you see a mass appearance of Tim in variations of this exact dress it's because a few artists including me all got a vision from star clan and we're all recreating it as we speak

[oceantornadoo]

ch8 something borrowed something blue (mafia!price x simon's sister!reader)

tw: reader has some body insecurities and a small panic attack. also oral sex. not at the same time lmao

masterlist | next

In the hazy morning of the next day, John moves to get out of bed at his ungodly workout time. Instead of feigning sleep like usual, you grab his shoulder forcefully. He freezes, then turns to look at you as you prop yourself up on an elbow. “Stay.” You murmur, voice gravelly from sleep. “You sure?” He asks, but he’s already sinking back down into the mattress. You nod, then climb on top of him, your head in the crook of his neck like always. “Go back to bed, John.” And he does.

-

The thing is, John wasn’t supposed to marry her. She wasn’t Kyle’s first recommendation, nor second. He had recommended an oil heiress, which his Captain turned down. Next, an Irish mafia princess, also turned down. In fact, his Captain didn’t seem to want to be married at all. Which was fine, if this was a normal life where Kyle hadn’t been nicked off the streets after picking the pockets of a Price man and plopped into the office of John Price, a leader who needed sneaky men with audacity like Kyle. Now, Price was pushing 40 without heirs, and that needed to be solved quickly. The Riley sister was only offered as an offhand comment.

“Christ, sir, if y’re gonna be picky, might as well marry the Riley. Then we’ll have a real shitshow on our hands.” Instead of answering, John leaned back in his office chair and stroked his beard, like a villain from a movie. “She single?” If Kyle wasn’t better trained, his mouth would’ve dropped. But he was Head of Security for a reason, so all he did was hand his boss her file. 

Kyle didn’t like the Rileys - specifically, John MacTavish. The bastard was always trying to one up him, with new toys on the streets and the threat of bombs lurking around every corner. He knew MacTavish was close with Ghost’s sister, having seen the two giggle, thick as thieves, at galas and weddings. If he was a stupider man, he’dve sensed an affair, but he knew she wasn’t Tav’s type. It was a well-kept secret, but Kyle kept it as well as his own. There were some lines you didn’t cross, even in this business.

Price flipped through the file, frowning at the data before him. “Ghost has had these weapons all this time?” Kyle shakes his head, pointing to a graph in the report. “It only really started when he recruited MacTavish, ‘bout six years ago. An’ my sources tell me the sister’s got a mind f’r business.” Price hums thoughtfully. Kyle knows what, or who, he’s thinking about. Shepherd encroaching on their territory, supplied with weapons from American ex-pats. The streets smell of gunpowder, more and more skirmishes by the day. “Ghost’s tryin’ t’ get cleaner.” It wasn’t a question, but a fact. Kyle’s informants had made him aware of the Riley family trying to buy businesses, only to be turned away when they found out who they were owned by. Price’s businesses for Ghost’s money and weapons. “Might not be the worst trade, sir.” Kyle murmurs. He can’t believe he’s proposing a wedding where he’ll have to see MacTavish on the other side of the aisle. 

-

After said wedding, Kyle started regretting the whole thing. He knows what it is to love a man, to be in love with one, and that’s not what he has with his Captain. It’s more like seeing a big brother leave for college, knowing he’s nearby but out of reach. The plan was to have Mrs. X, as the security team had taken to calling Price’s future wife, live in a property an hour out of the city. Out of harm’s way but easy to visit when baby-making was required. The plan had been developed before they’d decided on a wife for him. It decidedly went out the window once he’d decided on Ms. Riley.

Suddenly she was in the Castle, changing decor and befriending staff. She was meeting with Laswell and had taken Terrance as her own, a change Kyle had not approved of. So, sure, he was a bit of a jerk to her. It was the childish notion that she’d taken his favorite person, and he’d lashed out, only to be reprimanded by said person. Kyle's in toddler timeout, and he's determined to make it right.

-

A few days after the Friday incident, he finds her eating lunch in the kitchen. It seems she’s finally befriended Chef, a feat he could never perform. Chef’s a French grandpa, huffing out syllables that don’t go together under his breath. 

“What’re ya eatin’?” An odd opening, seeing as this is their second conversation ever. He plops down into the chair next to her as she sets down her sandwich, brows furrowed in a question. He can’t blame his Captain; she is pretty. Not his usual type in women, but her wit would attract any man. “Um, a sandwich.” She eventually responds, after getting over the shock of Kyle in her kitchen chair. He probably could’ve been smoother on entry.

“Right, well…” He looks at her and she stares back, like they’re locked in a game. He breaks away first, feeling like he’s lost. Kyle reminds himself he’s not a bloody twelve-year-old. “I liked wha’ you did with the sittin’ room.” That opens her up, a hesitant smile growing on her face. “Really? Those chairs were so uncomfortable, I could barely sit on them for more than five minutes without getting sore.” He huffs in agreement. There’s a reason no one meets in the sitting room. “Ya sure tha’s no’ the only reason you’re sore?” It slips out too easy, a question he’d usually tease one of his men with, not his boss’s wife. Kyle opens his mouth to apologize but is cut off by the sound of her laughter. It’s not manufactured to sound pretty, almost like a snort. “Sorry, I just haven’t heard those kinds of jokes in a while. You remind me of Johnny. Thank you for making me laugh, Kyle.” She seems almost grateful for his presence, and it doesn’t take an idiot to see she’s missing her family. Even if that means getting compared to MacTavish.

“Call me Gaz, ‘s what everyone calls me.” She nods contentedly, reaching for her sandwich to take another bite. The silence is peaceful, interrupted when he remembers why he originally sought her out. Kyle pulls out a report he’s been carrying and sets it near her plate, noting how she sucks in a breath at the title. Protection Plan for Mrs. Price.

“Since y’r openin’ up y’r store, Price wanted me t’ give ya a team. Could’ve done it on my own but I had a feelin’ y’d want to give some input.” She nods thoughtfully, pushing her plate away to focus on the report. It’s a few minutes until she finishes it, diligently reading every page. “I want at least one woman on my team. And I still want freedom, I don’t want to be followed everywhere.” He sucks in a breath at her words, which won’t be possible if Price has anything to say about it.

“Righ’ well, can’t guarantee tha’ second part. Not sure if ya’ve noticed, but London’s an active war zone right now. They’ll be discreet, an’ the lowest amount I can do is four.” She harrumphs, crossing her arms like how his Captain does when he’s upset. It’s eerie how they’re already starting to mirror each other. “Fine, but I want Terrance on it.” Kyle nods, going to stand. 

“Gaz.” She grabs his forearm to get his attention. “I know we didn’t get off on the right foot, but I’d like to be friends. If you’re willing.” He gives her a half smile, ruffling her hair. Kyle doesn’t notice how she freezes at his action, like she’s trapped in a memory. “Only if ya give me the rest of y’r sandwich.” Unfreezing, she laughs and pushes the plate towards him. “Don’t worry, there’s enough to go around.” He winks at her, and heads towards the security room. He might’ve accepted Terrance’s earlier security report, but he’s determined to make it up to his Captain, starting with re-running Phil’s background. Kyle’s got some security tricks up his sleeve, and he’s ready to prove his title to John.

-

The dress fits you like a glove.

It’s a fresh Saturday night, London’s night sky only slightly smoggy. John’s been invited to some benefit for cancer, a philanthropic cause you didn’t even know he supported. So now, you’re in a formal red dress, floor length with a high thigh slit. You stand in front of your vanity and smooth down the satin fabric, ready to slip on your heels. You usually do that step first, but they’re a mile high and you didn’t want to risk slipping on the carpeted dressing room floor. John’s been in the shower, but now he’s buttoning his shirt in the other room. Your dress is unzipped too, requiring a force of nature for the zip to go all the way to the top.

“John, can you help me?” He’s there in an instant, arms circling the length of your waist. “You look so fuckin’ good. Smell fuckin’ delicious.” He noses the crook of your shoulder, breathing in the scent of your perfume. John rubs his hands up and down, smoothing out creases in your dress. “So pretty f’ me, aren’t ya?” All you can do is nod when he’s like this, allowing yourself the precious gift of easy affection. “Can you help me with my heels?” He kisses your exposed collarbone, then squeezes your hip as he goes to find your heels. They’re higher than what you’re used to wearing, putting you closer to eye level with John. He goes to his knees, finding your right leg through the layers of fabric in his way. You got a pedicure the day before, patting yourself on the back as he kisses the top of your foot. “What’s gotten into you? It’s like you're under a spell or something.” He’s quiet as he slips on your shoe, kissing your ankle before setting it back down. John reaches for your other foot in quiet reverence. “Ya look like a princess.” He finally murmurs, having finished with your heels. “You feelin’ ok?” He asks. You shrug. Clearly, you haven’t hidden your nerves well. This is your first official entrance into mafia society as a couple, even if the lines of your relationship are too blurry for you to understand. 

“Let me make ya feel better?” His hands are already tracing your plush skin, parting the slit of your dress. He works his way up efficiently, stopping at the apex of your thighs. “What’s this?” You shrug again, this time with a smirk on your face. “It’s black tie, right?” By black tie, you mean the black lace under your dress. It’s a little piece you found at a boutique lingerie store near the bookstore. There’s a heart cutout in the middle of the front part, right above your slit. John kisses the exposed skin, sucking hard before he pulls away. “Black tie my fuckin’ arse.” You giggle and push your hips forward in a wanting motion. “Weren’t you going to make me feel better?” He goes to work with a single-minded vigor. John pushes the scrap of lace to the side, nearing closer so he can lift your leg onto his shoulder. He doesn’t tease you like usual. Instead, he licks and sucks lewdly, moaning at your wetness. He flicks his tongue against your clit as it hardens at his motions. “Even sweeter down ‘ere.” The low tone of his voice vibrates against your cunt, sending a spark to your core. “She like when I talk to ‘er?” He’s talking to your cunt, you think. It’s hard to hear over the rushing of blood in your ears. All you do is nod, pushing his head closer with your free hand as your other one scrambles for purchase against the wood of your vanity.

“Thought so. So wet, baby, like I’ve been neglectin’ ya. Have I?” You shake your head as he keeps up the pace of his tongue, adding a finger into your hole to up the pressure. “No, no, not neglected.” You cry from near-overstimulation. You can practically feel him smile against your pussy, the scratch of his beard making the coil in your stomach grow tighter and tighter. “Thought so. Yer husband takes care of ya, tha’ righ’?” Your hips cant against his face, almost fucking it. “Yes, yes, John.” He sucks your clit hard, finger pumping in and out. “She’s so close I can fuckin’ taste it. Come for me, go’on.” And you do, pressure rushing out of your core in waves. “Good girl, baby. Knew you could do it.” He tugs your underwear back in place, cleaning up the cum on your thighs with his fingers. You hear him suck them clean, sending another shock to your core.

John stands, wiping his hands off on his slacks. He’s in a full tuxedo and wears a dashing red tie to compliment your dress. You quickly peck him on the lips and pull back before he can ruin your makeup. His beard pulls up in a half-smile, elated that you kissed him first. It’s not hard to tell he loves when you do that, returning his affection of your own volition. “Thank you, Mr. Price. You clean up well yourself.” You tug his tie playfully. “Now zip me up.”

He does it gracefully, fingers brushing your back as he inches the zipper up. You swear this dress is too small as you suck in more and more the higher he zips. Unfortunately, your husband has the power of turning any encouragement into sinful words whispered in your ear. “There we go, tight fit, love. Squeeze in, baby, tha’s a girl. Feel ok?” You can only nod, ribs heavily constrained. It reminds you of your wedding dress, except this time you chose to be trapped.

It’s a whirlwind of a drive as John helps you into the limo and helps you out only minutes later. The gala is at a nearby museum, but etiquette and uncomfortable footwear required you to drive. It’s a grand marble building, like a bigger version of John’s flat. Limos line the outside as people step out of cars dressed to the nines. You do have something to look forward to tonight - your family.

