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𝐀𝐭𝐭𝐚 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥 || 𝐉𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Previous Joel Fics: Mule [5.1K Words]

Summary: Marlene thinks Joel can save the fireflies. You’re not so sure.

Word Count: 10.2k!!!!

CW: LONG FIC. You have been warned! Slow burn Enemies to Fuck Buddies. Joel is 40 here, 10 years before the events of the game! Military and political themes because, say it with me now, “Jas loves plot”. Moody Joel, before Tess. Aggression. Slight gore. Power play. Hair pulling, f masturbation. Angst. Based off Game!Joel

Tease: “Look at you,” Joel growls. “Totally shameless.”

‘When you’re lost in the darkness, look for the light.’

The white graffiti paint drips down the chipped terracotta walls of the hallway you were designated to patrol. Your feet ache in the brand-new leather boots gifted to you in the last donation drop-off, and you want nothing more than to crawl back to bed and ignore the arrival of this smuggler that had Marlene promising that she could take control of Boston in a fortnight.

“What a bunch of bullshit,” you scoff bitterly, picking at your cuticles. The skin is red raw under the fluorescent lighting, crimson blood pooling around your nails. It's a nervous habit you picked up since joining the Fireflies, marginally healthier than staying up all night but still torturing your body somehow.

There was no light to this way of life, no promise that the darkness would ever subside. It was a brutal cycle of killing a handful of soldiers only for them to execute swathes of Fireflies. You saw it in your dreams, your colleague's brains splattered across the streets in the exclusion zone, a carmine reminder that the military would not tolerate any form of mutiny within their controlled zones. Too many had devoted themselves to suicide missions, but still, you had nothing to show for it. How much longer could Marlene continue to hurl young lives at a promise she couldn't fulfil? The likelihood of finding an immune individual grew smaller and smaller each time squadrons of Fireflies failed to return home, and even the most faithful of individuals were beginning to lose hope that this martyr would ever arrive. That was despite your dogged leader insisting that there must be someone out there that could help provide the vaccine that would eradicate the Cordyceps virus.

You hiss sharply as you subconsciously pull a hang nail down your first knuckle, resulting in a stinging sensation that rips you from your pessimistic thoughts. It's light outside now, and you wonder how long you will have to wait to meet this smuggler that Marlene speaks of so highly. She had claimed that she knew the man's brother, stating that Tommy had fought valiantly for the cause until he found himself unable to justify putting his life on the line for someone that they weren't sure even existed.

As Firefly numbers dwindled, so too did the morale that held the frayed edges of the organisation together. Everyone had sacrificed something and lost someone dear for seemingly no reward. Marlene's fantastical idea that one lone smuggler could change the course of the firefly's suffering left you feeling that options were running out.

As you begin to resign bitterly to your seemingly inevitable end, a pair of footsteps sound down the corridor in an indication of your saviour’s arrival, broken bottles crunching beneath his boots. When you look up from your throbbing finger, now stripped to ribbons, you are caught off guard by the view.

Marlene's expression is grave; eyebrows pulled together in a stark and silent warning. Soldiers aren't coming home today. You had seen that gaunt visage before. Hell, you'd seen it almost every week recently. However, the most shocking sight was the person who accompanied her.

The man is old, much older than you had been expecting. His mousy brown hair, trimmed short, is greying to match the thick, peppery beard that coats his jaw. The edges of his eyes are creased, no doubt carved with the years he spent fighting to survive. His thin lips turn downwards, and his eyes are cold and hardy, indicating his desire to get the job done and escape Marlene’s control.

"Soldier," Marlene addresses you with an air of authority that can only indicate she is attempting to impress her guest, "You will be coming with me."

"Yes, ma'am," you stand at attention and cast your eyes over the guest of honour, who is yet to introduce himself. He doesn't look as though he intends to. He watches you with an air of caution as though he doesn't trust you. It doesn’t surprise you. Everyone in this new world order is a threat. Perhaps this wariness is how he survived so long.

Falling in line, you follow behind your superior. There is an uneasy silence settling amongst you. The Commander and The Smuggler don't seem comfortable in each other's presence.

"So, say you take back Boston. What then?" The man's gruff Texan accent cuts through the silence like a dull blade. It's agonising, an unwanted intrusion to the apparent mutual decision to remain quiet.

"I think you know," Marlene speaks with frustration, "Restore democratically elected government control.”

"Didn’t you say that at the beginning? It ain’t as though you are any closer than 10 years ago." The smuggler points out, his assessment lacking any form of amusement. He doesn't seem to revel in the Fireflies' losses, yet he has the confidence to call Marlene out on her ridiculous ambition.

