#are these people too young to have learned that? aka too young to have taken a middle school english class?

[does-this-look-warriors-to-you]

apparently there's a community of people who claim squirrelflight was abusive to brambleclaw????

[thelastofhyde]

i. the likeability paradox.

pairing. joel miller x fem!reader

synopsis. joel miller is not a man who strives to be liked, with a chip on his shoulder and a scowl on his face, until his world is flipped on its axis when the pretty young thing living under bill and frank's roof, with an irritatingly unwavering smile and the literal sun shinning out her ass, says those five damned words: i don't like you, joel.

warnings. no use of y/n, enemies to lovers, slow burn ( i have several oneshots planned for this couple ), unrequited love ( except you will never catch joel miller admitting he feels anything beyond grief, hunger and exhaustion ), pining, poor communication no communication, no seriously joel is down bad it's actually disgusting and highkey 🚩toxic🚩 but luckily red is your favourite colour, sunshine!reader, grumpy!joel aka canon joel, kinda perv!joel ( if you squint ), implied queer!tess, undefined age gap ( reader implied late-20s ), descriptions of canon-typical violence, smut ( oral- f receiving, fingering, degradation, panty stealing, hair pulling, dirty talk, dubcon due to intoxication, joel kinda gives her a wedgie at some point and honestly i don’t know what i was hoping to achieve with that, discussions of a lacklustre sex-life pre-apocalypse ). reader is a) hinted at being shorter than joel but it’s not central to the plot and b) described as lithe but the meaning intended is graceful, not thin!

word count. 12.9k

hyde’s input. half-way through, the regret of choosing to write this from joel's pov started to settle in but lmao i was too far in to not commit to the bit. don't come at me for the fact the timeline or events may not seem plausible with canon, i just wanna write this silly little depraved fic about joel in peace :( anyway, enjoy my first attempt at writing for tlou, forming a prayer circle rn in hopes that this doesn't flop because i will cry and you will hear about it

taglist. @kayleezra​​ @newavenger + add yourself to the taglist here !​

read on ao3 ! ( capitalization available )

distaste is not new in the life of joel miller.

in particular, one that is loaded, aimed and fired directly at him. he is not a likeable guy, often by choice and rarely by accident. the years of pain from a bleeding wound have now scarred over into nothing but an empty shell of the man that once was, from a world that no longer is, and he’s tried little to fill himself back up.

if anything, he’s made himself more empty.

rid himself of feelings, that which saves him the weakness of appearing sympathetic. discarded the need for luxuries, for which he’d scarcely cared for prior to his world ending. lay to rest what was left of the optimist inside him, leaving behind the danger of hope for it to rot with the rest of the infected.

an apocalyptic world brings out all sides of man that one would never dare to engage with in normal civilisation. joel learned swiftly that he was built to endure, quick to evolve and adapt to the new world order. the man who once worked his hardest to keep the peace among his neighbours, smiling that little bit wider on days he’d catch them scowling to themselves in hopes of brightening one part of their day for even a simple moment, would be at odds with the man who wears a heavy layer of enjoyment when met with the scowling glances and the hushed voices, all the watch out for that miller guys passed between cowardly members of fedra and the keep away from mr. miller's lawns spoken harshly from mother to child becoming music to his failing ears.

this plague of fear-driven dislike keeps him alone, how he likes to be, no one to lose and nothing to be taken. somewhere along the years the idea of safety in numbers has morphed into an illusion, something people say and never truly mean, to distract themselves from a reality more bitter than a snowstorm: in times of survival, people become dead-weight.

“so that’s all i am to ya, huh? dead-fucking-weight?” his brother’s voice still echoes in that damned space he calls a home, weeks or months or years since the day he’d departed for something else, somewhere else, leaving joel to do what joel does best: endure.

somehow, silence was easier than telling the man he’d taught to tie a shoelace, to shave his beard, to tune a guitar that he was the dead-weight, doomed to drag all those who remained too close down into his pit of despair.

she was an exception, his tess, buried 5-feet-under in her own swell of darkness, nothing but the tips of her fingers stretched out above her head to feel the sun upon her skin and keep her from going that last foot deeper. they’d made a home for themselves in one another, one where he keeps them fed, and she keeps them safe, and neither of them keeps the place clean.

she never asks for more, and he never offers it, both content to survive without the weight of affection smothering them. contrary to the belief of any misfortunate soul who’s encountered the pair within the quarantine zone, she is the one who holds the leash, tugging joel along close by her heel and keeping him from wandering off into the wild to surrender himself to a feral lifestyle.

which lands him here, sat at a table playing happy family, each time he dares to snark out a few words being met with the sharp kick of tess’ foot against his shin.

“... and then,” frank struggles over a cough, so excited in his story-telling that he fails to separate taking a breath from taking a sip of his wine. with a roll of eyes and a disapproving grunt, bill’s no more than two seconds away from clapping down on his back, urging the other man’s wind-pipes to unblock and welcome back airflow. “otis dragged his muddied self over the whole house. we were finding paw-prints for days!”

joel’s unamused, too keen to think of what a nuisance that would be. as if incapable of feeling the buzzing energy of disinterest, the german shepherd drops its head further up his lap, begging for a morsel of anything that sits atop the table.

“which means i was cleaning paw-prints for days.” bill, the only one at the table besides himself who wears the looks of a cynic, grumbles out before shovelling what remains on his plate into his mouth.

frank is quick to shush him.

“i’m sorry, again, bill,” he doesn’t mean to break eye-contact from the mutt at his thigh, but the voice calls to him like a siren calls to a ship in the night, like a flame dances and seduces a moth into its brightly burning touch of death, a spotlight in the dark which promises- or threatens- more light to come. “i’d no clue there was a storm coming till we were already a good few miles away, and there was nowhere to take cover to wait it out.”

there you sit, parallel to him.

the sun rests lower in the sky as time carries you all into the late noon, its rays a beacon of light bursting out just behind your head, painting you in the glow of the golden hour and staining a mockery of a halo above you. it hurts his eyes, this brightness that you so easily bask in, forcing him to squint and deepen the frown on his face.

you catch him with his sights on you, at some point, and the smile you meet his scowl with has him cursing at the sun, and the moon, and every star that sits between.

the threat of a great war looms in the air as you rush to rise up and help clear the table of the remnants left behind- none of which joel can account for, mouth to keen and body too starved to skip out on enjoying the mundane luxury of a fresh, home-cooked meal. the battle ends swiftly as you surrender to bill’s hardened stare, and frank’s disapproving head-shakes, and tess’ own plan of action to simply force you down back into the seat you’d been sat in- the one you always sit in.

“you, sit. no one should have to clean up the food they made.”

they get no fight out of him when they insist he’d done enough catching the so-called food.

silence casts its shadow over the table, dampening the light and painting you both in a mockery of greyed tones- truthfully, it is the disappearance of the sun hind a large cloud that causes such a thing.

being alone, with you, is something joel’s never mastered. the affliction of your presence is so much greater when there’s no one else to balance out your natural shine- the kind that has his head spinning and his cock aching-, no one but him.

were he not a sick bastard, he’d try harder to not make you sad.

something bumps his hands, ripping him out of his moral self-condemnation. the dog meets his gaze, eyes a widened mess of puppy-dog pleading that punctuates its existence with an impatient whine.

just like your owner, he finds himself thinking and not saying- never saying-, yet to find your bark.

the ball’s a sticky mess of slobber and dirt, and joel touches it all the same, throwing it up in the air once, then twice, before tossing it across the yard. he’s slumped back in his chair by the time he registers the dog’s departure, a ball of dark fluff bouncing its way across the garden, and all the man can think is fuck, he’ll be feeling the effect of that throw on his shoulder come the morning.

the pain is not enough to stop him from tossing the ball again, and once more, and then yet again, sending the dog in a never ending loop of chase, grab, retrieve- a parallel to his life of wake, survive, sleep.

“he likes you,” you never leave things the way he wishes them to be, bursting his bubble with the vocal reminder of your presence.

as if on queue, prompted by your addressing of it, the dog drops its interest in joel, and the ball, and the chasing, tail wagging uncontrollably by the time it reaches your side. standing on its hind legs, it collapses the front of itself into your waiting lap, and joel watches how you wrap your arms so easily around something that could cause you harm.

to envy a creature that licks it own shit off its ass is a new low for joel.

“thinkin’ he might like ya more, sol.” the nickname rolls off his tongue with ease, the safer option than uttering your name, a vice and virtue he’s only permitted himself in idealistic fantasies that play out in his own troubled thoughts.

“most people do,” whether you mean to make it seem like you’re degrading his very existence or not, he’s unsure, but it rouses a chuckle out of him.

he takes note of how you don’t protest the name he’s branded you with, not like how you’d fought tooth and nail against it every other visit he and tess have made.

“you’ve got a whole load in common, you know? i think that’s got something to do with his fascination-”

“how the hell’s a man like me got somethin’ in common with a four-legged mutt?” there he goes again, making that smile slip down your cheeks with a simple use of his voice. it helps as much as it hurts, frown loosening up and eyes no longer strained beneath the bright shine of your visceral optimism.

“well, you’re both... hairy,” he restrains himself from reacting, washing down a laugh with the help of the dregs of wine that lay collecting at the bottom of his glass. he’s let his appearance grow more rugged over the past few months and your noticing of this brings an unwanted warmth to his aching bones. “and have the most kickass women in your lives to stop you from dying.”

he’s interested to know what life would be like under your protection.

discovering the answer brings the threat of pain, and loss, and an openness to vulnerability he can not afford himself, so he takes the safer option: “‘s easy stayin’ safe when you live in this fantasy land. doubt your mutt’d last any longer than a day out in reality.”

with you as its protector.

he doesn’t say it and, still, it somehow hovers in the space between you both, a heavy, syrupy implication that slips down your throats and threatens to suffocate you. he watches you choke on it, coughing on his cruelty and feigning it to be a simple clearing of your throat. your eyes glue themselves on the dog, delicate fingers smoothing over the well-groomed hairs down its back.

survival has turned him into a man who knows when to seize an opportunity, and this is one he takes with both hands, basking in the simplicity of staring, watching, observing you without the crime of being caught.

but i could keep you safe.

he toys with the danger of uttering such a thing aloud. it’s not the first time he’s thought it. truthfully, he’s unsure when it first nestled its way into his mind.

his memory, which ails him more than it aids him these past years, would have him believe it was way before the dog had even appeared, back when it was just bill, frank and you. a few whiskeys in and a campfire lit for you all to gather for warmth around- why you’d all chosen to sit out in the gardens on a winter’s night joel remains unsure of to this day-, it was frank who’d prompted the question. “where were you all when... this started?” tess went first, braver than most people he knows, sharing stories of a version of herself he’ll never meet. 

he never imagined her working in a bank.

bill, with reluctance, took the next step, keeping his account factual and to the point. “was shit-faced drunk and getting my stomach pumped.” he’d been quick to skim over the story of the young nurse who’d guided him to safety out the hospital, losing her own life in exchange for his survival. she was barely out of school. “i knew her dad, bit of an asshole, but boy, was he proud of his baby for graduating.” frank couldn’t let him swim too deep in his thoughts, afraid a current of guilt would trap him and drown him in the depths of it, and so he raised his own voice and began his tale.

joel had always been a good listener. being a single parent to a teenage girl required him to be, or so... she would have had him believe, nights at the table set for two spent listening to the playground he-said-she-said gossip. years later and he at last prefers things this way, a rare gem of safety found in the act of saying nothing and hearing everything- that his hearing will allow. all this to say, he’d tried his best to pay attention to frank’s impassioned retelling of his heroic misadventures that had lead him to the unintentional arms of bill.

but you weren’t smiling.

he watched you, you watched the dancing flames, face stoic and drained of that natural shine his eyes had only just started to be able to gaze upon without the threat of being blinded by such light.

the desire crept up on him like a tiger to it’s prey, hiding in the far off bushes until the opportunity to strike presented itself and the feeling lunged for joel’s back, gripping him in its claws and piercing his ribcage with its gnashing teeth. with each bite, it plagued him with the delusions of a wandering mind, imagination left free to run laps around his head with visions of you from another life, another time, another set of people gathered round a dining table. he’d wanted to hear about the ones you’d lost, and comfort you with all the things he hated hearing (“you’ll keep ‘em alive, in spirit and memory!” “those we remember never truly die!”). he’d needed to bend a knee and swear a vow to be the one to stand between you and death, to fight for your survival on your behalf. ‘could keep you safe. there, then, the thought did cross his mind.

he’d washed it down with a swig of lukewarm, flat beer.

“-could fix it, you know. i’m good with my hands.”

he almost chokes on his own breath.

i'm good with my hands, it swims in circles round his mind, replaying and echoing off the walls of his skull. and he knows- oh, how he knows- that he’ll be replaying it in those moments of solitude for the next few nights, weeks, months- however long it may take till he forgets the way such thought-provoking words sound on your lips.

“what?” the question leaves him harsher than he intends, drawing an enemy line between you both with the foul sound of it. in the corner of his eye, he swears he sees you flinch backwards, physically recoiling from the disdain-filled bullet he fires in your direction.

the mutt in your lap retreats, hackles rising as it turns to face joel once more.

he sees it, in the dog’s brutal protectiveness over you, this similarity you claim exists.

“your watch, it’s broken.”

“hadn’t noticed,” he’s retreating into his own space now, mentally and physically, scraping the legs of his chair against the ground as his mind works to strengthen those walls that threaten to crumble so often in your presence. “don’t need ya to fix it.”

you pull a face, brows furrowing and lips pouting. confusion.

“don’t you want to know the time?” you ask, as if time could ever be relevant in a rotten world where down is up, and up is down, and joel miller is not the overprotective father to the most delicate creature the god he’d stopped believing in had gifted him, just to force him to watch as life snatched her away.

“i don’t keep it for the time.”

you smile, and this one’s a killer, piercing straight through the cages of his ribs to carve itself into his withered heart.

the german shepherd relaxes with the rebrightening of your aura, shaking out the tension from its body before sauntering its way back over to joel, ball in mouth and tail wagging excitedly, as if it hadn’t just contemplated having its first taste of human flesh.

he’s throwing the toy in a matter of minutes, enjoying the repeated run and retrieve game, and the renewed silence that comes along with it. nature sings its tune with rustling leaves, cawing crows, and pounding paws. it’s almost so easy to leave your offer, your words, his broken watch in the rearview mirror of this otherwise pleasant afterno-

“ooh, so there’s a story to tell!” you’re blinding him with your excitement, lithe limbs leaning forward in your own chair in an attempt to reach closer, table between you be damned. “i’ve never heard any of the joel miller backstory, this should be-”

“i get that likin’ everyone is your thing, but would’ya give it a rest?”

nature falls silent.

skies grow dull.

you juggle sadness.

there’s a crash that comes from within the house, followed by the unmistakable sound of tess’ sailor mouth, cursing whichever delicate dish she’s broken into smithereens with the help of her accident prone hands. the dog’s lain itself down upon the grass, ball between it’s paws as it begins to bite, and chew, and break it under the pressure of its canines.

joel wonders what the mutt’s practicing for.

“sure,” then, with the return of your voice, all sounds resume, harmony upon planet earth once more. only, the gates have been shut in his face and joel finds himself forced to watch as everything unfolds from the outside, an unwelcome visitor forced out into exile with the fungal freaks and the inhumane. “but you’re wrong. i don’t like everyone.”

“‘s that so.” his eyes roll. the hole he’s dug for himself sinks deeper, casting you higher up on the pedestal joel will always be wiling to place you on.