John guides you in with a hand to the back and you’re already escaping his grasp to search for Simon, who promised he was coming. Apparently, philanthropic foundations are great to donate to when you run a gang that needs some tax benefits. You’ve been to a few of these, but a glance at John’s upcoming calendar revealed he donates a lot more than your brother. A new routine to get used to. 

“On your left.” John murmurs, and sure enough, there’s the top of Simon’s blonde head. He’s Mr. Riley at these events, not Ghost. You hold yourself back from running. Instead, you gather your skirts and walk quickly towards him, ignoring how John’s hand slips from your back.

“Hi!” You don’t give Simon a chance to answer, smothering him in a hug. He picks you up at your waist and spins you, a remnant from your few shared childhood memories. “Hi, lovie. Look at you, all dressed up.” He sets you down gently. Simon’s hand brushes your left one, causing you both to glance at the ring on your hand. You catch a slight frown, but it disappears into the collage of scars on his face. “Doin’ ok?” He asks quietly, only at a volume you can hear. You glance back at John, who’s making small talk with Johnny as the two men stand nearby. You turn back to Simon with a small smile on your face, nodding shyly. “It’s goin’ ok.” He drags a hand down in his face in exasperation. “Christ, the way he looks at you, kid. Not somethin’ a brother should be seein’.” You groan, swatting his hand away. “Gross. You’re acting like I don’t have to constantly dodge you and Johnny making out.” You say it in present tense, like it’s a problem you’re still facing. Unperturbed, you grab his hand and make your way to the bar, leaving your dates behind. “C’mon, Si. Let’s catch up.”

-

You must’ve had black magic in that perfume of yours. It’s the only explanation for why John feels like this, like he can’t be untethered from you for more than a minute. He was worried this thing between you, new and delicate, was just lust, but it’s becoming clear it’s much more. It’s the way you immediately sought out your brother, not caring for social niceties. How you challenged him with your argument at the bookstore, fire in your eyes as you protected your livelihood. It’s all rolling into a grand, sticky mess in his heart, weighing heavier and heavier every day.

The gala is full of politicians milling against the backdrop of the London Art Museum. Paintings of old rich geezers surrounded by the bodies of new rich muppets. There’s some people dancing in a slow waltz in the middle of the room, with high tables bracketing the dance floor in a crude outline. He doesn’t think you’ve noticed any of this, content to abandon him high and dry in search of your brother. John exchanges niceties with Johnny MacTavish, then leaves him to find Kate. She’s around here somewhere, schmoozing with potential clients. She may work on retainer for John, but she’s an independent contractor in her own right, always on the lookout for the next big fish. 

He finds her eventually, talking to a MP far from the dance floor near a statue. “Lord Walsh.” John inclines his head at the man, who’s severely shorter than him with a significant bald spot. “Mr. Price. I’m surprised to see you here.” Jon frowns at the insinuation. Kate slowly inches towards John, looking polished in her navy pantsuit. “How so?” There’s danger laced in his words which Lord Walsh takes a few seconds too long to process. “I, well, excuse me.” He exits not-so-gracefully with sweat beads running down his receding hairline. John turns back to Kate, who’s wearing a rare smirk. “What?” She shakes her head, turning to face the crowd. “Sometimes I forget how much of a shark you are. Too used to seeing you surrounded by finery at home.” He snorts, turning with her. 

They both find his wife in the crowd, easy to spot with the shocking red of your dress. You’re throwing your head back in laughter at something Ghost said, giggling like a little kid. John feels a smile growing under his beard. Kate notices too, elbowing him in the side. “We get it, you’re disgustingly infatuated.” He shakes his head, dropping the smile. “‘S not like that.” She snorts, a rare show of emotion, a credit to how long they’ve worked together. “Whatever you say, John. Now let me find new clients before you scare them away.” He nudges her shoulder, content to stay alone as she walks away.

Unfortunately, his newfound solitude is immediately interrupted by a foul-smelling scent. He turns and lo and behold, there’s a phantom at his shoulder. “Lady Walsh.” John takes a step away from her, preventing their shoulders from brushing. “I saw you talking with my brother.” There’s a bite to her voice. It’s reminiscent of the one regrettable night they shared years ago, a night clouded with too much whiskey and not enough forethought. “Exchanging pleasantries.” He can hear her frown from a mile away. 

“Is there something you need?” He bites out when she doesn’t respond. Lady Walsh does this occasionally, finding him at events and trying for a recreation of that lone night. He didn’t consider it then, but he especially doesn’t consider it now. In fact, all he can do is track the sound of your laughter and drown in it, even across the dance floor. Lady Walsh leaves, and John decides to find the bar that you’ve abandoned and bring you a drink.

-

“I miss you, Si.” You mumble after your second martini. He’s found you two a table in the corner, somewhere you can hear each other over the quartet. “I do too, kid. Manchester’s different without ya.” You take a sip of his water, then spit it out when you realize it’s vodka. “Gross! Since when do you drink vodka?” He takes the glass out of your hand and downs it in one sip. “Johnny’s been on a kick. Think he’s been bored since ya left.” There’s immediate regret on his face as you take in his words. “No, love, ‘s not yer fault. There’s been other things happenin’. Nothin’s yer fault.” You nod, swallowing hard. “I think I’m gonna find the bathroom.” He nods worriedly. You push on the table to get up, but he stops you with a soft hand on your shoulder. Simon kisses your forehead, then shoves you towards the bathroom. “Don’t overthink. Go piss.” You snort, swatting his hand away.

In the bathroom, you stop in the mirror to apply your lipstick. A woman exits one of the stalls behind you, going to wash your hands. She’s like the image of your better self, with clearer skin and a figure you’d kill for. It’s the gin speaking, your brain reasons, but that doesn’t stave off any insecurities you’re projecting. Your heart is raw after your conversation with Simon, and this just makes it worse.

“You’re John’s new wife, right?” The mystery woman says as she finishes washing her hands. It shakes you out of your reverie. “Yes. I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.” She purses her lips, now reapplying her blush. “Lady Walsh. I’m not surprised; I don’t think John would’ve mentioned me.” You frown at her insinuation. She takes your silence as acceptance, turning towards you with a feline smile on her lips. “I’m surprised you’re even walking. Lord knows it took me a week to recover from the last night I spent with John.” Your mouth drops. “Anyways, love your dress!” She breezes past you in a whirlwind of soap and perfume, leaving the bathroom gracefully.

You, however, exit in a fit of starts and stops. Your chest aches with the pain of breathing, reminiscent of the panic attack you had in a London garden almost two months ago. That thought makes things worse, blurring your vision. Someone grabs your arm, a warm presence guiding you to a bench in a darkened hallway.

“Sweetheart, you okay?” It’s John.

“No, I- I just need a second.” In the background, you hear people laugh and glasses tinkle. John places a warm hand over your knee, grounding you to the moment. “In an’ out, yeah?” You nod as your breathing slowly calms. It’s just you and him for a second, listening to the sounds of your breath go in and out. “Want some water?” He moves to get up, but you grab his arm before he can. “Stay with me?” You whisper. John sits back down, wrapping that same arm around your waist to pull you closer. 

“Wanna tell me about it?” He kisses the temple of your head, and you stiffen under his touch. The change is noticeable as the air goes cold. “Why haven’t we fucked?” It bursts out of you, almost in anger. John’s shock is clear as day as his arm drops from your waist. “I- why’re you askin’?” His hesitation is not what you wanted to hear. “I talked to your friend in the bathroom. Lady Walsh.” John groans, dragging his hand down his face. “Christ.” You wrap your arms around your waist at the sudden chill between you. John shrugs off his blazer and places it on your shoulders. The scent of it is overwhelming: musk and pine and man.

“She an’ I happened once, years ago. Been followin’ me like a hound ever since.” That makes you feel slightly better, but the conversation brought out a monster you didn’t want to face head-on. Your insecurities over this limbo of a marriage have been haunting you, and now they’ve taken the form of that woman in the bathroom. “You didn’t answer my question.” You murmur. John nudges your shoulder, moving closer when you don’t scoot away. “I didn’t want t’ pressure ya. Could eat ya out every night an’ be the happiest man on earth.” You bark out a laugh. He takes it as a sign to close the distance between you, tucking you under his arm. “What about the kids? The heirs?” You emphasize it with an eye roll. He snorts, pulling you closer. “Ever heard of artificial insemination? Surrogacy? A lot they can do these days.” He talks like he’s a hundred years old and not barely 38. “Why wasn’t that in the contract to begin with?” He’s quiet. “Not sure, actually.” 

“I don’t think I want to do anything sexual for a while.” You eventually whisper. “‘S fine.” John replies. “I want to go to dinner.” You turn to him with a small smile on your face. “Ya want to go’on a date, baby?” You nod. He frowns in that way when he’s upset that he didn’t think of it first. A realization dawns on his face when he understands what you’re asking for. A new start, free from this societal gossip and pressure. John kisses your forehead gently. “Tha’ okay?” You nod like a lovesick teenager, giddy with the thought that he understands you so well. “Dance with me?” He stands and offers you his hand. You take it.

-

“Graves. Report?” The General is half-cloaked in the darkness of his office, eyes glinting through the shadows. “Comin’ along well, sir. Price has given himself a new weakness right when we needed one.” Shepherd hums in agreement. “Don’t fuck this up, Graves. You’re on your last strike.” Phil nods, backing out of the room. He will not mess this up. He can’t afford to.

-

yayyy gaz redeemed himself and we have a plot! i was lowkey getting worried. i hope nothing bad happens...

-

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[yasminfamily]

🚨Help my Children to Survive the War in Gaza🚨

Hello, my name is Yasmeen Al-Jojo, 34 years old. I am a mother of four children: Qusai (16), Mohammed (14), Bahjat (12), and Taha (7). My husband lives in the north while my children and I are in the south, specifically in Tel Al-Hawa in Gaza City.

My children’s mental health has been shattered, and they suffered greatly in this war from fear, displacement, and homelessness. They had to carry water from very distant areas, with destruction all around and rockets and shrapnel overhead. They were deprived of continuing their education, even though they were top students.

My children have also been deprived of the food they love, which their bodies and minds need to grow, but still, we endure. Our home was bombed while we were inside it. My sisters, brother, and half of their children were martyred, and my son developed kidney disease from the smell of gunpowder.

We once had all the comforts and basic tools for a dignified life, but now we have lost everything. We cook over a fire despite the exhaustion and heat, barely managing to find flour, water, and wood. Yet, we remain resilient in southern Gaza despite the bombing, hunger, fear, and severe shortages of water, medicine, and essential supplies.

We have been displaced and are still moving from one place to another, hoping this cursed war will end.

We desperately need your help

[dollfacefantasy]

dark and mean Rick X whiny reader, s5 beard era??? (Ugh loveee😩) maybe reader annoyed him so he fucks her attitude away<3

NO BACK TALK ♡

pairing: rick grimes x bratty!fem!reader

cw: nsfw (18+), p in v, brat taming, age gap (20s, late 30s), daddy kink

a/n: brat tamer rick you know that's my shit 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫 thank you for the request <33

"What was it? What were you saying back there?" Rick's raspy voice huffs against your ear.

A shiver goes down your spine as his hot breath lands on your skin. Sharp contrast to the cool night air all around. Your body is already shaky enough from his hips' brutal thrusts against your ass.

He has you pinned against the back wall of the church, split open on his cock. This spot is close enough to the safety of the group while providing the privacy he needs to have his way with you. Your cheek squishes against the wood, a small stream of drool trickling South on your chin.

"N-nothing," you whimper, "Was just trying to tell you- ah! Just wanted to tell you..."

Your voice trails off as the sentiment of your point becomes less important than the bliss Rick's length is battering into you. Soft moans drift from your lips as your mouth hangs open. He tuts and shakes his head, pressing more of his weight into you and rutting against your backside with more force.

"You're still tryin' to talk back?" he asks, "Still think you had a reason to give me all that attitude?"

"I said I was sorry," you whine, bottom lip jutting out on instinct.