“yeah,” you’ve risen out your chair, gifting him the view of how the fabric of your dress dances above your knee, a final twist of the knife in his heart that he lets you pierce his flesh with each time he surrenders himself to your existence. “i don’t like you, joel.”

the hours come and go, but your words linger like a bad tattoo, shamefully engraved into his skin and banning him to a life of noticing the horrendous thing each time he passes by his own reflection.

we’re staying, for tonight. tess had called the shots, and he’s been learning not to argue when she gives him one of her stern looks, biting down on the comments he’d wanted to make of the dangers of being out of the qz for too long, which would likely earn him nothing but a shrug and the reminder that they both were off duty the following day

the nights are beginning to grow darker as winter grows nearer, leading bill and frank- mostly frank- to excuse themselves to bed, bidding the two visitors with a final reminder to make themselves comfortable in whichever room they can find. if only joel could remember which door leads to yours.

the two women in his life remain awakened, passing a bottle of wine between each other as you both converse back and forth, catching each other up on one another’s life, satiating that craving for mundane gossip.

tess recounts the scandal of the poor boy who’d been caught sleeping with a fedra agent’s wife, you whisper that frank and bill had been fighting again recently. the memory of being ambushed by raiders- now dead raiders- comes to life once more with the help of tess’ voice, while the promise to uncover what exactly bill and frank were hiding from you as of late is sealed in your words.

at some point, he lays himself to rest atop the couch, legs stretched out and arms crossed over his chest, ignoring the squeeze of the fabric over his forearms as the too-small flannel struggles to contain the muscles forged by the need to survive. at another point, he’s lulled to sleep by the lullaby of your mingling voices, a safety blanket draping itself over his tired body and enveloping him in the comforts of having that which he struggles to care so little for, so near him once more.

-n’t tell me you’re a virgin.

the words are muffled as the man slips back into consciousness, a frown coming to rest on his forehead as he battles against the demons urging him awake, the nightmarish memories of car crashes, and soldiers, and so much red chasing him away from the sleep he longs for so badly.

a protest rings true in his head and his ears.

was gonna say. knew you were young, but not that young.

it’s the sound of your laughter that awakens him fully, saving him from the tortures of his own mind.

“god, no! me and my ex, we... a few times. it was alright, i guess. i just, yeah, there’s not much to miss.”

he’s unwilling, unable to reopen his eyes, curling in on himself as he rolls over onto his side. a groan slips past his lips, one he’s hoping tess and you will dismiss as nothing more than the sleep-filled rambles of a dreaming man.

neither of you make any acknowledgement of him.

“not much to miss?! sweet christ, you’re breaking my fuckin’ heart.” he’s learnt over time the common traits of a drunken tess. each word becoming an exclamation, curses becoming more frequent, and that irritating habit she’s picked up of imitating his own accent. there’s no need to bother opening his eyes, joel’s already sure he’ll find his companion with flushed cheeks and glassy eyes. “i’d give up a hand for some head!”

you must do something, pull a face or shake your head, for the sound of tess’ renewed shock fills the room. he wonders, as the sound bounces off the walls, how late into the night it’s grown.

late enough that the cicadas singing outside the window are now accompanied by the hoots of an owl.

“you’ve got to be shittin’ me.”

“it bores me!”

“it bores you!?”

the couch beneath joel creaks as he shifts once more, turning his back on you both as the ability to contain his laughter grows harder with each word you exchange and each gasp tess gives. the last thing he needs is to be caught eavesdropping on your sex life like some dirty old pervert.

the crueler part of his mind replays your voice, i don’t like you, and the knife twists in his guts this time.

you like tess. love her, even. it’s been that way since the first time you’d met the duo, eyes giving one look over the woman before the smile on your face grew even wider, voice as sweet as honey sighing out finally someone with a pair of boobs, i’m bored of the sight of my own. joel’d gotten caught up in the thought of how he’d never tire of such a sight that he’d failed to acknowledge your greeting towards him, catching just the moment you drew your outstretched hand back to your side and offered him an understanding smile.

maybe that was the moment you decided you didn’t like him.

“must not have been doin’ ya right,” the bottle of southern comfort is working its wonders on the older woman, accent growing further and further from its true nature with each glass she nurses. joel hears the faint sound of ice smacking against glass and knows it must be yours. you’ve always struggled with liquors, slipping as many ice cubes as you can manage into a glass in hopes that they’ll eventually melt and water the alcohol down. it’s oddly endearing, you think no one has noticed. “this fella of yours.”

joel has no right to despise the idea of you and some fella.

he does so, regardless.

“well,” he imagines the shape of your meek smile and the way you shrug your shoulders. “we were each others firsts.”

“that’s no excuse! trust i left mine cryin’ into her pillow the first time i went down.” tess and he have a silent agreement to never speak of the nights joel would take refuge on their beaten-up couch while tess indulges herself between someone’s thighs in the bedroom. no discussing the sounds she pulls from her concubines, no addressing the wet patches left behind to stain their shared sheets, and definitely no speaking on how his hand winds up stained in his own cum.

you scoff and follow it up with a saccharine laced giggle, so sweet its bound to rot your teeth if you even attempt to hold it in. “what, are you offering your services?”

this he likes less than the image of you with some fella, the thought of having to lay upon a mattress on which tess had raised you to heaven while he once again remained locked out in the dark leaving his skin crawling with unwarranted rage.

“‘as sure as i am that you’re sweet all over, ‘fraid to tell you i like my women a little older than you.”

he knows he should do the same, should lust after those women his own age who shoot him carnal looks in the streets of the qz. it should be skin his own age that he longs to taste, and eyes who’ve seen as much as his own he wants to stare into, and lips as cruel as the ones he owns that he fights off the urges to kiss. but he can’t, and he won’t.

and you’re the one to blame.

you, with the glow of a thousand suns. you, with the hands that tend to flowers instead of corpses. you, with the gentle nature he’d have to spend the rest of his days fighting off every other living thing just to protect.

his own self being the first he’d need fight.

joel wonders what he’d missed in his hours- if it had even been so long- of rest, how the playground gossiping dissipated into reminiscing the pleasures of supple flesh and the sins of unfulfilling lovers. sleep steals him away once more before he can find the answers.

the next time he awakens, he’s drowning in a plight of cruel memories, a cold and brutal ocean of faces, places, and traces of the ephemeral sentiment of happiness he’d possessed once upon a time, back when the price of letting one’s guard down was not so high.

he’s learnt, with time, that losing her comes in waves. some small, meaningless little things, that ripple joel’s surface and coast gently over his dirt ridden skin. others, tsunamis. big, angry, all imposing. they’re born in ground-shaking explosions of grief, building speed, and height, and weight the closer they grow to crashing over him.

amidst the passing of time, he’s tried to keep himself busy in his awakened hours, to keep his mind occupied and avoid thinking about her too much. but the waves always come back, no matter how hard he tries to fight them or swim away from them. they catch him off guard, crashing over him when he least expects it. in the middle of a raid, lost in thought and standing ten inches deep in grime, blood, infected, and suddenly the weight of her absence will hit him like a ton of bricks.

the currents grow more violent whenever he closes his eyes.

this evening, it had been a minuscule wave, yet it’s damage still leaves him with sweat slicked skin. he reenters the land of the living choking on his own fear and shooting up-right, hardly registering his surroundings till his feet hit solid ground. the gentle, barely-there croon of a sinatra record punctuates the room alongside the dim glow of a lightbulb which flickers with the threat of expiring and leaving naught but the moonlight to wash over the dark of the night. across from him is tess, nursing a half-emptied cup against her chest and wearing tired eyes. snoring comes from below him, where joel finds he’s a mere foot away from having stepped upon the sleeping dog, curled in on itself and laying soundly by his side.

you take up no space of this room.

neither the dog nor the drunk pay him any mind as he pushes up onto his creaking knees, stretching out his limbs in a fight to undo the tension in his aching bod. languid steps carry him out into the hall, where he freezes under the self-questioning of where he’s going.

there are three answer to this: where he should, where he could, and where he would.

he should find himself a bedroom, perhaps be ostentatious enough to rid himself of those stale clothes and let the warmth of running water wash away the sins he’d committed throughout the day. a good night’s sleep, atop a mattress where springs do not dig into his back and the sheets are clean as could be, it would do him good.

he could head towards the kitchen, quench that thirst that he’s awoken with, cottonmouth and a headache to go with it too. perhaps he’ll find himself something to eat, indulge in the luxury of readily available food just this once, he’s sure frank wouldn’t mind. bill definitely would, but that’s not something he’ll need care about when he’s miles out and heading back to the qz.

he would try find you, open whichever door it is that leads into the haven that must be your bedroom. he imagines its clean, and organised, and smells of some syrupy lavender that is bound to nauseate him as he smothers his face into your bedsheets, eyes shut, and mind relaxed, the threat of those violent waves no concern to him as he anchors himself with an arm around your warm skin. skin he’s never felt, yet he stands firm in his belief it must be the most soothing thing to touch, as gentle and inviting as the heart it keeps safe within it.

i don’t like you, joel.

those words stop him from trying.

he tells himself it’s for the best.

with a mind of their own, his legs have made the choice for him and deliver him outside the opening to the kitchen. he swallows down a gulp of his own saliva at the prospect of a glass of water. the door’s already half-opened, and joel nearly thanks christ for it as the fear of waking anyone with the squeaking of the handle is eliminated. the darkness of the night encompasses the room, even with the moon’s shine reflecting off every surface it touches: the counters, the knife stand, the metal drawer handles, the refrigerator.

the refrigerator.

it’s open, a blue light shining out of it and illuminating anything it its proximity. a subtle beeping noise rings from it, and suddenly joel’s back in his thirties, dead-beat yet well-intentioned brother stealing the food off his own plate as he beckons his pre-teen daughter back into the kitchen.

keep leavin’ this open and it’s a job you’ll be gettin’ this summer, not a dog.

she never lived long enough to get either.

he catches something move beneath the artificial light. cautious at first, it’s all the more startling to find the object of his ire and the embodiment of his desire stood leaning back against the countertop, a glass full of orange liquid pressed to a mouth that parts and welcomes in the sugary sweet delight.

“why aren’t ya sleepin’?” the words rasp out his throat, catching and scratching on the parts of him that still yearn for something to wet his tongue with.

beneath the light, you shrug, “could ask you the same thing, texas.”

he curses tess for teaching you such a nickname.

he curses himself more for the way you saying it twists up his insides.

you’re teasing him, smile a little looser and eyes less focused than he’s used to seeing. whether you’re tipsy or simply delirious with exhaustion, joel remains unaware.

he grunts, daring to take a few steps further into the kitchen. the door behind him closes over and give the illusion of the space becoming smaller, tighter, more compact.

“i asked first.” you laugh, at him. full on chest-rumbling, hand over your belly, head thrown back- so abruptly it nearly crashes against the corner of the opened cabinet door. the corner of his mouth is curling upwards before he can catch himself. he hopes the refrigerator light shows less of him than it shows of you, bare legs, and messed hair, and pointed nipples all on display for his undeserving eyes. “‘s so funny, huh?”

“nothing, nothing,” he successfully fights off the urge to follow the drop of orange juice that spills down the side of your mouth, over your chin, down your neck, disappearing beneath the collar of your dress. perhaps he is not as successful as he believes. “just never heard the joel miller say something so childish. you’ve usually got your panties all in a bunch if someone so much as looks at you for too long.”

you make way as he inches closer, sliding yourself over to rest against the island counter. a fragrance of things he can’t quite pinpoint, but enjoys nonetheless, wafts in his face as he travels down the path to the sink. uncouth and unbothered, joel opens the tap and cups his hands beneath the stream of water.

“you know there’s a cupboard full of glasses right next to you, right?” you call out behind him as the man brings water to his dry lips, splashing and just about guiding his head beneath the stream. the thirst does not budge. he hums an acknowledgement of you, yet continues with his method.

by the time he switches the water off, you’ve made yourself busy, back facing him while you work at something atop the counter, a consistent chop-chop-chop filling the silence that settles between you both.

“i’m making soup,” you state, like there’s nothing quite more logical you could be doing at whatever-o’clock in the morning it is. “make sure you take some with you when you leave. tess said she’s been fighting off a cold the past few days, need you to keep her warm and fed for me.”

would you do the same for him, if you knew he’d been the one to catch that damned cold in the first place? four days of just about coughing up his lungs, and not a single soul- not even his tess- had offered soup, nor warmth, nor sympathy. he’d not needed it, until now, when he hears you gifting it to someone else.

i don’t like you, joel.

of course you would do the same. not because you care, nor because doing otherwise would way heavy on your conscious, but because you’re nice. nice in a way he’ll never be, has never been. patient, welcoming, comforting, warm. all words that spring to mind when one thinks of you. they violently oppose the closed-off, angry, dark cloud that had rolled in years ago and casted it’s shadow over joel’s entire persona.

he straightens his back, weight shifting from one foot to another as he contemplates you from behind. the sway of your dress as you move has him in a trance, beckoning him closer before he can even realise he’s taken a step. his hands drip water onto the floor in a rhythm, and the record player sings in the distance as a reminder of tess, and your sweet out-of-tune humming fills the empty kitchen with a brightness greater than the moon, but that’s not what joel hears.

i don’t like you, joel.

i don’t like you, joel.

i don’t like you, joel.

i don’t like you, joel.

over and over, you taunt him without even trying, nailing the words into his head and heart, impaling him with your sweet condemnation. you’re not the first to say it, to his face or otherwise, yet you’re the first to evoke such a reaction out of him, to leave a lasting impression hours after you’d declared such a thing.

and, suddenly, joel’s angry. at you, at himself, at the sound of that damned knife in your hand slicing down onto the chopping board. the fog of his ire blurs his vision, rendering him to move blindly through the night.

only when he finds himself looming over you from behind does his vision clear.

a hand meets the curve of your hip and you gasp, leaving joel to wonder if it’s because the shock of his cold, damp touch or, simply, because it’s his touch. without a thought spared, he firms his grip, fingers squeezing tight enough he feels your flesh bulge between each one, a bruising promise joel gifts you.

you may leave your marks emotionally, but joel’s will always be physical.

“why,” he pulls in a breath, loading up the will to keep his voice a low rumble, a quiet disturbance in the night for no ears but your own to hear. “don’t ya like me?”

if not for the pause in your practiced movements, knife stilling midway through slicing a carrot, he’d believe you’re unaffected by his proximity. “why do you care?” 

he scoffs, “i don’t.”

“hmm,” this hum is far less delightful than the way you’d been following along to whatever melody tess was playing in the living room. “sure sounds like you do.”

“yeah, well, i don’t,” he insists, and he swears he almost feels the way it only digs deeper the hole he’s created for himself.

joel knows he cares. it’s been burning at his skin and itching on his mind since the moment you’d welcomed yourself to a little bit of unfiltered honesty, dropping the perfectly poised and eternally polite mask you’d worn since the moment he’d first met you, an attitude he loathes as much as he anticipates surrounding himself with it each time he’s tugged along for the trek to bill and frank’s. 

what joel doesn’t know is why he cares. there’s nothing to be desired about him, no traits to respect and certainly no looks to admire. he’s near crafted his entire being in a way that makes sure of this, the more undesirable his presence is, the less likely he is to be approached, be it by other people or fate itself.

maybe there was a part of him that had wrongfully imagined you being the exception.

instead, you’re stood barefoot in the latest of hours, knife working away the vegetables in front of you, dress sticking to skin beneath his damp hand, and you don’t like him.

not one bit.

joel grabs at your hips harder, his free hand curling round the shape of your left forearm. his feet shuffle forwards, until there comes a point where one would struggle to make out where you end and he begins. his chest pressed to your back, his muscular legs trapping your soft thighs, his forehead digging into the side of your head so intensely it threatens to shatter both your craniums and leave nothing but dust made by bones blown into smithereens.

he inhales, and finds you don’t smell of lavender.

“for the record,” he watches your movements over your shoulder, entranced with the back and forth sawing of the knife through unidentified vegetables. ‘s like how i sliced that raider’s throat, he thinks, and instantly regrets it. no part of him should ever be compared to you. “i don’t like ya either.”

he’s lying through his teeth, hoping you don’t notice.

the knife never ceases its movement. back and forth, back and forth. chop, chop, chop. blurs of greens, and oranges, and more greens cover the counter before you. it’s oddly soothing, this repeated and unbroken pattern, reminding joel of times he’d found comfort in the mundaneness of cooking a meal after an emotionally exhausting day. perhaps, this has the same affect on you, a momentary lifejacket to keep yourself afloat amongst the waves that haunt you awake.

the hand on your forearm travels, mind of its own, drawing up the shape of your shoulder with featherlight touches that contradict the way his nails dig deeper into the the skin you hide beneath the waistline of your dress.

“that’s not news,” you must think he’s blind to the hitch in your breath when his fingers slip over your pulse-point. 

it’s his turn to respond with a hum.

“you only like yourself,” words more untrue have never been spoken before the man who’s every moment is spent drowning in his loses. his wandering touch halts. “a little selfish, if you ask me. but, that’s just what i think.”

this strikes a nerve. fury commands his hand into a fist and fingers find themselves tangled in the tresses of your hair. the realisation of how surprisingly soft it feels barely finishes registering when he’s pulling on it, dragging your head along with, till it lays flat on his puffing chest and your eyes stare up at him. “d’ya know what i think?”

even upside down, your beauty is striking.

“no, unlike you i don’t care what you think about-” joel tugs on your hair once more.

“i think you’re a brat. a silly little girl who thinks she can smile and get away with murder.” you could. he’d forgive you as you soak your hands in the blood you draw from him. knife in the heart, bullet through the brain, bat to the face, he’d slip away easily from this life if only to have you smile as he goes.

 “you’re hurting me,” you whine, joel growls.

animalistic, beastly, a rabid animal sinking its claws into its defenceless prey. his gaze dances over your features, catching himself before he can sink deep into your captivating eyes, tracing the shape of your mouth, slipping down the peaks of your collarbones.

your dress- red, a colour joel miller will no longer associate with bleeding wounds and stained weapons- sits tight on your chest, squeezing the swell of your chest beneath the fabric, and gives away all your secrets.

“you like it,” he speaks in awe, unable to pull his eyes off the two stiff buds that poke against the red fabric.

“no, i don’-” dampness follows wherever his hand goes, fleeting as he makes the journey around your waist and up your side, crawling higher and higher to where he can feel your heart beating from within your chest. “joel.”

he retightens his grip on your hair, aiding you with the way your curve your spine and force yourself deeper into his uncaring, ungentle, enamoured touch. whoever joel had been in a past life must have moved mountains or performed miracles to grant him the luck to be holding you this way, the fingers he’d gifted with nothing but the cocking of guns and the feel of his own pulsating lust now expertly tweaking at one of your stiff nipples, all thoughts of the fabric scratching at your sensitive skin dissipating into the abyss as he realises you’re enjoying the pain.

“heard ya, earlier, in the living room,” at the time, he’d been mortified to be overhearing such intimate words between you and tess. the blood that insists on rushing to his crotch now wants you to know, to hear the admission of guilt be spoken from his own mouth. “ talkin’ bout your past.”

he doesn’t specify.

he doesn’t need to.

you give away your shock with parted lips, widened eyes, frozen eyelashes, pupils staring up at him like a wounded fawn he’s about to take his first bite out of and, hopefully, it won’t be the last one.

“tess turned you down,” the hand on your chest switches sides, donning your other breast with some much needed attention. his hand must still carry residue of the water, for you gasp and shut your eyes in the shock of his touch, your own fingers shooting up to scratch at his wrist. near convinced you mean to push him away, the pressure against his hand that pushes deeper into his unholy affection has him realising otherwise. “i wouldn’t.”

you say nothing. joel pulls harder.

“too bad i’m-” you cut yourself off as he presses himself closer to you, your poor hips bound to awaken with bruises from the counter he’s got you pressed against. with a distance so small he can hear your teeth grind, joel watches you like a hawk. the twitch in your brow, the flutter of your eyelids, the bobbing of your throat as you silence what he imagines would be an otherworldly kind of moan, a whine he’d let kiss his ears and wind up poisoning himself with the torture of it replaying in his head each waking moment till he kicks the bucket, once and for all. the want to see you fall apart evolves into a need. “too bad i’m not offering you the chance.”

joel miller is a hot blooded man, at his core, weak to emotions and vulnerable to the warmths of flesh. with notches on his bedpost and a tally of lives beneath his belt, he sees little wrong with taking what he needs.

“who said anything about an offer?”

the descent to the floor is far from graceful, with bitten back groans of pain as clicking noises resound throughout the room while his joints bend and break in an effort to get him where he needs to be, where he’s needed to be for far longer than merely this exchange on kitchen grounds: on his knees for you.

a part of him would prefer it if you weren’t wielding a butchers knife.

the other part wishes you were facing him, eyes full of that repressed anger, hatred and discontent you likely harbour for him as you point the blade down at him and threaten to paint the floors with his blood. you’ve yet to do that, and so he takes it as his queue to progress.

smoothing his hands up your legs, he admires the landscapes of your body from this angle, with legs longer than any tree in the amazonian jungle and curves with peaks that resemble the mountains of the himalayas. arriving at the top of your knees, the hem of your dress both welcomes and conceals his touch, inviting him into the wonderful world it hides beneath it yet denying him the privilege of feasting his eyes on your paradise, an island of safety amongst the open ocean of his mind.

your breathing is measured, precise, too rhythmical to be natural, the subconscious action now turned into a practiced routine you mean to maintain nonchalance with. perhaps you’re yet to realise that, while he may remain indifferent to those that surround him, joel knows how to read people. and, right now, you’re a whole novel of lust, awaiting for someone to open up your pages and drink in every lyrical prose you promise to tell.

joel finds purchase mid-way up your thighs, hands sliding around to the front of them to grip the buttery smooth skin and ground himself in the reality he kneels before.

you breathe in, you breathe out.

one knee buckles, ever so slightly, the weight of you collapsing into his welcoming hold. he revels in the feeling of supporting you, in every meaning of the word, thumbs not even waiting on a command from his consciousness to begin soothing your tingling skin with a gentle back and forth movement to match the knife in your hand.

inhale, exhale.

your legs straighten once more, a hand of his winds its way back out from under your skirt and shoots up to grab your free one, dragging it down his pits of desire.

“hold,” he’s parched all over again, mouth drier than the texan wastelands on a hot summer’s day. all he can do to survive is peel up that infuriatingly soft, red fabric of your dress, skin unveiling itself to his hunger struck eyes. with the skirt bunched up, he shoves it into your awaiting palms, pinning your hand against your own waist. “don’t move.”

where he expects protest, he receives more breathing.

lace covers your skin, a delicate shade of a colour his eyes can’t quite distinguish in the dark of the night. one flicker of his sight to the very core of your body and he notices it, that tell-tale sign that you’re enjoying this little display of attention, despite what your measured breaths may have him believe. a wet patch, your wetness. the stickiest, sweetest of honeys that only a woman like you can possess, and a man like him should never bare himself witness to.

curiosity gets the better of him- one day, joel hopes, this will get him killed- and his touch is reaching for the lacy fabric, fingers curling themselves in the waistband of your panties and the fabric that covers your right asscheek before curling his hand into a fist, tugging upwards.

in and out, shaky breathing comes from above.

the lace pulls tight on your delicate skin, no choice but to nestle itself in the slit of your cunt as two pretty soaked lips peak out from each side. a heady smell he can only begin to describe as stiflingly sweet, tongue-tingling tanginess hits his nose. he makes sure to take a deep breath, letting the blood rush straight to his head- the one that sits packed uncomfortably in his tightened trousers.

delectable as sin, you keen back into his fist, back curving ever so slightly. there’s a tremor in the hold you have on the fabric of your dress. joel basks in the visual affect he’s beginning to have on you, no need to doubt if the fabric of your underwear rubs at your likely aching clit. he wonders if the sting of the lace digging into your skin hurts. he thinks it must hurt.

his fist curls tighter, pulls higher.

“ah,” at last, a ripple in your surface. though you still wield a knife, the carrot you’d been failing to chop rolls off the counter and onto the floor, lost somewhere in joel’s peripheral vision.

“shut up,” he grunts, like it doesn’t make his balls throb to hear you whine. “people are tryin’ to sleep.”

you scoff, and for a moment you seem to have rediscovered your composure. “tess is drunk as a sailor, and the old men could sleep through nuclear warfare.”

“‘s that an invitation to see how loud i can get ya,” he’s still caught in the way you mold against the lace, slickened skin carrying a reflection of the moonlight. this, he thinks, is what all them poets were writing about in their prose of love and beauty. “or a challenge?”

“it’s an invitation to stop lecturing me on volume control,-” you catch yourself, he realises, right before you can gift him some nickname a sweet girl like you would never use. asshole, dickhead, bastard, he’s heard them all and, still, he wants them on your tongue, in his mouth, condemning him for all the brutish, oafish ways he masks his obsession for you.

as coquettish as it may be, painting a picture worthy of a front-page on some playboy magazine, the sight of lace becomes a nuisance he no longer holds the patience for. so he strips you of it, hand moving to pull the garment down, down, down the length of you, till it hits your ankles. he awaits no movement of your own, taking it upon himself to lift each of your feet individually out the leg-holes.

it’s merely impulse that has him shoving the soiled lace into his back pocket, though he’s sure he’ll make use of them on lonely nights.

“you’re drippin’” his proclamation is ego-driven, pride swelling in his chest as he takes in the full sight of your bare heat. the view is a little obscured from behind you, but with the right amount of tilting of your hips at a certain angle and the widening of your legs, he’s bound to sit front row and centre for your private show. “‘s actually a little pathetic, sweetheart. is it cause ya like it when men get mean wit’ ya?”

he can imagine the way you’d roll your eyes at his words, and it has him thinking about how you’d look with your eyes rolling back for different reasons, reasons he’s about to gift you.

but first, he curls one hand around your ankle and tugs the limb along as far as he wants it. much better, he now faces no blockage in the path up to your slit, freely letting his wandering hands ascend to his newfound heaven. perhaps he’ll revisit the life of gospel, if you promise to be the altar he prays before.

cool fingers to warm skin, you swallow a gasp a little too late for joel to not notice as he drags the tips of his middle finger up the length of your slit. soft, puffy lips part for him, until he presses against that special button that’s bound to turn on your engines.

rolling his finger over your clit a few times, he refamiliarises himself with the female anatomy, with your anatomy, memorising each soft bump and meaty lump he finds along the way.

it happens so sudden, and unwillingly, the way his mind switches to thinking of tess. he wonders what exactly it is she does to those poor things she sends home on shaky legs, where she even begins to touch them. joel imagines she makes use of what she has and starts with her fingers.

so he does the same.

working over your slippery wetness, he coats the tip of his middle finger with it, till he finds what he’s been searching for: the gateways to your heaven, your entrance. he breaches your walls with that single digit and somehow that’s enough to have you squeezing around him so tightly he wonders if blood still manages to flow to his digit.

two, three, four pumps of his hand and he’s introducing his pointer finger too, pressing them both into you to witness the ways you mould around this wider stretch, the lips of your cunt a pair of cushions his knuckles collide against each time he fucks his fingers in.

“so now you shut up. ‘s the matter, huh?” he’s contradicting himself and he doesn’t even care, too busy focusing on curling his fingers inside you, delighting in the feel of that spongy tissue they press against. “am i too borin’ for ya?”

“you’re the most infuriating man i’ve ever- oh!”

a tongue meets skin.

the knife clatters onto the counter.

you lurch forward.

his hand pulls you back.

“tess was right, ya know?” he can still taste you on his tongue, nothing more than a simple lick over your slit and your salty pleasure already seeps deep into his veins, staining his very being with the memory of his new favourite flavour. he pulls his fingers out, slipping them up to your clit. three little taps to the pulsing bud- tap, tap, tap- and he’s slipping them into his mouth, tongue working overtime to clean up every last drop of you that coats him. “that boy of yours wasn’t doin’ ya right.”

the common sense that screams at him to not feel envy over some ex-lover, someone who was likely barely even an adult at the time and no longer appears to be around, is no match for the green eyed beast that commands him to tell you, without using words, that he can do better- touch you better, protect you better, fuck you better, if you’d just let him.

‘could keep ya satisfied.

that’s a new thought, one he’s never needed before yet never wanted more, a burning ache to be worthy of your trust, affection, lust. he’ll never forget the first time he thinks it, mouth salivating at the sight of you.

“is this the part you say some cheesy line straight out a porno? what ya need is a man, a man like me!” the softness of your giggle is still sharp enough to cut through the tension, god it’s never sounded sweet, and joel finds himself freely smiling into the darkness, yet still too stubborn to laugh at the deep voice you attempt to imitate him with.

“well, was you who said it,” his mouth finds it’s way back onto your soaked heat, taking his time to work his tongue up the length of it, his saliva mixing itself in a nasty cocktail with your wetness. he imagines the air is cold against your skin, and that you like it, memory of those hardened nipples hidden beneath the fabric of your dress. “but if ya insist.”

diving in head first had always been his style, from his first lover to his last, and to now, knees aching on the kitchen floor. the tip of his tongue dances round your clit, tantalising you to grind your hips to the rhythm of his sinful touches.

licking into you, he’s reminded how much he enjoys that swelling in the chest that only comes from bringing another pleasure. 

he’d not been a perfect lover, far from it, but he’d liked to believe at one point he’d been trained by only experience that comes with age, years of touching wrong and kissing badly to learn the right ways to make those he shared a bed- or a counter, or a backseat, or a club bathroom- with see angelic white as they writhed and squirmed under his touch. you’re lucky to have him now, matured by past lovers and broadened by age, with all the knowledge he needs to open your eyes to how a man pleasures, kisses, loves.

he’s out of practice, sure, with recent years adding notches to his belt that were merely frantic, unexpected, barely undressed run-ins with strangers, in strange places, cock barely getting a moments affection before he’d be spilling his seed and tucking it, limp, back into the confines of his trousers and locking it away beneath a zip.

what a perfect excuse you are, for joel to remaster the arts of lust.

it’s messy, wet dripping down his chin and staining itself into the stubble of his growing facial hair. it’s noisy, his mouth openly groaning depraved joy into your warmth as you sing him a song of sweet euphoria, slowly building towards that crescendo on the horizon. it’s animalistic, barely human as he revokes all earthly needs such as rest, and food, and socialising, his mind, and soul, and heart, and cock all screaming in unison to spend whatever days he shall possess on his knees before you.

and all the while you writhe and wriggle, some times running away from him touch, other times rutting so far back into him that you threaten to suffocate him somewhere between your warm thighs, and sugar sweet cunt, and the two well-rounded globes of your ass. 

his only saving grace is that he can’t see you.

hearing your pretty whines, and hand-muffled moans, and heavy intakes of breath is enough to curse him for the rest of his waking days, condemned to wander the wastelands of earth knowing the noises you make on the brinks of pleasure, with a touch-starved man satiating his hunger for flesh and blood with the sugary sins of your soaked cunt.

burrowing deeper into you, his consciousness rips through the fog of his lust to curse out his perversions as the tip of his hooked nose bumps against the puckered entrance of your ass. it does nothing to stop him tearing his tongue away from your clit, flattened as he drags it over the expanse of your cunt, and over your taint, and up the crack of your behind.