This is the game you play with Rick. You're sure by now everyone else is sick of being unwilling bystanders to it, but you can never get enough. Ever since you met the older man, the two of you mixed together like a stray match in a keg of gunpowder.

He tries his hardest to lead this group. You know that's true. But life fucking sucks in the apocalypse. It's not your fault if you get a little fed up with things sometimes.

You take it out on him cause it's easy. You disagree with his plans without coming up with any of your own. You complain about assignments you're given. You whine about the lack of supplies and direction. You roll your eyes and sigh during minor disagreements while nearly throwing a fit for larger ones.

For the first six months he knew you, it drove him fucking crazy. He went to sleep at night dreading waking up because he knew he'd have to deal with you the next day. At one point, he was convinced that he'd die of high blood pressure before any walker got the chance to kill him.

But then he figured out the secret to dealing with you. It wasn't too long before the prison fell that he learned this little trick. The two of you were the only ones awake, and you had another huge fight about some inconsequential bullshit. He was supremely frustrated. You weren't showing any signs of conceding that you were being ridiculous either.

It's like a blur in his memory now, the way he pinned you against the hard brick wall. He tore open the tiny shorts you had on. And that was when he learned. Your pretty little pussy was like your control center. He just had to hit the right buttons to bring you back to normal.

Now when you act up, he gives you the chance to fix it. You'll say something in that pitchy tone of voice and pout at him, and he'll raise a brow. He'll ask you to repeat yourself. If you continue the challenge, he still tries to be civil and talk you down. But once you push too far, you end up with a firm hand wrapped around your wrist, dragging you away from the rest of the group.

That's what happened tonight.

He scoffs at your assertion that you'd apologized. "You said sorry when you realized you were in trouble," he grumbles.

His fingers dig into your waist, feeling the soft skin left exposed by your t-shirt that's riding up. Your toes curl inside your sneakers while your fingernails scrape against the chipping paint of the church's paneling.

"I still meant it," you insist.

"If you're so sorry, tell me why I have to teach you this same fuckin' lesson over and over again," he growls.

"I dunno... cause you didn't do it good enough the first time?" you offer.

He gives your hip a smack for that and shoves you harder against the wall with a forearm across your back. You can feel the cool silver of his watch on your shoulder blade. Your tits are just as smooshed as your cheek is now. You whine in response, your feet floundering against the dirt below, but he keeps fucking into you hard.

"Cute. Keep talking back like that and see where it gets you," he says.

"I was just joking, daddy," you respond with a little sniffle for maximum impact.

"Oh, I'm daddy now?" he mocks. Neither of your attempts at sympathy seem to have struck a chord. "I'm daddy when you want me to be nice to you, but not any other time. Do I have that right?"

"Nuh uh..."

"Yeah. You won't listen to me. Won't do anything I ask without givin' me hell. But the second you get tired of taking it like a big girl, I'm your daddy," he taunts.

You squeak as he yanks your hips against his pelvis particularly hard. His tip rams right into that sweet, spongy spot inside you. It knocks the breath from your lungs. Your knees start to buckle beneath you.

He watches as you really begin to slip. With a sigh, he pulls his cock out of your dripping hole. You whine about that too, of course, but you don't have time to complain before he flips you around and hooks his hands behind your knees. He folds you in half against the wall and slides right back into the slick heat of your cunt. His hips rock against you like they never stopped.

"Look at you. You think you have any right to question me when you can't even stand up on your own? When y'need daddy to do everything for you," he mutters.

You mewl and arch your back, but he keeps you exactly where he wants you. His shaft slams into you over and over, chasing the feeling of your walls clamping down on it. You can't fight back against what he's saying cause any semblance of cohesive argument has been fucked right out of you.

"Did-didn't mean it," you choke out.

"Then say sorry like you mean it," he breathes.

He pumps into you harder and deeper, making it difficult for you to answer. But you try your best because you're getting close, and after you cum, it'll be damn near impossible.

"I- I'm sorry, daddy. Didn't mean to make you mad. I'll try to be good and listen," you say before a whine cracks your voice and causes your head to drop forward.

He nudges your face up with his nose before rewarding you with a kiss. "That's my girl," he mumbles, "Gonna listen for me. Accept that you don't know what's best, hm? That you need me to take care of you and make the decisions?"

You nod with your quivering lip and glossy eyes.

That gets a little smirk on his lips, and he kisses your pout once more. His hand snakes around to thumb at your clit. The rapid fire swipes are all you need to topple over the edge and let go. You tense up and cover your own mouth, muffling your cries with your palm.

"There you go. Let it out," he grunts.

He grits his teeth, holding on long enough to fuck you through your high. As soon as you start to come down though, he pulls out and spills his seed onto the dirt beneath you.

His body shudders against yours, another set of harsh breaths blowing against your neck. You lean your head against his. The sweat that dampens his scalp smears on your cheek.

The both of you hold the position for a few moments longer before beginning to untangle. He sets you back on the ground, keeping his hands on your waist until he's sure you're stable. You pull your discarded shorts back on and adjust your shirt while he zips himself up.

When you're put together again, he grabs your wrist like he'd done earlier but with a more gentle touch. He pulls you flush against his body and encircles you with his arms, keeping you pressed to his chest. His hand rubs up and down your back in soothing strokes.

"My baby. All tuckered out and settled down for me now, yeah?" he whispers.

You nod, your eyes already feeling droopy with the calm that comes after release. His embrace is so warm it lulls you further into this docile, dreamy state.

Rick rolls his eyes again, but there's not as much irritation this time. A good fuck mellows him out just like it does you. Plus, in moments like these, he can admit to himself that he has a small soft spot for his little brat.

He sways back and forth with you for a few moments, planting occasional kisses on the top of your head.

"You gonna behave when we go back inside?" he murmurs.

"Yeah," you answer softly.

"That's my girl," he says, patting your ass before turning you loose. He lets you walk back around to the entrance first. While he has a great time putting you back in line, these trysts aren't really something he wants the whole group being hyper aware of. It's after a few minutes have gone by that he heads in himself, ready to mix back in with everyone else as if nothing had happened.

[thewitchblue]

"I told you not to touch that."

You had warned a very curious Tim repeatedly. This one wasn't anything harmful. You simply didn't want him touching your potions. It was a very annoying potion to make.

You had left it boiling on a burner while you got a snack, but Tim shut off the burner to touch your half-baked potion. You had no idea how long he's had it off the burner, but it wasn't boiling anymore.

"What does it do?"

He didn't have the guts to do anything but hold the boiling hot beaker. At least, not in front of you. He felt like he was a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"It was SUPPOSED to be a present for Jason, jackass. Now it's ruined."

You aggressively took the breaker from Tim and borderline slammed it down on your windowsill. You stormed over to your burner and turned it on again. Maybe you can salvage it. It had stopped boiling because Tim was too curious for his own good.

"Oh."

Tim looked embarrassed. You didn't bother to tell him it was liquid weed, so Jason could stop stinking up the manor when he smokes.

You were sick of getting accidentally drugged because Jason left brownies out without a "do not eat" sign. You think Jason secretly likes drugging people, but there was an unspoken agreement: shut up and leave the drugged person alone.

You were hoping this potion would get him to go to you instead of some shady drug dealer, but Tim doesn't need to know any of this. This is between you and Jason.

"Do me a favour and never touch my stuff. My next potion won't be so friendly."

You grumbled. You were the family witch. Yes, the stereotypical potions and general magic. You learned from Constantine and Zatanna how to use spells, but potions are where you shine.

You are called The Alchemist at night and are feared mainly due to how prepared you are. You had a potion for anything and everything.

The villains actively avoid you as a result of your preparation. You're seriously more prepared and paranoid than Batman in a lot of cases.

Scarecrow is the only one salty enough to go after you. He wanted you as an apprentice, but he's not getting anywhere by kidnapping you on the occasion. Come on, just give him one potion that he can replicate if he can't have you on his side!

Joker found you boring, Bane doesn't want to tango when you take away his muscles with a potion, Ra cares more about physical combat, and the list goes on. It's ridiculous, truly.

You were actually quite close to Poison Ivy, however, and she supplies you with various plants for you to use. You even send her photos to update her on how the plant is blooming with a thank you text (yes, you have her number, score!)

Being a Wayne helps with the potions as well. You can get you an endless supply of various metals, chemicals, and powders to work with alongside the plants. You often question if you are on a government list somewhere. It doesn't look good to order 15 kilograms of gunpowder and potassium nitrate.

The family doesn't know any of this, but then again, they don't know much about what you do. They rarely ask questions about your potions except nosy Tim, who refuses to leave your room until he knows more about whatever potion you are making at the time.

"I was curious!"

He tried to defend himself, which failed as you retorted,

"And you could have had your finger dissolved if you touched it! For the brains of the family, you really are stupid."

Does he have no sense of self-preservation? Why on earth would he touch a mysterious liquid? Survival of the fittest indeed.

Tim scoffed. How else is he supposed to find out more information if he knows nothing about the process? You had all your potions memorised! No recipe book, no paper trail, you even have a witch/magic users pack between Zatanna and Constantine, so they won't tell the family anything. He can't even identify all the plants you use so he could test them.

"You're lucky I make weapons for you guys. Some of this stuff takes weeks! I have 9 of you guys running around, using MY supply because you guys don't use your potions wisely. What if I needed the paralysing potion for Bane, but uh-oh, you stole it from me, so I can't do anything."

Tim had no excuse. He's, admittedly, stolen more than a handful of potions to reload his weapons, and he's not the only one. He tried to smooth over your irritation. In a nervous tone, he said,

"I'm sorry. I would be surprised if you didn't notice the missing potions, though."

Damn right, you'd notice it. What kind of alchemist would you be if you didn't notice your missing stash and resupply? Granted, you also have the power of bullshit spells that you learned from John and Zatanna, so you aren't entirely helpless, but it's annoying reaching for an imaginary potion on patrol and needing to trudge all the way home just to restock.

"I think you need to keep your hands to yourself. I might have to redo this potion now. Please tell me you didn't touch the potion itself."

You wouldn't know how to handle a high Tim Drake. You tried to keep your eyes on him while putting your potion back on the burner. Is the weed in his bloodstream, or are you safe to continue your drug cooking?

He gave an awkward smile. He may or may not have smelled the potion. It smelled like a freshly mowed lawn, and the tiny sip he took tasted like an apple. When all you got was silence, you groaned and said in disbelief,

"Oh, fuck, of course you did."

Just your luck. The drug will hit Tim any second now. You ran a stressed hand through your hair before turning to him and saying sternly,

"You are going to sleep on my bed and let the potion run its course. Do. Not. Leave. This. Room. Got it?"

Tim looked confused, but what does he know about magical potions? If you say let it work through him, he'll follow instructions. He sat on your bed and then it hit him.

"Woah, what the hell did you do to me? Were you trying to lace Jason with something?"

You frowned and physically pushed him onto the bed. You quickly swaddled him like a baby in a sea of blankets.

He can not leave this room. Bruce would murder you. You were supposed to be the good one. The only one who caused no problems (to their knowledge).

"Tim, look at me."

Tim did not, in fact, look at you. He was distracted by all the plants you have in your room. Did someone drop off more plants in the time he's last been in here?

"Did you get more plants?"

You huffed. You didn't. They have only grown since he's been snooping in your room. You tried to get his attention by snapping your fingers and calling his name,

"Tim?"

When he continued to look around with rapidly reddening eyes, you squished his face in your hand and forcefully pushed his face until it faced you.

"Tim, you are going to sleep. I'm going to play some music for you and we are going to forget all about this when you feel better."

You can make a potion to erase recent memories. Tim can't know you are making drugs in your room. Nobody can know except Jason.

You decided to turn on some calming music in hopes he would drift off, which seemed to be working as his eyes drooped, and he smiled at you like he knew something you didn't. He was lost in his thoughts, clearly.

You wondered what was going on in that big brain of his. It didn't matter. He can blaze in blissful peace while you deal with his mess.