“n- ah,” you can’t deny him while sounding so eager for more, the tip of his tongue now circling your back entrance, mimicking the treatment previously given to your little pearl. “no, don’t, not there.”

next time, he thinks, we’ll try that next time.

sights returned to his previous desires, he works to rip every sigh, and every whine, and every dirty little song you’ll grace him with. the sound of whatever record tess has put on in the other room becomes a safety blanket, dousing you both in the warm protection of not being overheard.

and, then, he does it, he makes the ultimate mistake.

his eyes flicker to the left and he finds himself faced with the stove that sits within bill and frank’s- and, by an extension he does not enjoy to remember, your- kitchen. there’s little that’s remarkable about the appliance, just your standard, everyday oven that he’s sure you’ve spent countless hours cooking up those comforting meals he’s come to anticipate each time tess tells him they’re due a visit.

except, the oven door is made of glass.

glass which now paints the most pornographic masterpiece for no eyes but his own. you, with hands gripping the island’s counter like your life depends on it, and the skirt of that goddamn dress he’s envied all evening for the way it got to rest against the warmth of your thighs now bunched up in your tight grip, and your head thrown back, curving your spine in a way that has him wondering about the other ways he’d be able to bend and break you beneath his touch.

 and then there’s him, down on his knees like a devotee laying himself down to worship his goddess, face burrowed in the space between your legs, mouth devouring you from behind with the help of his hands, the same ones that had strangled a man less than a day before and reigned fire down on countless others for years, that now grip the meat of your thighs to pull you back onto him, fucking his tongue into your sopping heat.

the image will haunt him more than the face of any man he’s killed.

“d’ya touch yourself, sol?” you don’t answer him, but that’s okay. in a sweet change of pace, joel miller’s perfectly fine with talking enough for the both of you. “yeah, bet ya do. late at night, right? once you’re all alone in bed. ya seem like the kind who can make herself scream.”

you back into him, smothering him under the weigh of your body. becoming his holy grail, he drinks from you like it’s the key to eternal life, and what a way of living this would be, time disregarded as nothing but meaningless while your bodies melt together in the heat of passion.

fucking his fingers back inside, he becomes frantic beneath the need to make you cry, fall completely apart with only his hands to hold you together. “let me do the honours this time though.”

you don’t scream, can’t scream, hand over mouth muffling whatever profanities and theatrical proclamations he rips from within you with the stroke of his agile tongue, the only muscle of his that’s yet to develop aches and pains. he imagines that will no longer ring true once he awakens past sunrise.

he’s unsure how much longer he works his tongue over you, slipping and sliding through the liquid pleasure, but it ends with fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him away and tilting his head up.

you’ve never looked more holy, moon casting it’s shine around you, eyes glossed with unshed tears, lips parted and swollen from the pressure your own teeth had bitten down on them with. your expression, he can’t quite read. not sad, not happy, not mad.

your eyes catch on something, abandoning his own for something closer to the floor, to which he follows and finds exactly what you’re staring at: the evidently dark patch that now stains the front of his jeans.

the discomfort of trekking back to the qz will now be tenfolds worse in the stains of his own pleasure.

“joel...” his name is nearly a beg, a prayer, an invitation. hand still in his hair, you tug, pulling him upwards off the ground. legs open wider and back arches deeper, a seductive sight that your body pleas for him with.

he swallows a groan, knees alleviated at last from the floor, and presses himself against you once more. strong arms crush you in an embrace, pulling you back into him as his head slips to rest against your shoulder. he’s capricious with the way he lets himself litter a few wet kisses over your neck, breathing in the smell of you.

“that,” you grind back into him, a torturer who takes his aged body as her victim and toys with his barely recovered cock, the cum in his trousers sticking uncomfortably to his skin. he pulls tighter on your body, grounding himself in the weight of it against his own to find the sanity to finish his sentence. “shouldn’t have happened.”

joel hopes no one awakens as he slams the door on the way out of the kitchen.

people once spoke of how the only certainties in life were death and taxes but, nowadays, the words don’t ring as true and the guarantee of life with taxes has morphed into something else entirely; a reality where death and time go hand in hand. as sure as tomorrow will arrive, death will come too, eventually. not today, however, and joel miller finds himself stood throwing a ball back and forth for a dog.

it chases and retrieves, trailing it’s happy self all the way back to him only to spit the ball down at his feet, siting and waiting to repeat the process once more. there’d been a time where this is all he’d wanted: white picket fence, dog in the yard, home-cooked meals filling a house with warmth.

that dream seems so far away now, even as he stands within it.

he cracks his back, huffing out a groan. “no, not again. my back’s fucked as it is, buddy,” with no one around to witness, joel lets himself crouch down onto his knees- both popping obnoxiously as he does so- and rakes his hand over the german shepherd’s head. it whines and makes an attempt to nudge the ball against him, protesting in the only way it can. a scratch to the ear does the trick to distract the animal, to which it tilts its head and forces itself deeper into his blunt nails. “not so bad, are ya? huh?” never in a million years did joel think he’d be talking to a dog when him and tess had set out for their routinely visit to the bill and frank’s. never would he have thought that would be the least shocking event to unfold on this trip.

he hears you before he sees you.

“you planning to make your knees familiar with every surface of this place, texas?”

he tries to rise, he truly does, but the four-legged foe he’d been petting mere seconds ago betrays him the instant it catches sight of you, charging past him and knocking him over in the process, ass to floor and head to sky.

the world above is a storm of greys, clouds swallowing one another with a looming threat of danger on the horizon and not a lick of the sun’s warmth seems to make its way through.

so instead, it sends you.

peering over him from above, hair a tangled mess, eyes a wreck of under-bags and sleepless tears, the collar of your jumper lowered just enough at this angle that he can see a tease of cleavage, you radiate a brightness like no other, more dangerous to his naked eyes than uv ray could ever be. he’s squinting again, frown etching itself on his forehead with the threat of becoming permanent soon. a few more years and his face will be nothing but frown lines and crows feet. at the very least, he considers, i’ve survived long enough to wrinkle.

the smile above him is worth a million laugh lines, a kindness laced within it that matches perfectly with the hand you hold out. when he does nothing but stare at it, you wriggle your fingers, enticing him to take a hold. he does most of the work, truthfully, but you play a part in pulling him back to his feet. upright once more, he can’t help but bask in the way he’s able to physically look down on you.

“thanks for tiring him out,” you’re the first to talk. you’re always the first to talk, and he curses you for it. “won’t need to walk him as far tonight.”

a queasy feeling overtakes him at the thought of you walking the dog alone at night, nothing but the moon to light your way. he’ll need to remember to tire the dog out next time he visits. “no problem, thanks... for feeding tess and i.”

“no worries!” you’re so kind, so good, smiling at him with a cheerful chirp in your voice. he can’t wrap his head around how you can bring yourself to treat him this way. “oh, actually, that’s why i came out here, i was looking for tess-” of course you were, when would you ever be looking for him? “hold on!”

you shoot off back inside so quickly that otis just reaches the doorway by the time you return. with an idle pet to his head as you pass by, joel once again sees, in the way such little affection can have the dog so elated, that resemblance between them you’d spoke of. in your hands, you carry an array of containers full of food- soup- each filled to the brim.

“i wanted to give you these, before you guys leave,” you’re explaining yourself, and joel wonders if it’s nerves that bring you to need constant babbling to fill any gaps of silence. he can’t imagine how he could make you nervous and therefore that thought is quick to be discarded. “i know the journey up here and back can be long, consider them a token of my appreciation towards you both for-”

“why don’t ya like me?” he cuts you off.

pathetic, he knows, but he can not stop himself, a deer caught in the headlights of your brightly burning, too-good-to-be-true, too-pure-to-be-fake personality.

you show no signs of hearing him, smile unwavering as you continue to hold out the boxes to him, “there should be enough to last you a few days, if you watch your proportions.”

it’s too much for him to handle- the food, the smiles, the sweetly glistening eyes-, and joel just has to know, needs an answer before the heat of his confusion consumes him entirely in its flames and leaves nothing but his smoking remains.

so he tries again, louder.

“why don’t ya like me?”

“and i’d probably say you’re best to heat it up, especially for tess,” you ignore him, again, lips stretching what can only be described as uncomfortably wider. “winter is sure coming in faster than last year, isn’t it?”

he grabs at your arm, fingers curling round the swell of your bicep as he speaks through gritted teeth, "answer me." like a frightened dog backed into a corner, he bares his teeth and yells his bark.

"for someone who doesn't care,” you try his patience, knowingly or not, and his grip tightens. you don’t flinch, welcoming the sting of his blunt and bitten nails against your flesh. “you sure do talk about my opinion a lot."

"answer the damn question, girl.”

“or, what?” you’ve got him there, he’ll admit, holding no real plan as to how to punish your silence. “you gonna give me the same treatment as last night?”

had he known you’d be so unabashed to mention the events on the kitchen floor so flippantly, as casually as one would speak about the weather, he’d never have dared to get on his knees. truthfully, he’d not given things a second thought, disregarding the later for the now, living in the moment with caution thrown to the wind over what the morning would bring. perhaps he’d hoped you’d been intoxicated enough to dismiss the memory as a nightmare, maybe he’d wished you’d keep away from him to free him of the volatile grip you have on his soul.

instead, you stand tall, proud, eyes fiercely staring back at his own as you challenge him to retaliate, mock you with none of those saccharine smiles you hide harsh tones behind.

joel says nothing.

“how about this, let’s make a deal, like the ones you and bill make.” inching closer, crowding in on his space and forcing him to take note of the smell of freshly cleaned clothes mixed in with your own fragrance. clean, warm, inviting, scents he’d never given meaning to before now. “you get me something, i’ll tell you what you want to know.”

he grunts out a response, hands meeting his hips as he juts out one knee, the shifting of weight between feet a perfect distraction to the rising tension in his worn-out jeans. “what d’ya want? ‘cause if it’s somethin’ like a gun, think again. i ain’t messing with none of bill’s strange politics on you havin’-”

“a dress.”

“a dress?” the statement has him quirking his brow, burning questions swimming in the depths of his eyes as he stares back at you.

“yes, and don’t look at me like that!” it’s hypocritical, he believes, for you to berate him for the looks he sends you when all you do is cast stones his way with your gaze yet shake him to his very core each time you smile. “i need a new one, my favourite one got ruined whilst making soup.”

unaware he’d even began to lean closer, joel’s quick to recoil, as if your words are bullets and his skin the target you hit on the bullseye every time. 

“joel!” his name resonates from somewhere in the house.

neither of you dare to break eye contact. again, his name is yelled. this time, he manages to identify tess as the owner of the voice. habits have him used to running to her whenever she calls, but habits have never been caught between the choice of tess or you. 

his feet remain glued to the ground.

tess yells once more and, though you speak up, you don’t dare look away. “think you might be needed inside, macho man. your missus is calling.”

“she ain’t my-”

“you two just gonna stand and stare at each other all day, or will you help a woman out already?” tess enters the scene somewhere behind you, a blur of her familiar shape standing out the front door.

only when your head spins and he no longer finds himself lost in the black of your eyes does joel take her in completely, hair clearly damp and complexion a little paled by her hungover body. in her arms, she struggles with the weight of a folded table. you approach first, he follows, his two hands aiding in carrying it out into the front yard as you retighten your grip on the boxes of soup in your arms. 

“i should probably,” laying the containers down on the now unfolded table, you fidget with the sleeves in your hands, eyes downcast with something he can only read as guilt. he decides he much prefers the fire they hold when you berate him. “go check on the food, before it burns.”

you’re in the door and out his sight before he can so much as ask you to stay.

tess and him hit the road by noon. earlier than predicted, later than he’d wished for. the bite of cold already marks the air, despite the sun heating the world with its rays. he walks a little ahead, feigning ignorance to the repeated coughing coming from tess and racking his brain for answers.

answers to why he’d never noticed how hoarse she’d been sounding till you pointed it out. answers to what awaited them both upon returning to the qz. answers to when will be their next chance to visit the safe haven bill’s created. answers to why you don’t like him.

i don’t like you, joel.

it motivates him to walk quicker, faster, racing to put as much distance between himself and that damn kitchen floor, miles upon miles not enough to rid him of the dull ache in his knees that goes hand in hand with the throb within his too-tight-jeans. if he were alone, he’d break out in a sprint. but tess is here, he’s not alone, and home will simply have to wait on the passing of time to drag him back to it.

till then, he needs to find a dress.​

[deathbxnny]

Jing Yuan, blade, & Bailu with platonic older!Reader that’s like Xianyun. Like they had a similar relationship that Xianyun, Shenhe, & Ganyu have with Jing & Blade and with Bailu it’s basically Xianyun and Yaoyao.

(Aka mother mothering)

(๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ

Omg I absolutely love this ask Anon, it's so cute! Thank you for the great request and I hope you'll like this!<33

Content: Platonic relationships, older parent figure reader, angst, fluff, sfw

Reader has no mentioned pronouns!

((Not proofread))

》BAILU

Bailu gets herself in trouble rather often. Whether it be through slacking off her duties or just running off into unexpected situations, she's constantly getting into something. Hence why you are always forced to get her out of it one way or another. Despite your rather arrogant and know-it-all behavior, your love and care for Bailu made it hard for you to stay angry with her for long. With that said, you usually take on the responsibility of her chaos and lecture her in your own way later on.

You definitely give her lessons and teach her about the world in a more proper manner, even if she hates your lectures and often claims that they are "boring" adult things. But she enjoys watching you tinker away at your newest inventions, especially when you allow her to help as well.

She at times finds your overbearing nature a bit suffocating, but she also believes that you're the only grown up that does truly understand her. You treat her with respect and praise her intelligence, something she appreciates greatly. She may not always see eye to eye with you, but she knows that you'll always be there for her if things go south.

》BLADE

Blade was a young boy when he was first taken into your care. He was loud and proud, always the one to believe that his judgments and choices were correct even if they weren't. He saw your care as a hassle at times, especially as your overbearing nature would often get "into his way". But over a short amount of time, he quickly learned that if anything, you were the only one who truly understood his ways.

With that said, your absence after he was mara-struck left a hole in him that he didn't like to admit he had. You used to take care of him, brush his hair, patch up his injuries from training, feed him delicious food. He would fall asleep to the sound of you tinkering away through the night, always so focused on your projects, yet would gently tuck him in every time beforehand.

You loved him as your own. You truly did. And that left him wondering what you'd think of him now. He wasn't the same boy anymore. He was a sick man now, plagued by an incurable sickness that made him seek out the comfort of death rather than your own. And if he asked you to kill him, would you agree? His mind reeled with distant, distorted memories whilst he watched you go about your day on the Xianzhou from the shadows.

》JING YUAN

He appreciated you greatly, far more than he'd ever tell you or you'd know. You raised him into the man he was today, and Heaven's did you work hard for that. He knows that he wasn't always an easy child to deal with, especially not with his wild ambitions and higher aims for glory, but you still made it work even with your overbearing nature. Jing Yuan liked claiming that he would've never made it so far without you, even if you'd wave him off with a flustered shake of your head.