You kept the music quiet and soft like he was at a spa. You hoped the combined warmth of the blankets with the soft music would work faster.

With a sigh, you stood up from your position at his bedside. This is not good. Tim needs to learn when to leave your stuff alone. What if you boiled his blood or poisoned him? It's best to leave the witchcraft to the witch.

You watched him like a hawk. His thoughts seemed to be slowed and sluggish. You supposed you can bottle your potion after all. Should you put a dropper on it? Normally, your potions soak through the skin and clothes, but you were extremely careful with this one.

You gave his forehead a small kiss once he fell asleep. You went to your bottles while shaking your head in disapproval. You were very happy with the results of the potion, not so much with the tester. You would hate to think about what could have happened if you didn't swaddle him. Would he be walking around high and babbling about funny potions? Probably. He was already hallucinating pleasantly by the time he passed out.

You were so lucky that Tim didn't get the potentially dangerous symptoms. You can handle a mellowed out Tim, but not if he was going through psychosis.

After successfully bottling and hiding the potion, you pulled out one of your memory potions.

You felt bad drugging him then making him forget about it, but you can't have him telling anybody, whether accidentally or purposefully.

You know you could just tell Bruce that Tim touched a memory potion on your burner, and he'd believe you, but why draw in the eyes of Batman? He would want to know about all future potion making.

You frowned as you put one drop on his forehead and watched it sink in. He won't remember any of this.

You were a bit overprepared, but you were Batman and Constantine trained. Of course you'd have some weaselly way out of accidentally drugging someone.

Oh, John would be so proud of you.

[weathertheraine]

Pirate AU!! Thank you @stringofturtles for watching OFMD S1 with me and re-igniting my Pirate Emotions so I had the motivation to finish this. The first sketches have been sitting in my files for months so please forgive the fact that they look different skdfjh.

More fleshed out AU details under the cut !! :D

- The kids are a little older than canon - the third years in their early 20s - but the story still starts with the second and third years as an established crew who then pick up the first years and the coaches.

- Daichi as a Captain is of course very much like he is in canon. He works very hard to take care of his crew and takes on a huge responsibility for providing for them (as well as making sure they don’t die in idiotic ways). Suga is First Mate so it’s his job to make sure DAICHI is okay and not worrying himself to death. He also has a good handle on morale/the emotional state of the crew.

- Asahi is the first line of offence when dealing with other ships. He doesn’t like actually hurting people, but he’s good at breaking ranks and barrelling through defences to get hold of whatever Karasuno needs. He was ‘off the team’ and out of commission for a little while after he lost his hand (not seeing combat while he was in recovery, and needing to build up his courage again). Noya played a huge part in helping him back onto his feet, and has been kind of protective ever since.

- Noya’s job is to make sure the ship isn’t boarded, so he very rarely leaves it.

- Ennoshita and Kiyoko work together as navigators and managing the little money the crew has. Ennoshita is the only crew member in the beginning who can kind-of read (Kiyoko can only read a little), and they work a lot with maps and planning out journeys.

- Tanaka is great at intimidating opponents. His eyepatch is totally for show - he thinks it makes him look cooler and scarier. His parrot doesn’t often co-operate with him.

- Narita and Kinoshita take care of maintenance and supplies and making sure there isn’t gunpowder anywhere there shouldn’t be, as well as things like fraying rigging and rotting boards/canons secure and the like. Of course, things like that are everyone’s responsibility, but these two consider is theirs particularly. It’s thankless work but the boat would definitely have burned down by now if not for them.

- Enter the first years!

- Kageyama is a prodigy swordsman with a huge reputation as a lethal pirate, although most people who spread those rumours don’t realise he’s as young as he is. He was marooned by his previous crew for being a controlling Captain (who should never have been captain in the first place, having only his fighting talent as the real reason).

- Hinata recently ran away from home to “become a pirate” without much of an idea what that actually entailed, and ran into Kageyama without knowing his reputation. All he knew was that this guy was incredible fighter, and he demanded that he teach him to fight! He now won’t leave him alone.

- Tsukishima ran away as a very young child in an attempt to find Akiteru, whose sailing ship was attacked and lost at sea. He fell in with pirates along with Yamaguchi (who was picked up after surviving a shipwreck), and the pair ended up sticking together as they bounced from ship to ship, ready to run whenever it seemed like tensions were getting high. They (read: tsukki) are going to need to break this habit, if they’re going to be a real part of this new crew.

- Tsukishima and Yamaguchi can’t sleep if they’re not in the same hammock. Embarrassing. The reason Yamaguchi was so tiny as a little kid is that he didn’t get enough food. Tsukishima still tries to sneak him extra (and gets in trouble with Daichi).

- Tadashi ends up as a sharpshooter, one of the few kids who’s confident using a pistol

- Hinata and Kageyama spar together all the time. It’s GOING to end in a make-out the first time Hinata successfully beats him.

- Neither of them have noticed that Tanaka’s eyepatch switches sides.

- Yachi is picked up when the crew stop in a bar in her town. She’s a better-off girl, about to be talked into an politically advantageous marriage, and desperately wants to get out of her situation. “Running away with pirates” was admittedly pretty drastic, but anything sounds like a good idea when Hinata suggests it so sincerely!!

- Ukai is a washed up older pirate, without a crew. Takeda is a very unlucky literature teacher who just happened to be on a sea voyage. They both ended up taken as hostages by the same (meaner) pirate crew, who were then stolen by the Karasuno kids. Although, it’s kind of unclear at this point whether they’re actually prisoners… They’re being treated very nicely (especially Sensei) and are in danger of getting attached…

[yellosnacc]

Welcome to a long one.

The Ciwan empire is the fastest-growing sloman power ever since the war of continents and the first to discover a form of gunpowder (thanks to their enemies being uniima lls who have been using it long before).

But even with that advantage (among slomen), the Ciwan armies are iconic for a different reason. That being the Kuiqua-trained units that Sun-cutters come from.

These units have traditionally existed for hundreds of years but are slowly just becoming a symbol for show because of the political and battling changes in the world. However, you will still see them from time to time ripping people to pieces.

Just like the majority of sloman military groups the unit relies on intense teamwork, they need constant communication and preplanned routes to deal with the opposing strategy.

The simplified average scene might look something like this:

In one unit of 30 members, three strikers (Sun-cutters) make a plan with their scholars and commanding Fire-catchers (Seconds leaders). After getting to the war zone they wait for their window in which some members spy or communicate with deeper army spies. When they know their target and best strategy they get in. The strikers use hand gestures, clicks, or whistles to save energy while the Seconds forward the orders to the rest with "ground's" (war language), wooden whistles see more use in very large units. Many times, however, often just seeing the movement of the sun-cutters is enough for the whole group to act.

Strikers will sometimes wait behind their heavies (Beasts) if their force isn't necessary (units can be as few as 5 members or as many as 50, the two extremes work very differently). Once the situation calls for it, they bullet their targets, often stabbing talons first and tearing muscles in a swift motion. This may happen multiple times as other unit members engage in direct battle with the target/s or disarm them with specialized tools. Kuiqua units both kill and capture, having healing supplies on their heavies if they need to make sure their target doesn't bleed out (or their own soldiers).

All members of the Kuiquan unit are priests of different levels but all are priests of the dead (ones that speak for their ancestors rather than gods). It's believed lands conquered with these soldiers present will flourish with life. Many former battlegrounds have turned into gardens and crop fields (hopefully they don't keep this up when landmines are invented).

To the image. What you see is a small variety of soldiers. Beasts and fire-catchers have other names and features in their armor that they are known for based on all their roles that can often switch between fights. Only Sun-cutters truly have one name.

Fire-catchers are also sometimes strikers in training and may move up if they prove themselves. Though, more often Sun-cutters rise from the ranks of regular taloned soldiers with enough talent.

-

As mentioned in the image, Sun-cutters tend to be very prideful. Their helmets are an impractical mess that pushes their ears forward. A Ciwan Sloman's ears are very important to them and if they are damaged it's a career-ending event. Still, almost no strikers bind their ears, not wanting to be shamed for cowardness.

an ex-striker

here is the whole picture if you prefer it big

Btw, Kuiqua is the city Neal lives in. He has met or been arranged to meet these units multiple times since Neal himself is stuck classified as a fancy soldier. They are also not uncommon around temples, small talk is required.

Thank you for reading this far! Next I must answer the questions of biology. This has taken me 50 000 years.

[daryltwdixon]

Summary: The city holds more danger than you were expecting, and survival is all that matters. Ellie proves herself in ways you didn’t expect, and Joel’s past surfaces in quiet moments. Every step forward comes with questions you’re not sure you want answered.

notes: there's a little something in here for my daryl girls if you remember hehe

warnings: canon violence

When the last of the gunfire finally dies down, it leaves an eerie silence that feels almost deafening. The smell of gunpowder burns your nose, and the iron tang of blood clings to the air, thick and metallic. You try to steady your breathing, but your chest feels tight, your heart racing in the aftermath of everything that just happened.

You can’t stop your hands from shaking as you reach for your backpack when Joel tosses it to you. The weight of it feels wrong in your hands, somehow. It’s not the weight of supplies or survival anymore. It’s the weight of what you’ve just done.

You’ve never killed anyone before Joel showed up. Never had to. Not in Lincoln. Not with the kind of life you lived, sheltered away from the rest of the world. Bill and Frank kept things quiet, kept things safe, and when they were gone, you were left in a town that had little interaction with the outside world. You’d always known it was dangerous out there, but you didn’t know this kind of danger. You didn’t know what it felt like to point a gun at someone and pull the trigger.

The thought of how many lives you’ve taken in the past few days presses on your chest. You shove it down, focus on breathing, focus on the here and now. It doesn’t matter. It’s too late to turn back, and if you want to survive, you’ll have to keep moving forward. Was this what life has come to now? Taking lives so they don't take yours? You aren’t sure where you belonged in this part of your future.

When you collect yourself, your breath still shaky from the chaos, you look up at Joel, expecting some sort of instruction, some sign of what comes next. But instead, his gun suddenly swings up, pointing directly at you.

For a split second, your blood runs cold. His eyes are locked on you, his weapon raised. You’re frozen, confusion and panic blurring your thoughts. 

As the gears in your mind clang into place that his gun isn’t pointed at you but behind you, a pair of arms wraps around you from behind. Cold, hard steel presses against your temple.

You gasp, trying to pull away, but it’s no use. You hear the man’s breath hot and heavy against your ear, feel his body pressed up against yours, and the moment his voice growls in your ear, your blood runs cold.

“Put down the gun, or I blow her brains out.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck . You stare wildly ahead at Joel, a pit in your stomach forming. 

Joel barely knows you, barely owes you anything. Sure, he had been someone your dad relied on for trade, for supplies when needed, but that’s all it was. For trade, for business. Besides, he already saved your life once getting you out of your home, and now? What would he do when faced with another enemy, when you could easily be sacrificed for the sake of a job he had to finish with Ellie?

Ellie .

Your eyes dart to the broken wall to your left, where you see a pair of green eyes peering out of the dark. A chill runs down your spine. Could she see everything? Was she scared too?

Your eyes dart back to Joel as he begins to lower his gun. For a split second, everything seems to hang in the balance. You hold your breath, your pulse pounding in your ears. You’d just gotten used to the idea that you were nothing more than collateral damage. A means to an end. You never really thought Joel would see you as anything more. He didn’t owe you anything. Hell, he didn’t even know you, not the way he knew Tess or the other people from his past. So why was he choosing to lower his gun? His eyes are still full of danger, but there’s a flicker of terror, of desperation as he almost looks like he tries to subdue the man who has you in his grip. And for some reason, it hits you harder than you expect. Joel Miller wasn’t going to leave you to die at the hands of this man. He wasn’t going to let you be a pawn in this fucked-up showdown.

“Nice and slow, asshole,” the man says hotly in your ear.

Then suddenly, a gunshot rings out, loud and sharp, and you freeze in place. Your body tenses as the sound slices through the air, a moment of sheer terror that steals the breath from your lungs.