Whilst his master only taught him the art of the sword, you taught him the way of life. You fostered his potential. You saw the value in him and wanted him to exceed in more than war and carnage. Just like your many cherished inventions, he too saw himself as one of them, your favorite one, in fact. You put him through all kinds of lessons, made him into an intelligent young man who questioned everything around him. You wanted him to do good, to do great, and to help people instead of hurting them. And you were so proud when he did exactly that.

With that said, he definitely gets embarrassed whenever you happily tell others about more troublesome parts of his youth so lovingly. He understands your sentiments and chuckles at the memories with you, glad to know that he'll always be yours even as a grown man.

[fandom]

Poles, podiums, and the best of the rest.

Who are all these handsome young men in colorful jumpsuits that seem to have taken over your dashboard this year? And where exactly are they going in those really fast cars????? 

Over the past few years, Formula 1 has spread into all corners of culture, and Tumblr is no exception. People around the world have learned about F1’s 70 years of history, its international circuits in cities like Monaco and Abu Dhabi, and its Grand Prix schedule of Free Practice, Qualifying, and the races themselves. Tumblr being Tumblr, though, it’s really all about the drivers: 20 of them per year, two for each of the ten official teams. Add in all the other assorted characters that orbit around the current grid, and you have quite the lineup to follow each weekend. 

F1 and its fast boys have been appearing in our Week in Review lists as far back as 2020, and on last year’s Year In Review Athletes list, drivers took up a healthy 6 out of the top 10 spots. This year, the sport’s domination of the dashboard kicked it up a notch: There was an 18% increase in engagement with the Formula 1 tag in 2022 compared with last year, and Lestappen (aka Max Verstappen/Charles Leclerc) became the very first F1 ship to hit a Week In Review ships list on July 10, 2022.

A lot of this might have something to do with the growing popularity of Netflix’s Drive to Survive docuseries, which follows the twists and turns of each F1 season, shining a light on the personal lives of the drivers and their team members. Tumblr’s interest in the sport just feels natural: with all of its drama, excitement, and contained, charismatic, and frequently controversial ensemble cast, it seems tailor-made for Tumblr users who enjoy sports anime and adventure dramas. 

So, what’s the pitch for F1? Whether you root for the underdog or support the champion, there’s a storyline for you. The interweaving backstories of the drivers, many of whom have grown up driving together since they were kids, are like catnip to Tumblr’s love for characters with history. And, of course, there are the races themselves—high-tech cars going hundreds of miles per hour. What’s not to love? 

Or, as @gaslightgirlsummer puts it: these men are all millionaire tax evaders trying to kill each other and/or themselves in the fastest cars on the planet (that are worth more money than most people will ever have in their lifetimes) on a weekly basis.

Whether a longtime fan or newly interested, you’ve probably seen F1 around Tumblr this year, featuring in fan art, GIFsets, and a plentiful amount of very silly memes. But, in case you’ve ever been curious about who Tumblr loves the most, here are the top 35 Formula 1 tags in 2022, featuring not just current drivers but retired drivers, reserve drivers, upcoming drivers, race engineers, and team principals, too. 

Lewis Hamilton

Charles Leclerc

Daniel Ricciardo

Sebastian Vettel

Max Verstappen

Lando Norris

Mick Schumacher

Pierre Gasly

George Russell

Carlos Sainz

Yuki Tsunoda

Valtteri Bottas

Alex Albon

Esteban Ocon

Fernando Alonso

Lance Stroll

Sergio Perez

Toto Wolff

Kevin Magnussen

Zhou Guanyu

Kimi Raikkonen

Oscar Piastri

Antonio Giovinazzi

Nicholas Latifi

Nico Rosberg

Christian Horner

Michael Schumacher

Callum Illott

Jenson Button

Mattia Binotto

Nyck De Vries

Peter Bonnington

Mark Webber

Zak Brown

Nico Hulkenberg

And, because it wouldn’t be Formula 1 without a Constructor’s Championship, here’s the ranking of teams on Tumblr: 

McLaren

Ferrari

Mercedes

Red Bull

Aston Martin 

Haas

Alpine

Alfa Romeo

Williams

AlphaTauri

[pharawee]

Back in May I bought Khemjira's Rescue on meb, happy that there finally was an official English translation because I love horror and actually liked the first pilot teaser for Spirit Reborn - even though it wasn't well received.

I now know why the teaser wasn't well received (the official version has since been deleted and there's only some re-uploads left) and I agree. Khemjira isn't really a classic QL where the story centres around two people falling in love. It's a horror novel first (and the novel's content warning is very open about this). Much of the romance only happens in the bonus chapters. It's also steeped in Isan folklore and Theravadin Buddhist teachings and virtues, with heavy and uncompromising themes of karma, rebirth, right action and non-attachment (which I really appreciate but might not be everyone's cup of tea because it completely ignores concepts of justice and revenge).

The novel itself is translated really well with only a few editorial slip-ups but tons of footnotes to explain potentially unfamiliar concepts and give translations for the recited khatha. The bonus chapters are plentiful and rewarding if you're into romance and the usual level of BL novel spiciness, but even without them the narrative flows really well and comes to a satisfying conclusion. I really liked the novel - it might be my favourite right after I Feel You Linger in the Air - so I was slightly apprehensive when Mandee announced that they had acquired the rights for a new adaptation.

I don't know the actors at all so I only have the novel to go by, but all in all I'm really happy with Mandee's pilot teaser. It's so close to the novel that even seemingly short filler scenes are recognisably taken from moments in the story. And while I still think Keng Harit is a bit too young as Por Kru Parun, he manages to capture his commanding and alluring presence very well.

My only worry now is that they'll downplay the religious themes in order to elevate the romance between, well, basically everyone. I couldn't even blame them though, because most of the audience will be expecting romance, and the series probably wouldn't be very well received if both couples remained chaste until the very end. I don't think Khemjira's Rescue even qualifies as slow-burn for reasons I'll explain a bit later (and behind a spoiler warning).

But first, a bit more about the main characters because I've seen some confusion about their names etc. I'll keep these as spoiler-free as Mandee's pilot teaser was so if you've watched that then you're all set.

Khemjira is cursed, as are all male descendants of his family, doomed to die before their 20th birthday (the series changes it to 21). His mother gave him a traditionally female name to confuse the curse but to no avail: as he grows older he's more and more troubled by the heavy and malevolent presence of spirits. These are kept at bay by an amulet given to to him by a venerable Por Kru (a practicioner of Buddhist white magic) but when that's no longer enough, his friend Jhet introduces him to his teacher Por Kru Parun who lives in a small Isan village. Despite the burden of bad karma, Khem is a good person who always tries his best even when he feels like giving up.

Por Kru Parun (the series calls him Karan) is a respected practicioner of Buddhist white magic. He lives in a traditional wooden house outside of a small Isan village and protects his community from spiritual harm. He learned from his grandfather (who was himself a respected Por Kru) and also spent many years ordained as a monk. Because he lives by the precepts (which go beyond the five precepts of laypeople) he seems detached and aloof, often wearing dark sunglasses so others won't get charmed by him. His real (nick)name is Peem but he only starts using it with Khem once the two get romantically involved.

Jhettana and Charnvit (aka Jhet and Charn) are Khem's best friends. Khem meets Jhet during freshman orientation when Jhet senses the malevolent spirits around him. It's also Jhet who suggests visiting his teacher Por Kru Parun in his home province. They do this during a university excursion. This is how they meet Charn who's part of the student trip and very suspicious about what they're doing. Charn is extremely polite, addressing everyone as Khun. He wears glasses to aid his bad vision. Both Jhet and Charn are extremely protective of Khem, choosing to become Parun's students in order to help save him. They're also the secondary couple with a surprising past connection.

These two boys are Thong and Ake, Parun's spirit servants. They're the ghosts of 12-year-old twins that already served Parun's grandfather. They also have a surprising role to play in things to come.

SOME SPOILERS FOR THE MIDDLE OF THE NOVEL

As for why the romance can only happen after Khemjira's curse has been lifted: as practitioners of white magic, Parun and his students Jhet and Charn have to adhere to the precepts. These include abstinence from unchastity, so they should remain non-attached to thoughts of sexual and romantic nature. If one of these precepts is broken, all of them are considered broken (which makes it impossible to practice white magic) - Khemjira's rescue would fail if any of them got involved romantically. Parun knows that he's mindful enough to remain non-attached until the curse has been dealt with. He also knows that he can't expect the same of Khem so he refuses to take him as his student (which is fortunate because that way we get to read about Khem's pining).

And beyond the horror and the romance, there's also a third element that heavily features in the story: rebirth. All of the characters' fates are interwoven through several past lives, and I'm really curious how Mandee will decide to tackle this added layer of complexity and identity. In The Sign, Idolfactory used the same actors througout every past life (while 1000 Years Old used different actors with the same identifying birth mark). In Khemjira's Rescue the past identities of some of the characters are incredibly important and I'd hate to see them getting erased by using the same actors to better fit with BL marketing. It was so rewarding to find out that Jhet and Charn were starcrossed lesbian lovers in a past life and I'd love it if they kept that reveal for the series as well.

Oh, and also? Yes, there's going to be at least one naga. 🙌

END OF SPOILERS

Ultimately, if Mandee truly commits to playing the long game and doesn't simplify the story in order to appeal to marketing opportunities, this could end up being one of the best Thai BL series to come. From what I saw, the actors can definitely pull it off, and the fact that the 11 minute long trailer focuses so much on novel-accuracy is very promising already. Just don't have Parun and Khem get it on too early. Sometimes you have to keep it in your pants for a bit in order to save the day. 🙏

[mcverse]

✧ Pairings: Ao’nung x F! Sully! Reader

✧ Requested: Yes/No

✧ Type: One Shot

✧ Word count: 2.8K

✧ Warnings: Angst, Miscommunication, fluff, not proof read, edited to fix mess ups

From an early age, you learned that the line between hate and love could be very thin.

When you were just eight years old, you were the first child of Jake and Neytiri to tell your mother that you hated her. The reason was quite trivial; she had taken away your toy after you had taken it from Kiri. But even at that young age, you understood the gravity of your words when you saw the disappointment on her face. You immediately apologized and spent the rest of the day by her side.

Six years later, when you were fourteen, your brother Lo’ak did something that annoyed you, as brothers often do. He snatched away a beaded necklace that you had been working on all day. You were already feeling frustrated because it had taken you so long to make, unlike your talented and quick sister, Kiri, or your mother. The words came out easily this time: "I hate you, you skxawng."

But deep down, you didn't hate him at all. In fact, you loved him fiercely and would do anything to protect him, even fight to the death. You just hoped that it wouldn't come to that. Fortunately, the spat blew over quickly, just as it had started.

You often had conversations with your father, Jake, who would explain that there was a thin line between hate and love. You remember reading about this concept in one of the books left behind by the Sky People, but your father insists that he came up with it himself. You don't have the heart to tell him you knew, so you just let him have his victory.

Despite this, as you grew older, you became more and more skeptical of the idea that love and hate were two sides of the same coin. By the time you reached 19, you were convinced that the line between the two emotions was non-existent. This belief was only reinforced by the fact that your parents had informed you that you would have to leave behind the life you had always known. The news made you furious and you felt as though the rug had been pulled out from under you.

You had never asked to be caught in the middle of this conflict between your people and the sky people. All you ever wanted was to live in peace and harmony. You had hoped that over the 15 years since the sky people had last visited, your own people would have found a way to prevent another conflict from breaking out. But now you found yourself on the run, fleeing for your life, and wondering whether peace would ever be possible.

“I hate you," you said with conviction as you stormed off, too consumed by your own emotions to consider theirs. The words felt too familiar on your tongue, as if you said them too many times before. Perhaps they knew they weren't true, but that didn't stop you from ever saying it again.

You don't immediately apologize or take back your words. Instead, you pack your belongings to leave, too angry and aggravated to consider the consequences of your actions. Your family is hurt, but you're hurting too so avoiding your parents became your new strategy. But Neteyam had other plans. It’s only when he confronts you that you start to realize the gravity of the situation.

He reminds you that family is forever, even if you don't always see eye-to-eye or want to be around them. The reminder hits hard, and you're filled with remorse for how you've treated your loved ones. Tears flow equally for your family and having to say say goodbye to your home.

The journey to Awa'atlu was awkward, but this time it wasn't because of you. Unlike popular believe aka your siblings and you, the world didn’t revolve around you. In fact, your world was currently with you, lost in their own thoughts, weighed down by the heavy emotions of the past few days. The weight of starting over somewhere new feels suffocating, but you know that you have to try to make the best of it.

When you arrived with your family on the sandy shores of the reef, you had hoped to approach this new experience with a positive attitude. Despite the openly judgmental stares from the Metkayina people who scrutinized the genetic makeup of you and your siblings, you made a conscious effort to focus on the bright side of things, especially when your father informed the chief of your shared goal to seek uturu.

But adapting to this new environment has been far from easy, and you knew it wouldn't be a smooth transition. You were strangers to their traditions and culture, and it was only natural that there would be some difficulties. To make matters worse, you and two of your siblings were considered "demons" by the Metkayina people, further complicating your efforts to fit in.

Despite your best efforts to maintain a dream-like state of acceptance, it was impossible to ignore the harsh reality of the situation. You had been living with the Metkayina people for months now, but every day felt like a struggle to fit in. You missed the comforts of home and the familiarity of your own culture.

The constant reminder that you and your siblings were labeled as demons was a weight that you couldn't seem to shake off. While most of the people in the tribe had welcomed you with open arms, there were a few like Ao'nung and his group who constantly taunted and teased you. It started with your siblings, but eventually, they turned their attention to you, making you feel unwelcome and out of place.

The longing to leave grew stronger with each passing day, but you also couldn't help feeling guilty for wanting to give up. You knew that your parents had made a difficult decision to move to this new place, and you didn't want to disappoint them.

However, the pain of being ridiculed and ostracized made it difficult to stay. You wondered if you would ever truly feel like you belonged here, or if you would always feel like an outsider. The weight of these thoughts and emotions was becoming too heavy to bear, and you longed for a way out.

This feeling was particularly strong on days like today when you found yourself completely alone. Perched on a rock at the edge of the reef, you felt disconnected from the world around you, lost in your thoughts and longing for a sense of belonging. Getting out of your head felt impossible until he comes along and disrupts it.

“You’re alone, sevin.”

The sound of his voice is so distinct, it's impossible to forget it, even if you tried. You hate to admit it, but you could recognize him just by his voice, even with your eyes closed. Sometimes you even saw him in your mind when you shut your eyes. However, the Ao’nung you knew never called you “sevin [pretty]” so you begin to second guess yourself.

However, as you see him standing there, tall and smoldering, you are one hundred percent certain it is him. His face is uncharacteristically relaxed when it comes to you, and you can't help but feel a sense of discomfort. This is him, but not the him you’re used to.

“Huh?” you purse your lips, eyebrows furrowed in confusion as you try to make sense of the situation.

He lowers his head slightly, squinting his eyes as he smiles in his usual mischief manner, which is now all too familiar to you. "You're alone?" he repeats, the sound of his voice piercing through the quiet surroundings. As he walks towards you, the water splashes around him, adding to the tension of the moment.

Sighing, you roll your eyes and slump your shoulders in frustration. "No shit," you mutter under your breath, already dreading the idea of spending any time with him.

Ao’nung chuckles, the sound rumbling from deep within his chest. He takes a few steps closer to you, the water now up to his waist. "No one’s keeping your company, huh?" he drawls, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Don’t worry, I’m here."