The world slows. Time feels like it stretches. Your heart’s pounding so loudly you can barely hear anything else. Is this it?

You brace for impact. It doesn’t seem real, but your body prepares anyway. A flash of panic rises—what if this was how it ended for you? You’d never made it out of the small bubble you’d known your whole life. All the things you hadn’t done, the life you hadn’t lived, would end with this stupid fight.

But then... nothing.

Instead, the man behind you lets out a guttural cry, and your heart stops in your chest as his body crumples to the ground, his momentum taking him down with a sickening thud. The air rushes back into your lungs, though it’s still shaky, your chest tight. Relief floods your chest for just a second before dread hits you like a freight train. You turn around, your body still tense, trying to understand what just happened. The man who had you in his grip—he’s crumpled on the ground now, clutching his side, blood pouring from the wound.

And there, crawling out of the hole in the wall, is Ellie, gun still in hand, her eyes wide in shock and terror.

Joel’s gaze locks onto hers with something dangerous in it. His jaw clenches. You watch, your heart still pounding, as he holds out his hand, a silent command.

Ellie, without hesitation, places the small handgun in his palm. Your stomach churns as you realize this might’ve been the first time she’s ever shot a gun, ever taken a man down.

The man on the ground, gasping, bleeding out, starts babbling in a way that almost sounds like a prayer. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean it… Please…” His voice cracks with desperation.

Your eyes follow his hand as it reaches out, fingers trembling, blood smearing against the ground. His words tumble out faster now, frantic, pleading. “We can trade. I have people. We can help each other. Just let me live, please.”

Joel steps forward, standing tall over him, and for a moment, you feel like you’re seeing a new side to him—a side you weren’t ready to witness. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something cold, something ruthless in his eyes. A darkness you’ve never seen in him before. It’s like watching a different man, a man hardened by years of survival, where mercy no longer has a place. 

“No, no, hey, I’m serious!” the man stammers, reaching for something at his waist. For a split second, your heart skips a beat. You think he’s pulling a weapon on you in a last ditch effort, but he doesn’t. Instead, he drops the knife from its sheath to the dirty pavement, the metallic clang of it hitting the ground resounding in your ears.

“It’s a good knife. Please, just let me see my mom. Can you get her for me?”

Joel’s voice cuts through the tension, softer now, almost measured without turning away from the stranger. “Ellie, get back behind the wall.”

You glance at Ellie. Her eyes are still wide, frozen in place for just a beat longer than she should be. And then Joel’s gaze locks onto yours beside him.

“Go on,” he says, and his voice is almost gentle, laced with exhaustion. It’s different from how he usually is—more than just a command. There's something more there, something you didn’t expect.

You nod, and as you turn on your heel towards Ellie, the man on the ground begins to plead even louder, “Please! Please, don’t kill me! I’ll do anything! I’ll make it right! HELP !”

The sound of his voice, the desperation in it, claws at something deep inside you. You try to block it out as you force yourself to focus on Ellie, grabbing her shoulder and guiding her toward the hole in the wall. The panic is palpable, rising in your throat like bile. The fact that you’re even still here, not the one bleeding out on the floor, feels like a fluke. But it doesn’t matter now. All you know is to obey Joel, to get away as quickly as you can.

Your hands find Ellie’s shoulders when you turn away, pushing her through the hole in the wall, the space tight, too tight. When you finally make it to the other side, your eyes scan the ransacked room. Furniture scattered. Items overturned. Newspapers lining the windows, letting only little streams of light through that spotlight on the cracked tile. The remnants of a life you’ll never understand. But none of that matters. You press against the wall, your breath shallow, hands instinctively covering your ears. You glance at Ellie, and she mirrors you, small hands pressed over her own. Then the thud of a knife echoes along the walls—too close, too real—and both of you flinch in unison. Even though you yourself had just taken lives, there was something about hearing a man beg for mercy, pleading for his life, and having to live with the weight of the decision being made on his fate. 

“Ellie,” you hear Joel call from the other side, “I gotta get in there. I can’t fit through.”

You push yourself off the wall, exhaling sharply in the silence, eyes scanning the area. Ellie’s already moving, her gaze fixed on something. She hesitates for a second, then her eyes latch onto a cart blocking the door. She looks at you, wordlessly asking for help.

You give a quick nod, and walk over to her. You grab onto the handles with all your strength, pulling with everything you’ve got. Your muscles strain with the effort as the cart moves slowly, inching away from the door. Behind you, you hear Joel’s body slamming against the door as he tries to move it along from the other side.

Finally, the cart moves enough for Joel to slip through. He’s through quickly, and as soon as he is, you let go of the cart, and he slams the door shut behind him, securing it. You and Ellie both push against the cart together, getting it back in place against the side door with one final heave.

You watch as Joel catches his breath, handing your backpack back to you, his gaze flickering to Ellie with something unreadable in his eyes.

“I’m fine! I’m okay!” Ellie says quickly, her voice high and rushed, betraying her nerves.

Joel sighs, his tone sharp. “Why didn’t you just stay put like I told you to?”

Ellie’s breaths come in fast gasps now, eyes wide as she looks at him. “Well, you’re glad I didn’t, right?”

Joel pulls the small handgun Ellie had handed him earlier from his waistband, his expression hardening. “I’m glad neither of us got shot by a goddamn kid.”

“What?” she says, her voice rising in disbelief as she glares at him, “No. You know what? How about a ‘thanks Ellie, I know it wasn’t easy, but it was either him or her, and you saved her, saved us !’”

She turns to you, her eyes pleading for you to back her up. You just stay quiet, watching as Joel crouches to rummage through his pack, unaffected.

“We gotta get going,” Joel mutters, his voice devoid of any warmth.

Ellie turns to you now, her eyes softening as she whispers your name, as if silently pleading for you to intervene.

You clear your throat, forcing yourself to nod in her direction. “Thanks,” you say quietly, the words feeling too small for everything that just happened.

She scoffs, disbelief clear on her face. It’s not that you’re ungrateful—hell, you aren’t even sure what would’ve happened if she hadn’t stepped in. But the thought of a little girl having to save your ass? It doesn’t sit right.

It’s not that you don’t appreciate her actions; you do. But the weight of it hits you— you didn’t hear someone sneaking up behind you —and it sinks like a lead weight in your stomach. The thought of making a kid feel like she had to step up for you, like she had to be the one to take action because you and Joel were out of commission... that thought gnaws at you. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. 

“Alright,” Joel says as he flattens the newspaper against the window again and turns to the both of you, “We go up, get a better look, find a clear way to get the hell outta here.”

You all step out into the alley behind the building, the faint smell of mildew and rust hanging in the air. Broken glass crunches softly beneath your boots despite your careful steps. You duck behind a rusted-out car, its paint long since peeled away by time and weather. God, you felt so vulnerable out here, like a mouse darting across an open field while hawks circled above. Every sound felt louder than it was—the scuff of a shoe, the faint hum of a distant engine.

Joel peers around the corner, his body tense, every muscle primed. You can see the way his jaw ticks as he listens, eyes darting toward the intersection ahead. The distant rumble of vehicles grows louder, the sound of tires on cracked pavement filling the space around you. You hold your breath as shadows flicker across the buildings. One car, then another, passes by. The growl of their engines fades into the distance, and only then do you dare to release the air from your lungs.

Joel gestures sharply, a quick wave of his hand. You follow as he leads the way, weaving between abandoned cars and debris littering the street. You try to keep low, your heart pounding in your ears as you dart across the open space. The asphalt beneath your feet feels impossibly exposed. You move faster than you should, but the weight of unseen eyes burns at your back.

Reaching the relative cover of another building, Joel yanks the door open, ushering you and Ellie inside. The silence that greets you is heavy, broken only by your labored breaths. The air is stale, the faint smell of rot lingering as you ascend the narrow stairwell. Every creak of the old steps sends a spike of anxiety up your spine. It feels like the sound will carry, announcing your presence to anyone nearby.

Two flights up, Joel stops, his hand on the railing as he glances back at you both. The three of you step into a small, empty room. The windows facing the street offer a view of the chaos outside—the cars, the bodies of the city long left to ruin. Joel moves to one of them, peering out cautiously. Ellie slumps against the wall, her expression unreadable, while you sink down opposite her, resting your back against the cool plaster.

Joel takes a seat on a discarded crate, his shoulders hunched as he rubs his hands together absently. Ellie sits with her knees pulled up, her arms draped loosely over them. Her face carries that familiar defiance, the stubbornness that refuses to be snuffed out. But beneath it, there’s something raw—an unspoken need for acknowledgment. You had tried earlier to find the words, fumbling through praise that felt hollow, but she’d brushed it off with a sharpness that lingered.

Joel takes a seat on a tossed crate, and Ellie sits against the wall, facing him. Her face still betrays her sense of defiance, her disbelief that either of you wouldn’t have the guts to praise her for saving your lives. You had tried to, unsure of what the right words were, but they didn’t feel like enough.

Ellie breaks the silence. “You okay?” she asks, her voice quieter than usual.

You nod, your eyes flicking toward Joel. “Are you?”

He exhales through his nose, the sound more tired than anything else. “I’m alright.” His voice is gruff, clipped. Then his gaze shifts to Ellie. “You?”

“Yeah,” she says, but her tone lacks conviction.

Joel leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Thing is…” he starts, shaking his head like he’s trying to work through it himself. “I didn’t hear that guy comin’. Didn’t even see him ‘til he was right up behind you.” His eyes flick to yours, and there’s a weight in them that makes you swallow hard.

“I didn’t either. It’s—”

“It ain’t okay,” he cuts in, not harshly, but with enough force to stop you mid-sentence. His voice softens, though his words don’t as he looks to Ellie. “It was either him or…us.”

The silence between them stretches taut, a silent conversation you aren’t privy to. Finally, Ellie breaks eye contact, rolling her eyes. “Was that your version of a thank you?” she says, her tone biting.

Joel scoffs, breaking the tension, “Guess it was.”

“You’re welcome,” she says then.

You shift uncomfortably, searching for something to say. “You’re just a kid. You shouldn’t…you shouldn’t have to know what it means to…” The words catch in your throat. “It’s not like you killed him, but still. For you to have to hurt someone…”

Ellie doesn’t let you finish. “It wasn’t my first time,” she says, the words tumbling out like she hadn’t meant to say them. Her voice is tight, and her eyes glaze over, distant. Whatever she’s remembering, it’s something she’s not ready to share.

Though the tension seems to have faded, the room still feels heavy, the air thick with things unsaid. Joel shifts, reaching for the small handgun tucked into his waistband. His movements are slow, deliberate, as he weighs it in his hand. He checks the ammo with practiced ease before holding it out to Ellie.

“This,” he says, his tone low and serious, puling it away as she goes to take it from him the first time, “is for emergencies only.”

He finally hands it over, her small fingers wrapping around the grip. A ghost of a smile flickers across her lips, quickly smothered. “I’ll be careful,” she says, her voice steady, her brow set with determination.

Setting off again, the three of you climb yet another flight of stairs. Each step feels like fire now, a sharp, relentless sear that shoots up your thigh with every push. The adrenaline that had dulled the pain earlier had long since burned out, leaving you raw and aching. The silence of the building presses in—no distant engines, no shouts, no gunshots. It should feel like a relief, but the quiet only makes the throb in your leg that much harder to ignore.

On the next landing, you stumble slightly, your breath hitching as your hand flies to your thigh where Joel’s makeshift bandage is still tied tightly. You double over, leaning against the wall, trying to catch your breath.

“Hey.” Joel’s voice comes from above, gruff but sharp enough to cut through your focus on the pain. He’s standing a few steps up, looking down at you with a frown. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you manage between heavy breaths, though your voice betrays you. “It’s just…my leg.”

Joel lets out a huff, clearly unimpressed by your attempt to downplay it. “Come ‘ere,” he says, already crouching slightly. His hands go out to his sides, palms open like he’s ready to catch you.

You blink at him, caught off guard. “A piggyback? You serious?” The laugh that escapes is half-genuine, half incredulous.