You clench your fists, eyes starting to sting as you feel your anger bubbling up inside of you. Ao'nung always had a way of getting under your skin, and you were in no mood for his taunts today, nor any day.

"Can't you see I'm trying to enjoy some peace and quiet?" you snap, turning your back to him with crossed arms. Hopefully he gets the hint this time and leave.

But Ao'nung doesn't seem deterred. Instead, he wades closer until he's standing right behind you, his hot breath tickling your neck. You tense up, feeling his presence looming over you like a predator stalking its prey.

His voice whispers dangerously close to your ear, you feel a shiver run down your spine. "Why are you being so hostile?" he asks, peering over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of your face. You can practically hear the pout in his lips, "I’m just trying to be nice," his tone dripping with mock innocence.

The rock you were standing on wasn't big enough to allow you to pull away from him without falling straight into the water, but you don’t hesitate as your jerk your body away, hoping to hide your flustered state and escape his proximity.

“It’s a little too late to feel sorry,” you hiss, not that you actually believe him. There was too much bad history between you to even consider it, especially with his behavior now.

He didn't reply, only watching the rise and fall of your back with interest. You had been the center of his attention for a while, but he had only recently realized it himself. He snaps out of his daze when he saw you turn to peer up at him through lowered lashes.

He felt his heart skip a beat as he watches you, the soft glow of the moon illuminating your features in a way that made his breath catch in his throat. The light of the moon seemed to know exactly how to make you look more beautiful than ever, and he found himself lost in the moment. Unconsciously, he parts his lips and he could feel the heat rising to his cheeks as he realized he was caught staring.

You call out his name, "Ao’nung?" as you notice him staring at you. Suddenly, without warning, he splashes water in your face, sending droplets flying everywhere. You frantically try to wipe the water from your face while simultaneously attempting to stop him, "Hey, stop it, skxawng!" you exclaim in annoyance.

Wiping the droplets off your face, you glower at him in frustration as he finally stops splashing water at you. "What's your problem?" you demand, your frown deepening when he simply shrugs with a smug expression.

What a dick!

“Thought you could improve your swimming skills.” He teases, walking towards you again.

Resisting the urge to punch him in the face was a skill, is what you wanted to say aloud. However, you were painfully reminded that he was the chief's son and, from past experiences with him and Lo'ak, you knew you didn't want a lecture from your father. As you turn to leave, Ao'nung grabs your wrist softly and yanks you towards him with the opposite force.

You yelp as you slam into his chest, ready to actually put your hands on him despite knowing you shouldn’t. But you pause after looking up, yellow hues staring into surprisingly serious blue.

They feel intense but warm, almost felt like how you wanted to curl into the one his body provided. It made your chest hurt, thumps wildly like a celebratory drum set. You wish it would stop, but it only intensifies when you catch a glimpse of his lips and watch as his tongue swipes across his bottom lip.

That was expressively hot, you had to admit, and it got even hotter when you looked back into his eyes, only to see them flick up from your lips at the last minute.

Being this close to him makes you feel weird. His stare suddenly feels too uncomfortable, making you look away and focus on other parts of his face, like the cute white freckles sprinkled across his nose and cheeks, or the smoothness of his skin. But then you stupidly let your eyes wander back to his lips, where you see them part again, this time with words.

“Som [Hot],” he says, confusion clouds your mind once more. But then, his words clear everything up, "You're Txasom [Very hot]." The way he says it, almost breathless, sends an another shiver down your spine.

"Ao'nung," you begin, but he cuts you off, releasing his grip on your wrist and sliding his hand to your hips, pulling you closer to him than before.

"I like you, siven," he confesses, his cheeks flushed to match yours. You stare up at him in awe, your heart out of control in your chest as you listen to his words, "I have for a while."

Your mind is in a whirlwind. You've yearned for him to apologize for his past mistreatment, but never once considered the possibility that he might have romantic feelings for you. You're unsure of what to feel, what to say, or what to do, and the uncertainty leaves you breathless.

“Say something,” he pleads, his gaze flicking back and forth between each eye, searching for a tell sign. He starts to fear that he may have made a mistake by opening up to you. Perhaps it would have been better to keep his admiration a secret, to continue to tease you playfully while keeping his feelings to himself.

You part your lips to speak, but no words come out. Instead, you close your mouth, pressing your lips tightly together as you struggle to process what's happening. How can Ao’nung, the chief's son who once teased you endlessly, have feelings for you?

“You’re a dick,” you murmur after a pregnant pause, looking off to the side. You miss the way his expression falters slightly before shifting to neutral, his hold on your hips gripping tighter as you continue, your voice getting firmer with each jab. “And an asshole who doesn’t know when to stop.”

“[Name]—“

“I’m not finished,” you quickly shut him down, staring him in the eyes now. “You teased my family because we were different. You teased me because I was too. You used your status as the chief's son to get away with it and I can’t forget that.”

Ao’nung's face contorts into a pained expression as he releases his grip on your hips. He feels a sense of regret wash over him as he thinks about how he shouldn't have let things go this far. He should have stopped himself earlier, before he decided to confess. Maybe if he had just left you alone when you first arrived, he wouldn't be feeling so heartbroken at this moment.

Ao'nung's expression transforms from sadness to hope as you grab his forearms before he could fully retreat. You notice how your words have affected him and wonder if he truly is genuine. "But it can be forgiven," you begin, watching as his brows raise and his ears perk up at your statement. "With work," you add, making sure he understands that it won't be easy.

His face lights up with the most winsome smile you've ever seen, and you can't help but laugh at his expression. He's more earnest, and it's endearing. As you look away shyly, he focuses on your laughter.

"I have a chance?" he asks hopeful, giving you a youthful, yearning expression. It's clear he wants to make things right between you.

Your nod of approval is all the permission he needs as he leans down to capture your lips in a frenzy of excitement. At first, the kiss is soft and tentative, but as you reciprocate, it quickly becomes more passionate and intense. You feel his hands grip your hips, pulling you closer to him as he deepens the kiss, leaving you breathless and wanting more.

When he finally pulls away, your eyes remain closed, trying to catch your breath and savor the moment. You can feel his eyes on you before you even open them, and when you do, you see his hand leaving your hips to rest on your cheek in adoration.

"I just need one chance," he whispers, pulling you back into a sinfully delicious kiss that makes your head spin and your heart race with desire.

You had an epiphany at 20: the line separating love and hate was indeed thin, and you found yourself straddling it frequently. But now, things have changed. You refuse to offer any apologies for the transition from hating Ao’nung to loving him.

Ask box ✧ Navigation ✧ Previous Fic ✧ M.List

[seahagart]

Sorry if you already answered this but who is Drifa's goddess?

She worships the goddess of wilderness (nothing canon in game) Basically since she's a paladin and paladin's follow an oath rather than picking a pantheon at the start, i thought it'd be interesting if her oath is to her temple, she was the protector of her temple for the past 15+ years which is dedicated to the Lady of Frost, Goddess of the Wilds, Maiden of Snow. Essentially goddess of the wilderness, snow, and survival.

Huge Drífa lore dump under the cut.

She was left at the temple while all of the other members slowly left, one by one, when their godess called to them to do so. Each one that left has never returned. Eventually the guardian of the temple passed, leaving Drífa to wait her turn and keep the temple until her goddess instructs her otherwise. She has waited for a long time... Eventually she stopped keeping track of how much time passed, and fell into routine.

Drífa appreciates nature, but in a 'respect what could kill you' way. She does not love animals because they're cute and fuzzy, she appreciates them because of their tenacity, and their skills. She worships the circle of life, that the strong live while the weak perish, and it is her duty to protect this. Meaning hunting is normal, but to kill for the sake of killing is deplorable. It is her duty to keep the shrine, make offerings to her goddess, and protect the way of life on the mountain. Hunters who come to collect for their food on the mountain are fine, but outsiders who come into her territory to take more than they give are dealt with.

She is cold, ruthless, territorial, but she is also kind, gentle, giving. Drífa can't help herself sometimes. She takes in a hunter who should be facing the consequences of his grave miscalculation aka he didn't respect the mountain and should freeze or figure a way out... but she gives him shelter. She should just kill the bear that keeps taking the food from her traps, and she curses it plenty, but it was a brutal winter, she sees the bear has cubs, so she lets it take her prize when she shouldn't.

When Drífa has her child, she sees this as a gift from her goddess, her next lesson in survival. Raising young. Drífa softens even more. She would not think about putting something out of its misery, or striking if it meant she will have food... But now she has a boy who loves birds and pleads with her to help it. So she does. Then its the fox still alive in her trap, she has a soft spot for foxes as she likes them for their cleverness, so she nurses it back to health when she knows she shouldnt. She gives more time to her child and neglects the offerings, the shrine, and soon is too focused on playing with her child she doesn't hear the footsteps in the snow. They are attacked, her child is separated from her, and ultimately is never recovered. She spends weeks searching only to find scraps and blood. She returns, heart broken, and brings swift death to those who did this, the warriors that moved into her shrine while she was gone. All of them are put outside as a warning to those that enter her territory. She never sees other people after this. She knows this was a punishment from her goddess, she was losing sight of her duty as the temple keeper, she wasn't respecting her place in the world, and now had to survive the worst: grief. She decided she would overcome this, just like everything else, and would survive because that's what she is meant to do.

She is taken from her mountain by the nautliod, her temple crushed and destroyed. She believes this is the sign from her goddess, forcing her to leave the mountain and pursue her next step. Eventually she is with others for the first time in years, and she sees this as a sign that she is meant to be with them, protect this group, until she can figure out what her goddess is telling her. Drífa slowly gets more socialized, learns more common, talks more, but remains the quiet, stoic presence in the party. She is starting to wonder if her goddess is punishing her because these people have so many problems.... She continues on, helping where she sees fit.

Eventually as part of her quest line, she is reunited with her son who was saved by some 'do gooders' aka saw a battered young boy in the snow and took him, not realizing mama bear was on her way to get him. They took him many villages over so Drífa couldn't track him, and eventually her son gets better, and after a few years begins his own quest to find his way back to the mountain and find his mom to see if she's alive. After much searching, he hears about a big orc in town, and he thinks maybe it could be a lead, so he shows up to demand answers, ready to do whatever it takes, only to have his bow pointed at his mom. It takes them a moment to recognize each other, but obviously after that they have a beautiful reunion. Drífa thanks her goddess, because clearly this was a reward for her well done work, and because she learned her lesson, etc.

Now the party members get to find out that mama bear is actually a mom and has a son and if they romance her, they will be a step-parent... lol

[shadedsecrets]

Why Pavel is Important:

AKA Why Cheth and Phaedra need therapy and Phantomarine won’t leave my head--

The sheer importance of Pavel as a character and what he does hit me very hard today and I needed to share.

Cheth the Red Tide King is an ageless being who has been betrayed, mutilated, and discredited for a comparatively short 500 years out of his thousands. Everything he was, everything he had, taken away by someone who was supposed to be his equal and someone who his feelings about seem to be very... complicated. Even then, he didn’t even get to die, just watch as more as more was stripped away so not even the people’s memory of him remained unwrapped. His only company was himself... and a few fleeting moments with people who feared and hated him. If that didn’t fuck him up a bit, nothing could.

If he was to be made the villain until some nebulous future that might not even come, why not lean into it and have at least a shred of vengeance and amusement? The perfect target is right there, after all, a royal line dedicated to the church that sullies his memory with lies is right there. Why *not* torment them when they pass, why not make those ruthless bloodthirsty puppets feel despair? After all, he knows who is calling the shots. He knows she doesn’t care one bit once she can no longer use them...

The Red Tide surrounded and transported at least three sea bite victims to shore that we know of, however. Doubtless there are many more lives he has tried to save from a painful and premature death. But he can only be so many places at once... And it is rather telling that every seabite victim we have seen so far has been a child.

He thought Phaedra no better than a tyrant early in her reign when she came down to his domain. That she could not possibly know the loss that had occurred because of her people’s actions. That none of her line could, because ***she*** was pulling the strings... And of course, she would never trust him, so to get her to do anything, of course he had to lie. She had been manipulated all her life and was clearly none the wiser, even now when contradictions begin arising. And really, he has no patience for it anymore, for stubborn fools who refuse to hear him.... and Cheth is far too out of practice to do anything about this himself.

Phaedra is lugging around centuries of religious propaganda and pressure, as well as being young, inexperienced, and grieving the loss of her father. Her whole life has been surrounded by the church and it’s teachings, of her future responsibilities in relation to them, who her immortal enemy was and who her biggest inspiration should be. She was very literally tailor-raised to hate Cheth. 

His actions don’t help alleviate this either. I doubt he was lying about being able to bring back only one soul, but not being clear about it broke what trust Phaedra was ever willing to put in the god. She was not nearly as hostile towards him until that little snag, and has seemed only to double down on this stance ever since, her color scheme changing from yellows to blues. She will find the most bad-faith read of his words and believe that to be the only correct answer. His penchant to not being completely clear and honest with his intentions also clearly vexes her.

Clearly though, she cares deeply about people. She took up her father’s tradition to ease the grieving. She was willing to do whatever it took to save her friends, and feels incredible guilt for ‘dooming’ them to a these last months of not-quite-life. She wants to help people, really help them... but she can only see ‘help’ in such a narrow worldview and has been taught there are some people you just shouldn’t help.

And then... there’s Pavel. And the very first thing we learn about him is that the boy has more heart than sense. Vanna raised him well, but the kind of deep empathy to care for the very beings that killed his father and basically gave him a terminal disease with heavy stigmas that forced him to leave the life he loved for ***seven years*** takes a little more than teaching.

Pavel has defended almost every single being that has harmed him.

He understood that sea ghosts just couldn’t stop themselves and that they were people once because he trusted his mother and her research. He understood that his friend Eddy was scared and alone and lashing out because of that. He questioned and pushed back against Sofia’s manipulations and the bad faith readings of the Mantaluna crew, but tried to understand that they must be having a pretty hard time. He told the Manta Princess to her face that *Cheth was hurting too* and asked a literal deity to be nicer to the biggest pain in his neck.

This little boy is a critical bridge. He can just *feel* when people are coming from a place of genuine care or hurt and tries to explain that to others who are being overly harsh in his opinion. There is a reason he is neither Cheth’s nor Phaedra’s color scheme. *This tiny boy is the one neutral party that both of these stubborn powerful people will listen to, now.*

Phaedra only turned sour when the talk got a little too close to questioning the very foundation of her beliefs, and she just went cold and tried to make Pavel change the subject. She was so relieved to know she hadn’t hurt him, wanted to do everything she could to make him comfortable and did not even question if they should help him get somewhere safe. And Cheth... Cheth loves children and hates having to welcome a single one into his collection, I think. He tried to mock Phaedra with how many *orphans* her father’s last battle created. He became *angry* and cold at even the implication that he would have lied to Pavel. And Cheth does everything he can to make sure a child survives a sea ghost attack.

Without Pavel... neither of these two have any hope of working through their shit, because neither of them are able to view the other and their reactions clearly. Cheth IS AN ASSHOLE AND VINDICTIVE. Phae IS NAIVE AND OVERZEALOUS. And Pavel is the once person who can read them both as say it like it is. And that is going to make for one hell of a boat ride.

[kleinv01]

After imagining that our workaholic boss has a certain affection for Al (for his effort at work) I can't help but think of a scenario where he discovers for himself that Al comes to leave sweets on our table daily (and that he consequently likes us). And with his past not very well resolved with his ex-wife, he would be furiously screaming internally knowing that his precious pupil is SPENDING MONEY aka TIME on someone who is not interested in him, even in the same way and intensity or much less knows about his existence !! (who knows how much more time Al dedicates to us each day)

Mr. Dolores pov: "how can you do that after everything I taught you"

I think I'm thinking a little too far... but what if Al could somehow influence the "relationship problem" that Mr Dolores has, despite insisting to Al that it's not worth it. Even if he stays with us. MC could still leave him or betray him or do something that could hurt him a lot and doesn't know how to handle it.

Imagining how Al has a certain obsession with us (and we have no idea what level this goes to), despite always being shy and insecure, I don't think it would be that easy or even possible to convince Al of something like that. Idk, even so, coming from someone who went through an experience like Mr. Dolores, who is aware of how it has affected his life and how difficult it can be to deal with, and tells it as advice, with a tone of someone who really wants to help because they care.

I think Al would appreciate it... but it would take more than that to make Al really believe that we would deceive him if we ended up together or to make him really not interested in us... if that's even possible. sorry, just rambling.

But it's funny to imagine someone with Mr. Dolores's personality going determined to change Al's mindset to stop caring about MC so much, cuz it's a waste of time and how he can be more than he imagines. alone.

But while talking about it he come across another side of Al that he didn't expect. Al didn't even say a word, but he knows, he can feel, which surprisingly and frighteningly is very decided on this issue.

Suddenly the scenario changes. Mr. Dolores ask deeply intrigue why, why we are so valuable to him? Despite everything he said, the consequences...the pain...

And gives space for the shy pink hair man speak... Somehow, in some way is managing to change the perspective of a man who was firmly decided of his conviction. Being taken to a point of view that he would never have thought of or perhaps even felt, but he can't say anything, because he is too perplexed and strangely surprised, without even thinking about interrupting. listening and listening, without knowing for sure when he got so caught up in the speech of that man who seemed so young, so inexperienced, but said his words with such ardor that no matter how much he wanted to refute them, he couldn't refute it.

Now the room is faced with a situation where a man with certainty in his words and beliefs was easily influenced by someone who was not confident in no one's eyes to the point of hiding something as dense as the reason behind us.

*BOOM* (PLOT TWIST, cuz the influencer was influenced) (This didn't go exactly as I had planned, but I think something make sense)

://SYSTEM_MESSAGE_ANSWERED !

fun read. i didn't expect anyone to even pay attention to their relationship this much so i really enjoyed reading it, thank you for sharing it with me (and don't be sorry for rambling at all plz)

i can't really say much here because eventually you'd be able to learn why Mr. Dolores is so fond of Al despite his quirks and despite most of the people in the office finding him a weird guy to be around/even outright reject him from situations sometimes. for now, all i can say in the simplest way is that how Mr. Dolores treats Al is similar to how a dad treats his son

i don't really have any good response to this but i'd like to share it with others following this blog <3

[thevagabondexpress]

persona, shadow, and james herondale (aka i think i know what's going on with that guy in the midnight heir)

In Shadow Magic, Nikki Van De Car tells us that Carl Jung's persona archetype takes its name from the Latin word for mask. She explains that this is the face you present to the outside world: the initial outer shell of the matryoshka that is you. She writes, "From the time we were young children, we learned to embody our persona. [ . . . ] However, as with the shadow, if we aren't conscious of it, the persona can take over and cause us to lose sight of who we are beneath it."

For those unfamiliar with Jung's archetypes, the shadow is the regulating body of the unconscious, just as the ego is the steering wheel that drives our conscious, waking life, helps us decide what to prioritize and to eat for lunch and to wear to the gym, and when to call Kelsey (if you even should). Like our heart and lungs, our shadow operates mostly involuntarily on the things our ego doesn't register, or purposefully sets aside. Hence why "holding it in" when it comes to emotions is a bad idea. However, when the shadow isn't well integrated with the rest of yourself, one of two things happens: either the shadow takes over, or the persona does.

And this is exactly what happens to James Herondale.

Looking closely at silver bracelet enchantment and the way it acts upon James's mind, it doesn't actually make him fall in love with Grace. The actual purpose of the bracelet curse was twofold: it separated James's ego & persona from his shadow, and it placed Grace in control of all three. With his shadow, the part that wanted and felt and fought neatly out of the way, he was made vulnerable to brainwashing as he hadn't been before.

When people around James, like Matthew and Cordelia, speak of the Mask, when they're noticing is that James doesn't have a shadow any more. He barely has an ego. He's a papier-mâché of a polite, handsome young bookworm but there's nothing inside there. The shadow and to an extent the anima are particularly gutted. Grace then assumes for James the role of the other parts: she and her shadow regulate for James. No wonder he feels no desire for her, thinking it not in his nature, and they barely kiss: Grace feels no desire for him, and as her shadow regulated his, it kept him from acting on her and Tatiana's conscious command to want.

When the bracelet is taken from him or when, in Chain of Iron, it breaks, James's shadow comes flooding back. And, because James isn't used to having a shadow, because he has no experience of regulating such a thing, it takes over. And it goes after Cordelia. James's shadow remembers her when his persona does not and his shadow is, well, a shadow: it holds the reins of his emotions, of his subconscious, of his desires, of everything he's been forced to keep down for four, five years of his life. No wonder that when plunged into its grip all James can feel is want. Almost every "consuming shadow" moment we see in Chain of Gold and Chain of Iron are tinged with lust. But, with the Shadow still choking out all else, when faced with Grace at the end of Chain of Iron, all that's left of James is rage.

James's shadow talks a lot in Chain of Thorns and . . . it's not very nice, quite frankly. It's not nice in bed (he shoots a lock out, very nearly just takes Daisy on the stairs) and it's not nice in anger either. Shadows are rarely nice, but James's is particularly vicious. No wonder. He's never had a chance to sit with it, to hear it out, to integrate its beat and rhythm. His shadow has been neglected and that side of him isn't happy about it.

To be fair, "Chain of Shadows" would've made a too-apt alternate title for Chain of Thorns seeing as, well, that's what it is: from Matthew and Cordelia in Paris to Jesse on the rooftop and Anna in the catacombs, the book is full of everyone's shadows talking, and talking to each other. Arguably, however, Thomas's shadow talks most in Chain of Iron, on his midnight patrols.

Crucially, I think the persona/shadow theory of the bracelet could explain the phenomena known as "whatever the hell was going on with James in The Midnight Heir." Perhaps, when Grace attempts to call it off, she gives James's shadow back to him as well. What she means to do is give back his emotions, his ability to feel and love. There's no way Tatiana would've known how the bracelet actually works much less that she would have explained it to Grace, that's not Tatiana's way of being in the world. But if the function of the bracelet is to split the shadow from the ego & persona, it means he can only hold one or the other. James in TMH is Mr. Hyde. Unlike Chain of Thorns where he's trying and failing and learning to integrate all the parts of himself into a whole, James in The Midnight Heir is all shadow and absolutely none of the rest. His conscience, his ego, his values and morals are all taken away from him. He's vicious and feral and very nearly gets himself and several other people killed. Personally, it was a good thing Grace returns James's persona and takes his shadow back and chooses to wait for a time when she can take the bracelet off and end things completely: in removing his persona, she created a monster. I can only imagine her horror when she realized what she'd done.

Tl; dr: James Herondale plotline based in Jungian psychology. ChoG + ChoI James all persona and no shadow, TMH James all shadow and no persona, and ChoT is where he starts integrating them together. Can't confirm this is how Cassandra Clare's mind was working when she wrote it but the shoe sure as hell fits.

tiny tags: @emmalovesfitzloved @tleeaves @faithfromanewperspective @chaosandtwo @alastairstom and @quantummeep. also tagging @smartest-avenger because i happen to know you're a psychology enthusiast and i want your thoughts.

[freedelusionshere]

Why Demon Chef David has reappeared and what it might mean for S4

I've had this thought about Chef David and what he represents for a while now. His NYC restaurant is called Empire and he targets and abuses a younger Carmy (probably because he won an award at such a young age), but he basically instills a lot of values in Carmy that are about elitism and being "the best" (thinking about you $11K Dystopian Butter) that are actually at odds with who Carmy clearly wants to be. It's at odds with everything that he learned from other chefs who have taken more of a nurturing approach that still exist in the fine dining world.

This comes up several times in the narrative, with his family basically calling him elitist, and part of that is jealousy, I think, about how he was able to escape the turmoil in Chicago. But it later turns out to be true when Carmy tries to lone wolf his way to the Michelin star, acting like only he can accomplish it when he's only previously retained one, never won one himself, and making kind of lifeless food that is a rehash of what he learned at Empire. And in fact, still admires David's talent although he's his abuser.

Syd is tied directly to the moment when Carmy starts to break away from Chef David, by defying him and making a dish the way he wants to make it. I won't be surprised if we find out later that he saw Syd eating the dish, either, and remembers her when she comes into The Beef and brings up Empire.

We also see mentioned several times that Empire has failen from its top position. Luca and Syd both mention this. Also in Forks, when Richie brings the table the Chicago pizza reworked by Chef Adam, diners talk about how the food scene in Chicago (at Ever in particular) is way better than NYC at the moment, and they laugh about it. We also see Chef Adam berate staff about smudging plates at Ever which we later learn he's mocked for being the one doing it. Meanwhile Chef Terry is calmly peeling mushrooms before service because she likes to do this and invites Richie to participate. This is in contrast to Adam. All this is foreshadowing.

Which led me to ask: why is Chef David at Ever's funeral to begin with when he's a known asshole that no one likes? It made me wonder if David was an investor in Ever when it first began and one of Terry's missteps and regrets. Terry talks a lot in the S3 finale about various mistakes she's made over the years, but the good that came out of it: the people. We also see in S2 that Chef Terry owns the restaurant in Copenhagen Marcus trains at and that Luca is at, the "Every Second Counts" sign is there.

Could Terry be closing Evers to rid herself of both Chef David and Chef Adam? She has other restaurants elsewhere. That are ostensibly run well and are not closing, that she no longer leads.

Which brings me to S4 and Chef Adam poaching Syd from The Bear to work for his new restaurant, which is happening in a hot food scene in Chicago and immediately will replace Ever (Adam is wanting to make this all happen very fast) with Chef David as an investor again. This would also kind of bring the moment Syd first had Carmy's blood orange hamachi dish and the narrative significance of that full circle, but played out in reverse, because I don't think Syd will be submissive to Adam or David.

Likewise, I could see Terry potentially becoming an investor in The Bear, stepping up to replace Cicero's failing financing, as long as Carmy promises her that he won't repeat those mistakes that they have both made along the way and lead to The Bear finally being legit and successful the way Mikey always dreamed, with The Beef still in operation at the window (which funny enough could get the Michelin star).

This could set up Carmy and Syd as rivals temporarily (which would be fun), but I don't predict any of that will last too long and in fact I think Carmy will be supportive of Syd and try to win her back FOR REASONS (aka "I can't do this without you. Wouldn't even want to.") Syd might not know who Chef Adam's investors are at all at this point, and she of course has every right to not want to put up with Carmen's shit, but also the narrative has set her up to run and try to start over again because of trust issues (she mentions this to Marcus in S1) and the show will want to reconcile that.

[befemininenow]

Legacy TG caption website: Transgender Graphics and Fiction Archive (aka TGFA)

It’s easy to take granted the amount of trans-supporting art and TG captions we have today. They are abundant and it can vary from affirming to fetishistic. But if you were to find captions back in the ��wild west” era of the internet, there wasn’t much that you could find. This was especially true in the peak Y2K era as the internet was growing at an uncontrollable rate, yet was nowhere near the the behemoth it is today. Those caption blogs that you DID find and loved were either gone the next day (thanks, GeoCities) or they were not appealing. In spite of the lack of sites available, I did manage to find a site that was not only a relic by that point, but a relic that would open my view on gender: TGFA.

First opening its virtual doors in May 1999, the TGFA site (acronym for Transgender Graphics and Fiction Archive) is a collection of posts, scans, and links related to the transformation of gender. Some of them are fictional while others are more realistic. Many of the captions are your plain text attached to a picture while other captions take a more creative approach of mimicking advertisements. There are scans taken from real media like comic books, advertisements, and TV shows. However, my favorite part about this site were the links. This is where I discovered more TG transformations and captions from sites like TG Comics and Electric Gallery Morph.

Without counting the 2016 update that removed broken links, the last time it was updated was around 2002! At the time I discovered the site, it had been almost 5 years since it was last updated. TGFA was already too old and unrelatable for my tastes at the time and it shows. Many of the captions made are of low resolution while the media scans like advertisements are either too old or have misgendering. But what is even more incredible is that the site is still accessible today!

The site serves a purpose in today’s world not only as an archive (it literally says so on its title), but as a way for younger generations to view how people interacted at a very different time period. The site isn’t a Y2K remake or reinterpretation; it’s actually from the Y2K era! It’s incredible how much has changed these past 25+ years! How did I find this site? By searching the topic of sex change learned from basic, middle school biology! Although I was never into this site, it did help me learn one thing at a young age: changing gender was not only a thing of fiction, but that it was very real. If you’re interested in checking this legacy, or relic, site, click the link below. Otherwise, enjoy the few uploads! (I do not own the pictures. I am the one sharing them. Captions, pics, and other media belong to their perspective owners)

P.S. Remember my throwback captions I did back then? Three of my captions were from this site and remade into my own words. Hope you can find them ;)

Link: https://www.tgfa.org/

[hmshermitcraft]

Y'know what? Let's add a Scott/ to the Etho/ranchers Esmp S1 Au (I am the one that sent that ask dw I'm not just adding this to someone else's au/ask)

After Scott learned that the Codfather was married, he was horrified as he has been subtly trying to court the Fishman, not knowing that he was taken. Scott obviously stopped immediately, he wasn't a homewrecker! Even if he was a generally flirty person and was very much crushing on the other ruler

Around two weeks after that meeting, Scott had been invited to watch (and maybe participate) the bi-monthly fighting festival that was in the Codlends. Scott of course went, even if he wasnt courting the Codfather now if he can help it, he still would have to go as he had been directly invited.

When Scott had flown there, he had been greeted by the short man that was with Jimmy in the beginning of the last meeting, the one with blond hair and red accessories. The man who he learned was named Tango and was The Codfather's other husband, had excitedly shown Scott around as Scott was apparently the first ruler to have shown up so far.

Scott had primarily watched the fights, after all the way that Codlends citizens fought was truely interesting and in a way that was so fluid. When Scott did participate in a few of the fights, he draw them out ever so slightly but still in a fast and Rivendell like manner. Each time he had stepped out of the sparring arena after he won, he had been shown a good bit of praise and flirting from the citizens??

Aka fighting and how strong you are is seems as a very important thing in the Codlends and the fighting festivals are used as ways to flirt and show off your skills to the people your trying to court. (Cause I hc that polyamory is very common in the Codlends lol)

Jimmy and Tango are both blushing like mad after and during Scott's fights cause wow they didn't expect that with how Scott was built- while Etho just zones in on Scott's fighting style cause it is very unique and not like any other Rivendell elves that participated in these.

related ask!

Scott was trained to fight from a very young age. His parents - ever so diligent - ensured he had a number of tutors from a wide variety of different places. Scott may not be a master in any of the styles he's familiar with, but he can switch between them as needed without missing a step.

It's a skill that has, unfortunately, been useful through the years.

And he has to make sure he puts on a good show for the Codlands people. He's here to represent Rivendell. Scott knows elves are often underestimated as being soft and too haughty to fight. He hopes he's put some of those rumours to bed today.