He gives you a pointed look, his tone impatient. “Yeah, it’s a serious piggyback. Now come on. We gotta get moving, and you’re slowing us down.”

Typical Joel. The offer of help wrapped in barbed wire. You roll your eyes, muttering under your breath as you push off the wall. God forbid he just does something nice.

Ellie snickers from behind you, clearly enjoying the exchange. You step closer to Joel, your movements hesitant. The thought of being that close to him—his hands on you, his warmth so near—makes your face flush before you’ve even touched him.

“Go on,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at you. His gruffness is almost convincing, but there’s a flicker of something else in his expression. Awkwardness? Unease? It’s hard to tell, but it only makes your stomach twist more.

You step up behind him, your hands twitching at your sides as you try to figure out the logistics. “Alright,” you say, mostly to yourself. You bend your knees and jump lightly, trying to be careful, but his hands catch your legs firmly, hoisting you up with surprising ease. The sudden contact sends a jolt through you, and you can’t stop the small gasp that escapes your lips.

Joel grunts as he adjusts your weight. “Jesus, you don’t eat much, do you?”

You glare at the back of his head. “You sure about this, old man?” you mutter, wrapping your arms around his neck, careful not to choke him. Your hands clasp low beneath his chin, the heat of his skin against yours making your pulse thrum.

Your face burns, and you’re grateful he can’t see it. The closeness, the feel of his hands steadying your legs, the solid warmth of his back pressing into your chest—it’s all too much. You swallow hard, trying to push the thoughts away. This is Joel, the hardened man who can’t show kindness without burying it beneath a shell of toughness and quiet resolve, often choosing silence over saying anything that might betray it. But your teenage self, the one who’d harbored that stupid crush on him long before you were forced out of your only sanctuary, is practically screaming inside your head.

You shift slightly, trying to focus on anything but the warmth of his body against yours. “This doesn’t mean I owe you anything,” you mutter, your voice quieter than you intended.

Joel snorts. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Ellie, trailing behind, grins from ear to ear. “Aw, you two are so cute,” she teases, her voice dripping with mock sweetness.

“Shut up,” you and Joel snap in unison, which only makes her laugh harder.

Joel presses on, his steps steady despite carrying your weight up the stairs. You’re acutely aware of the warmth of him beneath you, the rough fabric of his shirt brushing your forearms where your hands are clasped around his neck. The awkwardness sits heavy in your chest, but you try to push it down, focusing on the rhythm of his movement instead.

Still, the silence stretches between the three of you, tense and thick, and you find yourself blurting out the question before you can stop yourself. “Hey… Joel?”

He grunts in acknowledgment but doesn’t slow down.

“Before,” you say, your voice quieter now. “With the guy in the street. How did you know it was a trap?”

His pace falters for the briefest moment—a single misstep on the stairs that he recovers from so quickly you almost think you imagined it. Almost.

Joel exhales heavily through his nose, the sound harsh in the quiet stairwell. “Because I’ve been on both sides,” he says, his voice low and matter-of-fact, like it’s a truth he’s long since resigned himself to.

You stiffen slightly on his back, your hands tightening reflexively around his neck. You can’t see his face, but you feel the tension radiating off of him, the way his shoulders seem just a little more rigid now.

“Oh,” you say softly, your voice barely audible over the sound of his boots against the stairs. It’s all you can manage, the weight of his admission pressing down on you like a physical thing. You want to ask more, to press for details, but the look on Ellie’s face when you glance back at her stops you. She’s quiet, her expression serious in a way you’re not used to seeing.

The rest of the climb is silent. Joel doesn’t say another word, and you don’t push. But the weight of his confession clings to the air around you, seeping into the cracks of your mind and settling there, uncomfortable and unshakable.

When you finally reach the next landing, Joel crouches slightly to let you slide off his back. His hands leave your legs the moment you’re steady, and he straightens, adjusting his pack like nothing happened. You hesitate for a moment, glancing at him, but his expression is closed off, unreadable.

“Thanks,” you mumble, your voice small.

He doesn’t look at you. “Don’t mention it,” he says gruffly, already moving toward a large metal door that leads into the next room.

[mawofthemagnetar]

The door to Doc’s lab squeaked open, and Etho shuffled in lazily. The man himself was standing at a lab bench, fiddling with something- on the bench beside him, a machine the size of a filing cabinet was whirring away noisily. Etho paid it no mind.

“Got the last of ‘em for ya.” He said, holding up a jar of blue slime and giving it a shake, “The last artifake.”

“Perfect,” Doc rumbled, peering in at something through a microscope.

“So, uh, do we have an answer? About the Iskallium eye?”

“Hmm? Yeah, we do. That’s definitely Iskall’s eye. Same materials, same composition, same power supply- matches all the diagrams he gave me when asked. Only difference is, all the artifakes are beat to hell. I don’t know what could possibly have caused these dents, man. Does Tango-?”

“Tango is saying the same thing Tango said yesterday, which is, quote, “they came with the dungeon!” Etho rolled his eyes, leaning up against a workbench that was cluttered with his hard-won artifakes, “So, ah, any luck? I’m risking my life in there for this, you know that, right?”

“You’ll respawn,” Doc muttered, holding a hand out and waggling his fingers. Etho dropped the jar of speedy slime into Doc’s metal palm with a clank, and Doc moved whatever he was examining off the microscope and set about preparing another slide.

“So,” Doc said, “There is a commonality, across all items.”

“Oh?” Etho echoed, hopping up on a bench and shoving a well-loved pickaxe out of the way, “And what’s that?”

“A dusty...residue...thing. Tastes and smells like spent gunpowder, like a rocket that’s just been fired,” Doc said, dropping a slipcover on top of the slide, “It’s fine, particulate residue.” Doc shrugged, and slid the sample of slime onto his microscope, peering in for a closer look.

“And it’s...EVERY artifake, you said?”

“And every artifact, I’ll bet. Keralis’ slippers were a goldmine- just choked with the stuff. Seriously. I put them into a bag and shook them and a ton of that dust came out.” Doc twiddled the focus knobs, and sighed.

“There's more of it. Man, and it's even, like, mixed into the slime! I’m gonna have to ask Jevin for a sample when he’s around next so I can compare.” Doc nodded, and Etho smiled behind his mask.

“Soooo... that’s it, then? The mystery of where the heck Tango got all these artifacts from is...magic dust, I guess?”

The machine dinged, like an egg timer, and printed something out on a long strip of paper. Doc extracted it, and started to read over his results.

And as his eyes scanned down the page, he went very, very still.

“Doc? What’s happening?”

“Etho. Composition of this dust...it’s rock.” Doc said slowly.

“...Rock dust? And?”

“Roughed edges. This rock has never seen water.”

“...Which means...?”

“This rock hasn’t been oxidized. Predominantly...reduced. No clay, no mica...which means...”

“Doc!” Etho sighed, “What are you trying to say, here?”

“Every single one of these artifakes is covered in moon dust.” Doc said flatly.

Etho swallowed.

“Wherever the dungeon is getting these artifacts-” Doc started, hands trembling.

“-Is someplace we didn’t get lucky last season.” Etho finished, "Ah. O...kay."

Both men stared at the jar of slime in silence.

“...Cool. Well, anyway, have fun with your crisis. I’ve got three more frozen shards left!” Etho said cheerfully, and he skipped out the door.

[familyvideostevie]

watching you with wonder

joel miller x reader joel claims to have heard something interesting. too bad he keeps insisting he needs more information before he can tell you | 5.4k a/n: same universe as come care about me but not necessary to read that one first! joel is soft, this is my version of him where he and ellie heal and he gets to have a life etc etc etc | domesticity, post-part i jackson au, joel is a flirt and a gossip but good thing you are too, a fair amount of kissing, fluff, softness, peace and all that good stuff. part 3 here! series masterlist here.

It's been a long day. The supply run you'd been dreading went off without a hitch but you were out of the gate at sun-up and in the saddle for most of the morning and afternoon. Your legs are sore, your back is sore,  and you're dirty from a day outside the walls.

You haven't seen Joel since this morning. Not unusual, not by any means. Most days you're both doing something in town, occasionally one of you out on patrol. You're partial to the plant work and Joel likes to chop wood or check out houses that need upgrades with Tommy. But after a day like today you want nothing more than to go home and complain about how much you miss cars while Joel works the knots out of your shoulders. 

But tonight is Festival Night. Nothing big, just a dance at the barn that serves as the community center with music and drinks and food. And Joel, despite his insistence that he's Jackson's resident grump, will be there, because Tommy will have asked him to go and he doesn't like disappointing his brother. And, though he'll never admit it even to you, he enjoys community events. He gets to see the people he loves having a nice time and feeling safe. 

So you head from the stables to the main hall, not bothering to stop at home. Jackson seems to be lit up extra special, the air a little lighter due to the laughter and music brightening the night. The noise becomes almost overwhelming when you open the door and slide inside, dropping your pack against the wall. It's much warmer in here and you unbutton your coat as you make your way through the crowd, waving to people as you go. 

Joel is here somewhere but you don't try too hard to spot him. You know he'll find you. Someone calls your name and you pivot on your heel to find Ellie waving at you from a...poker table?

"Wanna join?" she asks once you walk over. Next to her is Tommy, who looks significantly less excited than she does. "I'm teaching Tommy how to play poker. Oh, sorry, I'm fucking smoking Tommy at poker."

"I know how to play, you little shit," Tommy growls. "Who taught you? This isn't poker, this is a fuckin' massacre." 

Ellie cackles and tips her chair back so she's balancing on the back legs.

"I'll pass this round," you tell her. "Looks like you've got him handled."

"You just want to find Joel." She looks at you in that uncanny way of hers like she knows all of your secrets. But this is one you have no problem admitting.

You smile at her. "Seen him?"

"Now that you're here I'm sure he'll slink out of whatever corner he stuck himself in," Tommy grumbles. "Girl, you sure you ain't countin' cards?"

You leave them to it and wander over to the bar. Astrid pours you a glass of something amber. You take a sip and let the burn warm your throat, your stomach. The music behind you picks up and there's laughter and you turn to see people pairing up and flocking to the floor. 

You close your eyes to enjoy the sounds that mean peace, safety, home. It never gets old and you never quite get used to it. You inhale deep and -- ah, yes. There it is. A smile spreads across your face as you breathe in wood glue, gunpowder, the soap you make at home. Your heart beats a little faster, even after all this time.

"Hi," you say, opening your eyes. Joel stands in front of you, one hand in his pocket and the other holding a glass similar to your own. His hair curls at his collar, edges still a little wet from the shower he must have taken before coming here. His shirt is rolled to his elbows, his jacket clearly discarded somewhere. Your gaze trails up his chorded forearms, his watch securely in place as always. This is what you've called his "nice" shirt, a deep green that makes the grey of his beard all the more striking and brings out his eyes. 

Eyes that settle on you in a way that sends heat up your spine.

"Howdy," he says. "You just get here?"

"Like you weren't watching the door for me," you tease. He shrugs and reaches for you, his free hand curling around your hip to tug you close for just a few moments. Joel presses his lips to your cheek lightly, his beard scratching your skin as he pulls away and settles at your side, arm resting on the bar behind you. 

"Well, I ain't seen you all day," he reminds you. As if you could forget. Every second you're not looking at him you sort of wish you were. There aren't many good things left in your life -- all of them are in this town, now -- and you tend to hold on to the ones you still have with both hands. Joel, despite the fact that he'd argue with you over it, is your good thing. Your best thing.  

"Miss me?" 

"Dumb question," he mutters. 

His fingers brush against the back of your bicep, warm through your jacket. "How was the run?"

"Easy. Long." You take a sip of your drink. It's still warming but doesn't measure up to the solid warmth of the man beside you. "I came straight here."

"That would explain why you smell like shit," he drawls. You smack his chest. He doesn't so much as flinch.

"Rude."

Joel watches the crowd and you watch him. That's how it usually goes with you two. You figure he's watching for threats, for any sign of something going wrong. It's a habit most folks here find hard to break. He's watching Ellie, who has left the poker table behind, twirl some of the children around with Dina, he's watching Tommy try to teach a few drunk guys how to square dance like he does every Festival. Joel curls his hand around your shoulder and you lean back into the touch. 

On a night like tonight when joy is more contagious than the fungus spreading through the rotting world, Joel loosens up a little. It's a good look on him and it only ever means good things for you -- he laughs more, he touches you more. But most importantly you know he lets life in. He lets that knot you know is in his chest, the one made of fear and loss and survival and all of the horrible fucked up things he's seen and done, he lets it loosen even just a bit. He lets himself feel the good things, too. How much the people in this town respect him, care about him. How much they appreciate him. How much they love him, how much you love him.

You look at him in the soft light of the barn. There's a tug to his mouth that you know.

He looks smug. It's a nice look on him, a relaxed one. He looks too handsome for his own good. And though you love him, love how he's enjoying the night, like hell you're going to let him stand there and get away with whatever he's cooking up.

"Joel Miller, why are you looking so pleased with yourself?"

"No reason," he says. He takes another sip of his drink, side-eyeing you over the rim. This man. 

You tap the heel of your boot against his. "Don't make me beg."

His eyes flash but he turns into your space, the solid shape of him curling around you as well as his arm. In another world, in another life, he could be a handsome man picking you up at a bar. 

"I heard somethin'," he says, voice low. "Somethin'...interestin'."

"Really?" You look around the barn as if the object of his gossip will materialize in front of you. "Tell me."

He leans back and you have to stop yourself from following. "Don't think so."

"Joel."

This man can be such a shit when he wants to be. 

He holds the hand carrying his glass up in surrender, the brown liquor sloshing close to the rim. "Hey now, don't go shootin' the messenger."

"I can't because he won't tell me the message."

"S'not anything worth tellin' just yet," he drawls. "I need a little more intel. Y'know, make it worth your while."

You sigh, hamming it up a bit by thunking your forehead to his collar. Joel huffs a laugh and fully drapes his arm across your shoulders, warm and solid. 

It's all fun but you know there's a note of truth to it. Joel can lie better than most people but he doesn't lie to you. "Fine. You get away with it for now."

The song changes to something old and slow, something you recognize but don't quite remember the name of.

"Only if you dance with me," you say. You swallow the last of your drink and push off the bar, sliding out from under his arm. You hold your hand out to him and wiggling your fingers. "It's only fair."

He sighs like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. And he is, sometimes. But right now his cheeks are a little flushed from the drink and your flirting and you want to see how far you can take it.

"Unless I smell too much like shit," you goad. You don't actually think he'll go for it. Joel doesn't dance. It feels like the kind of good time, the kind of joy that is forever stuck in the past, left behind twenty odd years ago. Honestly, you think he'll just drag you home and have his way with you in your warm bed. 

But he manages to surprise you.

Joel throws back his drink and grabs your hand. His thumb strokes your skin.

"S'pose it is," he says. "You don't smell that bad."

A delighted laugh spills from you. He leads you to the already-crowded dance floor, pulling you close with a hand on your back. You rest your arm on his broad shoulder and hook your thumb in his collar. 

"Not so bad, is it?" you say. Your faces are so close you're practically cheek to cheek. You feel his breath on the shell of your ear, his beard a little prickly against your cheek. 

"Could be worse." You and Joel gently sway and you toy with the ends of his hair. Over his shoulder you can see Dina and Ellie dancing, arms wrapped around each other tight. You close your eyes and match your breaths to Joel's. 

"We should do this more often," you say. "Bet they'd let you play guitar at the next festival if you wanted."

Joel hums. 

"Don't forget you have to deliver the firewood to the school tomorrow." He presses his hand to your back and pulls you even closer. "Are you listening to me?"

"Mhm."

"Joel --" Your eyes fly open and you try to pull away to goad him but he holds you steadily against him.

"Hush," he says, fingers squeezing yours. "I'm enjoyin' the moment."

You allow it.

___

The gossip Joel mentioned is in the back of your mind but you know he'll tell you when he's satisfied with his information gathering or whatever the fuck he's up to. Sure, it's silly, maybe even pointless but you like to think of it as a display of the trust you have in each other. You trust Joel with your life and you've put that into practice, watched him bloody his knuckles for the ones he loves. You also trust him with your heart, your body, your mind. There's no part of you that his hands haven't touched, haven't loved in the jagged, intense way of his. 

Plus you enjoy seeing him pleased with himself, which you know he will be once he has the whole story to tell you. It's not a mood you see on him often.

You finally have a free night and Ellie asks you to come over to try out a new video game Jesse found for her on patrol. Joel waves you off when you offer to stay in with him instead.

"Means I'll get some peace and quiet to finish my book," he grumbles, handing you your coat even though you're walking across the yard. He's already peeled off his boots and looks half-awake in the dim light of your entryway, glasses tucked into the collar of his sweater.

"More like you're going to sit in bed and fall asleep reading without me talking to keep you awake."

He sends you off with an eye roll and a soft kiss which you turn into two more, just because. Maybe a few years ago he'd sit in the chair downstairs and wait for you to come home. He does like to play his guitar on the porch when it's not too cold, keep an eye on things. But you'll be with Ellie just out back and it's been a long week. It's no small point of pride that, with the help of your reassurance and persistent care and his own conviction, Joel allows himself to relax a little. "Have fun."

You do. Ellie and Joel have a history that is complex and tender, so much so that sometimes it's too much for both of them. After it seemed like she was open to it, you've tried to make sure you and her have a relationship all your own. She's smart and funny and fiercely loyal to the people she cares about. You feel lucky to be one of them.

But she still annihilates your ass when it comes to video games. 

"You know," she says, cracking her knuckles after yet another defeat. "It's embarrassing as shit how you literally lived in a time where you could play these like, whenever you wanted. And yet it's me, who was born after the world ended, who keeps winning."

You make sure to look unamused. "Whatever." You stand, stretching out your spine with your arms above your head and yawn. "It's teenage luck." You have no idea how this girl stays up so late all the time. 

"I guess I'm just good at everything."

"Oh, you sure about that?" She hands you your coat and tugs on the strings of her sweatshirt. "I've seen you in a kitchen. You might want to rethink that one."

"Psh," she says, waving you off. "Who needs to cook, anyway?"

You slide into your boots and shake your head. "I'm actually shocked Dina puts up with you." 

"Hey, fuck you!" she cries, though she's hiding a smile. "No insulting me in my own home. It's Joel's fault, anyway. He can't cook either."

You snort. "Don't I know it." She grins at you fully, the one you call her shark-tooth smile, and you grin back. "Thanks for this, kiddo. I had fun." 

"Yeah, maybe one day you'll win." You tug her in for a quick hug which she allows before squirming away. "Alright, alright. Go make sure he didn't burn down the house without you, or something."

It's late, late enough that you feel yourself getting more tired with each step back to the porch. Joel left the back door unlocked for you. You latch the deadbolt behind you and peel off your outer layers in the dark. A quick glance in the kitchen tells you Joel put your stuff from dinner away and is probably in bed. He's left out your mugs, ready for the morning, and the list he's been making of things you need to do around the house before it snows. You love to see the pieces of your life on display like this -- signs that this is a home.

You don't bother being quiet when you climb up the stairs because you know he'll be pissed if you don't wake him to let him know you're home. The bedroom light is on but when you actually go in you see he's in bed with his book in his lap, glasses sliding down his nose. His eyes are closed and his bare chest rises slowly.

He's probably only half-asleep, probably heard you come in and decided it was safe enough to shut his eyes until you say something. So you get ready for bed quickly, tugging on soft clothes and brushing your teeth before creeping over to his side of the bed and perching on the edge of it, resting your hand on his thigh under the covers.

"Joel," you say softly. "Joel, are you asleep?"

"Yes," he grumbles. His eyes flutter open, the piercing grey a little clouded with tiredness. He reaches for his glasses and pulls them from his face a bit clumsily. "You okay? You n'Ellie have fun?"

"We did. She's so good at video games it's a little scary." You pluck the frames from his hand and fold them, setting them on his bedside table with his book. He grunts and pushes himself up a little more in bed, his leg pressing against your tailbone through the blankets. It's a real show of your restraint that you don't run your hands over the golden and hairy expanse of his chest, the broad line of his shoulders. Instead you reach for his face and he lets you, eyes crinkling at the corners as he tries and fails to hide his amusement as you trail your fingers through his hair. Just being here with him makes you a little sleepy, your body catching up with your mind at how you always feel safest when he's in the room with you. "S'cold, though. I think we might need to put some more insulation in the shed for her."

"Alright," he says. Joel wraps his fingers around your wrist and pulls your palm to his cheek but quickly flinches away. "Christ," he mutters. "Your hands are cold." He encases both of your hands in his and rubs slowly, throughly. 

"Let me get in bed, then." You make no effort to move. 

Joel blows on your fingers and, in a move that's tender even for him, presses his lips to their tips. "I ain't holdin' you here."

"Sarcasm," you say. "And Ellie claims you're not funny." Joel scoffs and you laugh, rising from his side of the bed and making your way around to yours. Joel flicks back the covers and you slide in, facing him. 

"Light off?" he asks. You nod. He shuffles around to flip the switch and then settles into his side with a groan. It's dark but you know his face with your eyes closed, let alone in the moonlight of your bedroom. The gash on the bridge of his nose, the scruff of his greying beard, the nicks along his cheeks and temples. The age spots, the wrinkles, the lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth, these days more from smiles and laughter than stress and worry. Or so you like to think. 

"Got any gossip for me yet?" 

Joel huffs. "Not quite."

"Jooooooel," you whine, scooting closer. You hook a leg over his and slide your hand over his stomach, fingers catching on the hair above the waistband of his sleep pants. He makes a noise deep in his throat but otherwise allows it. 

"I ain't givin' you half-assed information," he says. "It'll be worth the wait."

With Joel, it always is. You consider dragging it out a little more but you're cold and tired and he's so warm and you barely saw him at all today. "Alright," you say. You pull yourself even closer under the covers, dragging your nose over the hollow of his throat, his beard a delicious scratch on your skin. Your hand curls around his hip and he reaches for you on instinct, warm, callused palms sliding under your sleep shirt to press into your bare skin.

He huffs a tired laugh, chest rumbling with amusement. "What're you up to?"

"You're warm," you say into his skin.

"And you're handsy."

You trail your lips up to his and press them to the corner of his mouth. "You love it."

"Guess I do," Joel says. He catches you in a lazy, slow kiss, tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you part them. He licks into your mouth like he's got all the time in the world and you let him. His nose presses against yours and you sigh even further into the embrace, pressing as close as you can, as if you could crawl into him and stay there forever. Any cold lingering in your bones is dispelled by Joel's touch, by the thigh he wedges between your legs. This could turn into something more, and you love when it does, but tonight it's just about being close. His hand trails up your side to cup your face as the kisses get lazier, sleepier. You're slotting his bottom lip between yours when he pulls back and --

Yawns in your face. 

He looks a little surprised and then frowns. You laugh and smooth the crease between his brows before kissing him once more.

"Jesus, Joel," you say. "Bedtime."

"Was sleepin' fine before you got here," he grumbles, but  in the same breath he wraps his arm around you and tugs you with him as he turns onto his back so your head lays on his chest. You match your breaths to his. He presses a kiss to your hair.

___

Two nights later you wake to an empty bed. 

You sleepily trail your hand through the sheets and find they still carry Joel's warmth. He must have gotten up a few minutes ago. You force your eyes to open but don't see a light in the bathroom, find no shadow in your eyesight. You can hear his voice in your head saying go back to sleep, s'nothin' but you know better than to listen to him when it comes to this. It's not like you'll be able to until you know he's okay, anyway. 

So you wrap the blanket from the foot of your bed around yourself and shuffle through the house and down the stairs. 

"Joel?" you call quietly. 