What he doesn't realise is that he's started a new wave of gossip. Jimmy hasn't stopped talking about Scott's fighting since they retreated into the royal box. Tango feels like he may just melt where he stands. Scott had been so put together when he showed him around earlier! He didn't expect that from him.

Nor did he expect Scott to look so good when slightly dishevelled, pushing long strands of blue hair from his face.

Etho finds Scott fascinating. He did during the meeting as well. He'd like to learn more about the elf, and Rivendell royalty in general. It seems like it's changed a lot since his time.

[iamlostsomewhereinthegarden]

OHSHC Host club cooking and baking Headcannons

Aka how good they bake and cook

Haruhi

* Haruhi is average at both cooking and baking

* Since she has to make stuff to insure that she and her father aren’t starving

* Also because her father doesn’t cook

* Really extensive knowledge though on all sorts of dishes

* Her father also did say in the anime that she was cooking and taking on the housework from very young

* On top of that Haruhi made hotpot when the host club randomly barged in on het and they liked it

* also even though the vist was a surprise she wasn’t nervous in making anything and just went to the grocery store so safe to says she good at making stuff and it’s edible

Kyouya

* Kyoya is in between average and master,

* He tried to pick it up in order to impress his dad in something his brothers couldn’t do and was better than his sister

* He did so well he actually did get a bit of congratulations but ended up having to teach his sister on how to bake and cook so not so much a nice thing but he did get attention for a bit

* Also because he was able to teach her and his sister became really good at being a wife I’d say he’s really good at it

Honey

* It would be a lie to say he’s not amazing af at baking

* He’s dogshit at cooking anything that wouldn’t include sweets mostly though

* Truly it’s because he has no interest in them so he never cared or cares to learn

* Like if it’s pancakes and such he can cook them amazingly but frying an egg, not so well

* If he was invested in it he’d be amazing in the food world

* Is somehow good at making chocolate from scratch along with syrup, honey and even sugar?

* Man likes his sweets lmao

Mori

* On the other hand as Mori came from a long line of butlers he is very good at both

* Actually a master and is amazing af at it

* Like sir? I’d cook for you but I think my food would pale in comparison to what you eat and can make

* He can make and do anything

* Like Honey being able to make syrup and stuff, Mori can do the same and better

* Sebastian Michael has competition

* There isn’t much to say here he’s too amazing

Kaoru

* Does baking as a hobby

* So he’s decently good at it but can still mess up at times

* He likes it, it’s fun to him and he enjoys it though

* Let’s him do commoner stuff without being weird

* And also makes him normal and not some weird creepy twin

* Finds it relaxing and a way to get Hikaru to go away as he doesn’t like cooking and baking

Hikaru

* For Hikaru he doesn’t like baking and such

* His brother does it so why should he? It’s his brother’s thing and twins should be able to do separate things right?

* He just has no talent in the kitchen don’t let him near one or else the whole place is on fire

* But before even trying he found cooking and baking unnecessary as they have people to do it for them so why should he have to learn it

* Prefers video games and more exciting things

* Renge is better than him

* Has been banned from the Home EC Room for a prank he’s done and not fit cooking

* Like literally has it taken off of his schedule and he can’t pick it ever not that he wants to

* When it’s found out how bad his cooking and baking is the teachers were relieved

* One of the very few classes both twins don’t take together

* Doesn’t care much, more time for pranks and video games!

Tamaki

* dogshit don’t let him close to the stove

* It’s a good thing Haruhi knows how to cook and that he’s rich or else they were fucked

* Has poisoned the host club with his food and has since been banned from entering the kitchen

* Is also checked daily to make sure he hasn’t made anything

* Worse part is, the food actually looks good

* Renge is better than him but he’s better than Hikaru

* Has been banned from the Home EC Room also

* Like literally has it taken off of his schedule and he can’t pick it either like Hikaru

* Very sad over it

* Plays it to the girls he hosts as a curse or finds some thing around it in order to bring more customers so there’s that

* “I can’t cook for myself, so how would I survive without the cooking of my lovely maiden?”

Thanks a lot for reading! Ik I’ve been very non active for a while, but life is life ya know what I mean?

I have a couple more headcannons coming soon, but they’re all in the idea phases and I get writers burnout easily since writing isn’t my fave thing

But I’ll try to get them in quick, thanks again for reading!

[esidolmail]

Wataru! Mika! Hello!!

I'm also an adopted kid, just like you. My parents gave me up for adoption due to some inconvenient circumstances surrounding my conception. I was put up for adoption before I was even born and taken home by my adoptive parents shortly after my actual birth. I have a somewhat complicated relationship with my adoptive parents; I know that they mean well, and they're trying the absolute best they can, but my upbringing was incredibly rough. Granted, they're much better people now than they were before, but the damage has already been done. Despite being taken in by people who were supposed to provide for me, I had to learn to fend for myself at a rather young age. It's because of that that I've barely even had a childhood. I felt envious of people who still had their birth parents in their life, even moreso parents who gave them unconditional love and support that they needed; ones who protected them when they needed it most. I wish I didn't have to be that for myself at such a young age. I wish that I didn't have to grow up so quickly, and that maybe I could've had someone who at the very least had my back, so I could relax a little bit. Now here I am, with years worth of trauma and a grocery list of disorders to top it all off.

But that's not the point, I'm sorry to traumadump on you guys. I guess my question is, how is your situation with your adoptive parents? Did you guys ever feel any sort of resentment or yearning regarding your birth families, like you lost something you might not have even had in the first place? Did you ever have to cope with your circumstances regarding yourselves and navigating the world as an adopted child? Do you ever (still) feel out of place compared to everybody else who still had any of those people in their lives, aka their birth family and blood relatives and whatnot? Did you ever feel upset regarding the circumstances behind the way you ended up now? Did you ever learn how to cope with such a deep-seated feeling of loneliness resulting from within?

I'm sorry for bringing about such a heavy subject, and in such a long letter, too. I guess I just can't help but feel envious, despite the fact that I have more than I could've even asked for. It could be worse, I could have never been adopted at all. I could be living on the streets, truly alone. But even with all that I have, I still just can't let myself warm up to anyone. I can't let myself open up to or put any trust in anyone. That's probably not even related to the adoption thing, but other, more complicated traumas that I don't need to tell other people about. There's a lot of things that even my closest friends don't know about me. They assure me that I'm safe, that it's okay and that I'm going to be okay, but I can't fully trust anyone yet, even after years of somehow being involved in their lives. And that leads me to now, writing to you guys.

Have you ever felt the need to talk about this to anyone in your life at any point at all? Who was that person for you? How long did you have to wait to find that person?

Thank you for reading through such a long piece of rambling to the end. I'm sorry if this weighs too heavy on either of you due to its subject matter at hand. Next time I write, I'll try and leave something more of a positive note, okay?

Please take care of yourselves, and I'll continue to try and live as freely as I can in order to continue supporting you all.

Yet again, thank you.

[faulty-writes]

Ive been laughing at this for an hour but could u do a reader who roasts people fast just like this guy (bakugo and rumi x reader i am begging you the laughter i let out was inhumane.)

[ Okay so...the video is unavailable to me which big fucking surprise, shit never works when you want it to. So, the best solution I can come up with is just making two short stories where the reader is roasting, taunting, and otherwise pissing these two hot-headed characters off. Sound good? Great, let's get this show on the road. ]

"You better shut the hell up before I blast your damn face off nerd!" Katsuki growled, his fingers tightening around the collar of your hero suit. To think he had come to one of these damn hero meetings only to run into you after and have this happen.

Of course, his temper had cooled down some since his days at Yuuei, but that didn't mean others wouldn't be terrified if they were in your position. Then again, most didn't understand that you loved teasing other people. Especially Katsuki, he was so easily worked up.

You smirked, almost happy that the other heroes had already taken their leave. "Oh look at me, I have the same IQ as a stick of dynamite," your voice deepened into that of a mocking tone and he growled in response. "What the hell did you just say!?" he demanded, violently shaking you.

"If this hero thing doesn't work out, I know I'll run the dynamite companies out of business with my magical hands of boom boom," you continued to mock before laughing. Of course, you failed to notice that his hand had grown warm and small lines of smoke began to circulate around his knuckles.

"Oh yeah!?" he said, forcibly throwing you away from him. You stumbled back, eventually falling to the ground. "How about I show you what these damn hands can do!?" he snapped, bending his knees and spreading his hands which ignited with small explosions.

"Show you why I'm the number two hero!" he added making you roll your eyes. "Figures the boom boom man would be number two, if you know what I mean," you said with a wink, although the joke was somewhat in poor taste.

He clenched his jaw, and a menacing growl rumbled in his throat. "Shut up!" he snapped, charging at you with full force. "Huh!?" you blinked, barely able to comprehend the speed he was going. Your only defense was crossing your arms as he unleashed his fiery fury.

"He's been working hard as a hero, are you sure you need to check up on him?" Toshinori, the former number one hero asked as he walked alongside Tsunagu aka Best Jeanist. "Mm..." he mumbled in response, shifting his glance to the other man.

"I trust he's finally learned how to discipline himself," he said before hearing a loud explosion behind the building he knew the hero meeting was designated at. A long sigh escaped him, and he pressed a hand to his forehead.

"Perhaps I spoke too soon, I should have known. He's more stubborn than ever," he concluded before he took off running. However, he stopped when Toshinori held his hand out. "Wait a minute," he said, lowering his hand when he knew he had the other's attention.

"Are you sure that's a good idea? You said it yourself, young Bakugou can be hard-headed," Tsunagu nodded. "He needs to be reminded of how a hero is to act and when to properly engage in battle," as far as he knew, no villains would dare attack the location where multiple heroes were gathered.

So that meant, Katsuki was engaged in a fight with another hero and it wouldn't be the first time it's happened. He often got into verbal or physical fights with Izuku, otherwise known as Deku. "This won't take long," he stated before running once more, leaving Toshinori behind.

"Wow, those boom booms are about as hot as a s'more. Maybe you could sell them on the side," you teased, despite the fact you had multiple burns across your body and there were various holes in your hero suit.

Katsuki panted softly, clenching his fists. Another growl came before he charged at you again. Jumping into the air, he brought his arm back and spread his fingers wide. "Die!" he shouted, intending to unleash one of his more powerful explosions.

Instead, he found his legs and arms suddenly bound together and fell to the ground. "What?" you looked at him, confused as he wiggled and squirmed in the dirt. "Damn it!" he screamed, continuing to move like mad.

"Haven't I taught you better?" came a calm and authoritative voice and you looked up to see Tsunagu, the man who remained at the number three hero spot and was Katsuki's former teacher of sorts. You recalled he had accepted the man's offer after the sports festival and was particularly fond of him.

"Best Jeanist..." Katsuki growled, baring his teeth. You couldn't help but snicker, finding this whole situation entertaining. Of course, Tsunagu immediately shifted his attention to you. "What?" you said, shrugging your shoulders.

"It's funny to see him like this, I mean talk about ground zero," you placed your hands on your hips. However, the older pro hero didn't find your words to be entertaining and lifted his opposite hand, commanding the fibers in your hero suit to bind your wrists and ankles together.

"You are pro heroes, I expect you to act in the proper manner," he said with a slight snarl, ignoring how you began to wiggle only to lose your balance and fall to the ground like Katsuki. He narrowed his eyes, glaring at you but you offered a smile in return.

"Making fun of you was worth it," you said smugly, causing the angry blond to let out another growl as he began wiggling toward you with threats spilling out of his mouth rapidly. Tsunagu could only sigh at the display, seems he'd have to teach both of you self-discipline.

Your initial reason for having picked up the carrot and taking a large bite out of it was to annoy Rumi aka the rabbit hero Mirko. You munched on the somewhat tart vegetable before smirking at her. "What's up, doc?" you mocked in a high tone which caused the woman to cross her slightly muscular arms.

You continued to chew for a few seconds before swallowing. "You're about as threatening as a little bunny rabbit, letting the villain get away!" you mocked before feeling her hand on your throat. "Shut the hell up, pretty face!" she growled with a sadistic smirk, tightening her fingers around your throat.

"If you hadn't distracted me that damn villain would have tasted good old concrete when I pounded their face into the street!" she screamed. It wasn't often that she let the villain get away, in retrospect she'd like to think she was as fast as Hawks when it came to catching up to and capturing the villain.

But, things were a little different this time because you had decided to tag along. The punk college intern that thought they were so much better than everyone else, at first she liked you. Of course, that was because you had an attitude like hers.

But that mouth of yours seemed to want to keep going and going. Yes, you loved teasing others. Especially if you happened to like them. But you did eventually cross boundaries and some would know better than to push Rumi's buttons, but you couldn't help yourself.

"Aw, little rabbit can't figure out a harey situation?" you teased only to find yourself stumbling back when Rumi pushed you away. You managed to regain your balance without falling to the floor, but this didn't stop the pro hero from stomping over to you.

"Better watch that tongue before I rip it out, pretty face!" she warned, impatiently tapping her foot. "What's the matter?" you asked, pointing to that restless appendage. "Eager to run little bunny?" you teased, noting her ear twitched in annoyance every time you said the phrase 'little bunny.'

You lifted one leg up and began hopping on the other, intending to further tease her. "Little bunny Mirko hopping through the forest!" you paused, laughing at your own joke before narrowly missing her fist which then broke a portion of the wall behind you.

"Get back here!" she snapped, pulling her hand from the wall. You had decided to take off running even though you could have continued to stand your ground. But, when it came to a fight between Rumi and yourself it was clear who would end up winning.

"Pretty face!" she screamed, furiously kicking off of the ground to catch up to you. "Damn it!" you nervously said, taking a sharp turn down a hallway that led to who knows where. You were still learning the ins and outs of Rumi's agency.

"What!?" you shouted when you realized the hallway was nothing but a dead end without any rooms for you to hide away in. 'Who the hell builds a hallway with nothing at the end of it!?' you frantically thought, before the floor shook and nearly knocked you off of your feet.

Turning around, you saw Rumi grinning proudly. It was like looking at an animal that was overjoyed it finally cornered its prey. For a moment, you felt frightened but usually, in these types of situations, you fell back on your sense of humor to try and cope or escape.

"I've never met a bunny that's also a bloodhound," you remarked, trying to contain your composure as Rumi walked toward you. "Keep talkin' pretty face," she said, yet again sporting that sadistic smirk that you were getting to know too well.

You took a few steps back only to hit the wall, you turned your head but stopped short when Rumi grabbed the front of your shirt and yanked you forward. "Hey!" you screamed, wanting to place your hands on her chest to at least cushion the impact.

But you thought against this at the last moment considering it would only be more incentive for her to kill you later. At the same time, you couldn't help but notice how her hair fell so delicately across her face and how the color of it resembled the moon.

"Heh..." you gave a smirk and pointed a finger in her face. "Are you sure you aren't some rare demon bunny from space?" you asked, watching her face twist with confusion. "After all, with that hair and those eyes I wouldn't doubt it," a soft growl came and Rumi pulled you even closer.

You could feel her breath on your face and her nose pressing against yours. "Ya wanna find out?" she asked before turning. She kept her hold on your shirt, pulling you back down the hallway. "Let's settle this outside," she suggested, and you knew that could only mean one thing.

'Maybe this will be the day I die after all,' you thought before noticing Rumi's tail was wagging. It had been a long time since she found herself in a fistfight with someone who wasn't a villain. It'll be pretty hard for you to talk, let alone taunt anyone after she was through with you.