"Kitchen," he replies, a warm grumble in the still of the night. You didn't even look at the clock when you got out of bed but it must be late. 

He sits in the dark at your small kitchen table, eyes fixed on Ellie's garage out back. He's put a shirt on. Of course. Nightmare. This is where he always sits after he has one. His hands are wrapped around his mug. Based on the smell it's chamomile tea -- the only time he'll drink it instead of coffee is on nights like tonight. He had no idea it even grew in the greenhouses here until you presented him with a jar of it for Ellie back when you were still tiptoeing around whatever was between you. Those days are long gone.

"You okay?" You keep your voice hushed. It's rare these days that he'll want to be alone. You're the only one who gets to see him like this other than Ellie. It took a while but now Joel lets you comfort him, he lets you hold him together when he needs it. 

He tears his eyes from the window to meet yours, chin tipped up as he gets a good look at you in the dark. 

"M'alright." You take a few more steps into the kitchen and he frowns. "You cold?" He reaches for you with one hand, beckoning you close. You step into his space and he wraps one arm around you, leans his head against your soft stomach. You untangle from the blanket slightly to run your fingers through his hair. The touch is as grounding for him as it is for you.

"What can I do?" you ask him, ignoring his question. 

You can feel the warmth of his palm through the blanket and your sleep shirt. "This is just fine. Just need a minute." 

"You wanna take that minute on the couch?" He grunts his assent and you step back to allow him to get up. He leaves his mug on the table but catches your hand to pull you with him.

Joel sighs when he settles into the worn cushions, knees spread wide and head tipped back as be breathes. He doesn't look any more tired than usual but you can tell he's still holding onto whatever sent him down here. 

You press into his side, legs curled underneath you. His arm settles heavily on across your shoulders and you rest a palm on his knee. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" He turns his head to face you and his nostrils flare as he frowns.

"Nothin' new," he sighs. "A pretty old one, actually. Haven't had it in a while. 'Bout stuff from when we were on the road."

If he wants to say more he will. You don't know what it's like for him to worry about Ellie -- you only know how youworry. Once the sun rises he'll probably trudge over and knock on her door, ask if she wants to go for a ride. She'll complain about being woken up but she'll agree because she knows him, too. She'll see the tension at the edges of his eyes, in the set of his shoulders. There have been nights when you come downstairs to find her sleeping on the couch, too, just because she wanted to be sure he was okay.

You lean your head on his shoulder and breathe with him. He picks up your hand and rubs his thumb across the back of it slowly, as if he doesn't even know he's doing it.

Sleep is a near thing when Joel eventually clears his throat. "I got that gossip for you." His chest rumbles and you perk up, pulling back to look at him. His eyes have a bit more spark, a bit less of the far-away look he had when you came down the stairs. 

"Oh, do you now? Finally?"

"You're just impatient," he says. "Hadn't heard directly from either of 'em so I wasn't sure. But I tracked it down and got it from the source."

"You sound like a detective from one of those old shows. Got it from the source," you say, pitching your voice low and imitating his drawl. 

He manages to look unimpressed. "I don't have to tell you."

"Joel."

"Alright, alright. Well, it's about Wendy and Fred."

You sit up. "The couple that met on your group patrol?" It's something you and Ellie tease him about -- his accidental tendency to play matchmaker. Sometimes he leads group patrols for new folks or younger community members who are now old enough to join the roster. You think he probably enjoys scaring the shit out of them a little but he's also good at it, teaches them well and makes sure they're safe. Around the time you met you'd heard about a couple who met on a patrol and hit it off. It's happened a few more times with Joel's groups but Wendy and Fred are the only ones who have stayed together. 

"Mhm. Word is they're gettin' married."

You gasp. This is very far from what you expected him to tell you. A lot of the gossip you and Joel share is about people breaking up or sleeping together or moving out of Jackson. Sometimes it's petty theft or in-fighting at the council. But this? This is downright romantic.

"Married?" It's not uncommon these days but most people don't bother. But most importantly it means one thing -- there's going to be a party. "We haven't had a wedding in...forever," you say wistfully.

"Been a few years, yeah," Joel agrees. "Folks'll be excited."

"How did you find out?" 

He shifts on the couch a little and you take control of your clasped hands, holding one of his in both of yours as you trace the lines on his palm, the veins that go up his arm while he talks. 

"Heard from one of the guys at the festival that Fred was lookin' for a ring. Wanted to get the word out to some supply runs but without her knowin'. But I wasn't sure, since I hadn't seen him in a while. Then I saw Wendy at the pantry few days ago and she looked real happy. I didn't pry but asked her how things were and she was chipper as hell."

"And that wasn't enough to tell me?"

He squeezes your shoulder. 

"Yesterday Fred cornered me when I was headin' home and told me flat out. Thanked me for some fuckin' reason and said Wendy agreed to marry him. Kid looked like he was gonna throw up, he was so excited."

Joel's voice is warm. "You are such a romantic when you want to be," you tell him.

He smirks. "Heard that before."

"It'll be nice to have a celebration. If we're invited, you're dancing with me again."

"We better fuckin' be invited," he grumbles. "I introduced them."

"So you admit to being a matchmaker?"

He huffs. "Nah," he says, a little softer. "Dumb luck. S'how you get good things these days."

You shift under his arm a little bit. "Maybe," you reply. "I think we've earned a few of those things."

Joel drags a hand down his face. It's a motion that usually means he's chewing on what to say next. You spare him.

"This --" you gesture between the two of you "--and all of this --" you wave your hand at the room, the house "-- is more than I knew I could want. You, this house, that feisty, wonderful girl out back. This whole town. Waking up every morning and not dreading another day on this hellish planet. I didn't know this existed anymore, Joel, let alone that it was possible for me. And I think we've earned it."

He's quiet for a few breaths. "C'mere," he says softly. You don't know exactly what he means but he pulls you into his lap so you're straddling him, his arm firm around your hips. It could be a heated position, often is, but here it's just to be close. You catch yourself on his shoulders and drag your hands up to his cheeks. You hold his face in your hands, thumbs stroking the soft, forever-bruised skin under his eyes.

"You sure got a way with words," he says thickly, gaze heavy. "Don't know what I did to deserve this but I ain't gonna question it."

You wrap your arms around him and properly embrace him. He presses his palms to your back and hooks his chin over your shoulder. Your breathing syncs up and you swear your heartbeats do, too. Your whole body, your whole being tuned itself to Joel a long time ago. You'd do everything you've done twice over to get here. 

As if he hears the desperate devotion of your thoughts, Joel pulls back so he can lean up for a kiss. It's more intense than you expected it to be, like he's trying to tell you something with the press of his mouth. You know what he's trying to tell you -- you always do. Joel is better at showing you how he feels than telling you. 

He suckles your lower lip and you tug on the hair at the nape of his neck. He makes a noise low in his throat and you swallow it. You could touch him forever and never get enough. The firm planes of his back, the knot of tension always present in his shoulders. The scratch of his beard, the press of his nose against yours. You want to stitch yourself to him so that you never have to let go.

"S'your turn," Joel grumbles against your lips, pulling back to catch his breath.

Your brain is a little fuzzy. "Hm?"

"For somethin' juicy." 

It's a funny word coming from his mouth and it makes you laugh. His arms tighten around you and he drags his nose down your neck and breathes deep. You can get some gossip for him. You'd do much worse without being asked. Sometimes you think there are no limits to what you'd do for this man. It's a big thought, a dangerous thought, one that's suited to the world you live in now. You don't mind it.

"I'll get you something good, Joel Miller. I promise."

"I know you will," he says. "I trust you."

thank you for reading <3 reblog, send feedback, general masterlist here!

[sidefrog-of-all-kinds]

Constantly thinking of how terrified Ukyo must be of teenagers now. (Using everyone's starting ages for comedy and convenience purposes)

This man spent the entirety of the Stone Wars going "wow I can't believe I'm about to watch a teenager fight a bunch of- YOUNGER TEENAGERS?!"

Yuzuriha: 15- Can create any kind of clothing in a matter of minutes, can continue doing this for hours, probably knows just about every crafting technique

Kohaku: 16- Freakishly good at... Everything athletic honestly. Able to pick up and carry just about anything, amazing eyesight, and a tendency to keep fighting through concerning injuries

Senku: 16- has reinvented gunpowder, cars, guns, regularly works with highly toxic and acidic chemicals without a flinch and minimal (if any) protective equipment

Taiju: 16- Seemingly limitless power supply, has a scary long endurance that I'm not sure if we've seen him hit a limit for, additionally doesn't seem to realize how terrifying either of these things are

Homura: 17- Has no qualms about setting an entire village on fire and possibly killing everyone inside, a professional gymnast before the petrification that probably could have made it into the Olympics

Tsukasa: 18- Can kill a lion with his bare hands and rule over an entire empire of people, has seemingly no problem with what he knows is a sort of mass murder

Gen: 19- Concerningly good at lying and manipulating people, follows a moral code that benefits him and (thankfully) his allies

[sassenach77yle]

7x11 “A Hundredweight of Stones”

The door opened, and Jamie stepped in, closing it behind him. He saw me, stood stock-still for an instant, and then I was in his arms, the overwhelming warmth and size of him blotting out in an instant everything around me.

I didn’t know where my blood had gone. Every drop had left my head, and flickering lights danced before my eyes—but none of it was supplying my legs, which had abruptly dissolved under me.Jamie was holding me up and kissing me, tasting of beer and his beard stubble rasping my face, his fingers buried in my hair, and my breasts warmed and swelled against his chest.“Oh, there it is,” I murmured.“What?” he asked, breaking off for a moment.

“My blood.” I touched my tingling lips. “Do that again.”

Oh, I will,” he assured me. “But there are a number of English soldiers in the neighborhood, and I think—”The sound of pounding came from below, and reality snapped back into place like a rubber band. I stared at him and sat down very suddenly, my heart pounding like a drum.“Why the bloody hell aren’t you dead?”He lifted one shoulder in a brief shrug, the corner of his mouth turning up. He was very thin, brown-faced, and dirty; I could smell his sweat and the grime of long-worn clothes. And the faint whiff of vomit—he’d not been long off a boat.“Delay for a few seconds longer, Mr. Fraser, and you may well go back to being dead.” John had gone to the window, peering down into the street. He turned, and I saw that his face was pale but glowing like a candle.“Aye? They were a bit faster than I thought, then,” Jamie said ruefully, going to look out. He turned from the window and smiled. “It’s good to see ye, John—if only for the moment.”John’s answering smile lit his eyes. He reached out a hand and touched Jamie’s arm, very briefly, as though wishing to assure himself that he was in fact solid.“Yes,” he said, reaching then for the door. “But come. Down the back stair. Or there’s a hatchway to the attic—if you can get onto the roof—”Jamie looked at me, his heart in his eyes.“I’ll come back,” he said. “When I can.” He lifted a hand toward me but stopped with a grimace, turned abruptly to follow John, and they were gone, the sound of their footsteps nearly drowned by the noises from downstairs. I heard the door open below and a rough male voice demanding entrance. Mrs. Figg, bless her intransigent little heart, was having none of it.I’d been sitting like Lot’s wife, shocked into immobility, but at the sound of Mrs. Figg’s rich expletives was galvanized into action.

My mind was so stunned by the events of the last five minutes that it was, paradoxically, quite clear. There was simply no room in it for thoughts, speculations, relief, joy, or even worry—the only mental faculty I still possessed, apparently, was the ability to respond to an emergency.

I snatched my cap, crammed it on my head, and started for the door, stuffing my hair up into it as I went. Mrs. Figg and I together could surely delay the soldiers long enough…[...]

The next little while was going to be interesting, I saw.I didn’t care. While I was quite sure that Jamie wouldn’t shoot John under any circumstances, I was under no misapprehensions about the danger to either of them. I could smell it; the scent of sweat and gunpowder hung thick in the air on the landing, and the soles of my feet still vibrated from the slam of the heavy door below. None of it mattered.

He was alive. So was I.

101 REDIVIVUS ~An Echo in the Bone