Marlene shoots the stranger a look of indignation, clearly not appreciating his accurate assessment of the Fireflies’ track record. She doesn't attempt to argue, instead leading him into a room and ushering you inside.

“Joel,” she begins, naming the enigma that had walked in and undermined the entire principal of the organisation he had joined momentarily. Marlene closes the door and locks it for good measure before turning to face her ‘last hope’. “I need you to tell me the plan. I can’t just let you blindly lead the last of my men into a war zone-“

“Didn’t expect you to,” he answers lazily, crossing his arms over his chest. The sleeves of his flannel stretch across his broad biceps, buttons straining slightly against his frame. You assume that his physique is thanks to lugging around the oversized backpack that rests over his shoulders, the worn nylon fabric practically bursting at the seams.

Marlene offers Joel a look, the kind that indicates she doesn't feel like joking around. He inhales slowly through his nose, then exhales as if preparing to begin a presentation at a job interview. In a way, that is exactly what this meeting was.

"Y’all can only gather the number of weapons you need from one place. You won't find this shit just lyin’ around. We'll have to take it from the military themselves."

You nearly choke on the oxygen in your lungs, rocked back by Joel’s confidence in his ability to steal directly from under the noses of the US Military. You knew that Marlene had faith in him, but this was lunacy.

"And just how do you suppose we do that?" Even Marlene, ever the optimist, looks at Joel as if he is crazy. There was no way to infiltrate the military bases that the Federal Disaster Response Agency sanctioned. They had the place secure, triple-locked to keep out humans and infected alike.

"We'll catch them on one of their supply runs," Joe answers her question simply, as though he thought of this already, “If we ambush during the night in the Outskirts, they’ll lack the defences to hold us off. At most, there'll be four of ‘em in the delivery vehicle.”

It's an insane plan. The soldier’s on the border of the quarantine zones are armed to the teeth to defend against the infected. The team would need to be stealthy, catching them off guard and dispatching them before they had a chance to call for backup.

Perhaps it's the kamikaze-like nature of Joel's plan, or maybe the lack of detail he’s sharing, but understandably Marlene seems unsure. "Do you think it'll be worth it, all that risk?"

"What, armin’ yourself and strippin’ them of their next lot of ammunition? Seems beneficial to me."

You can't help but wonder what Marlene is trading for Joel to run headfirst into a death trap like this. Likewise, is it wise for her to place all her bets on one man who seems intent on being captured and sentenced to execution?

The heavy sigh that rattles through Marlene's lungs indicates to you that she has nowhere else to turn. In exchange for Joel's basic scheme, she extends a nod of approval.

"You will be escorting Joel." It takes a second for you to realise that Marlene is talking to you, still caught up in shock. When you do, Joel looks less than pleased at the concept of having a babysitter. He drags his eyes over to you, expression flat. You can't say that you're precisely thrilled, either.

"Yes, ma'am," you offer confidently despite wanting to beg for mercy. She doesn't offer you the chance.

"Joel, gather all the men and firepower you’ll need." With that final comment, Marlene turns toward the exit, leaving the two of you alone in the unfurnished room. She seems animated and enthusiastic about getting this plot up and running.

Joel makes no move to leave, instead leaning against the wall and peering at the Firefly pendant that rests on your collarbone. You know what he's thinking, but he himself fails to speak the ‘why’ out loud. There’s an awkward edge to him, indicating a man who had grown too accustomed to surviving as a lone wolf.

"I heard your brother was a Firefly," you beat Joel to it, asking the question before he has the opportunity to interrogate you. This area of the conversation appears to irritate Joel, his eyes turning to the ceiling.

"Yeah, he wasn't happy with the way I did things. Said it was too violent. Instead, he joined you and continued his brutal crusade here despite criticisin’ mine." Joel scoffs, picking at the thread-worn sleeves of the flannel he wore. His words are bitter, leading you to believe that the brothers don't talk anymore.

"It's less of a crusade than an attempt to set things right," you justify.

"You're killin’ people," Joel accuses bluntly. It's as though he's tarring you with the same pitch-black brush as those who killed for their own benefit. It sparks a rage in you, the words spilling from your lips before you can stop them.

"You kill people to survive this world. I’m trying my best to revert it to the old one. If I have to kill soldiers to do it, who, by the way, act worse than the infected most of the time, then so be it.”

Joel appears to let your argument settle before he nods, pushing himself from the wall and making his way to the door. His boots scuff the flooring, the grating sound punctuating the silence as you await his response, which he delivers with an air of finality.

"Yeah, you just keep tellin’ yourself that bullshit."

—————————————————

Joel has a wealth of knowledge that can only result from his smuggling adventures and the network of insiders he worked with. He is somehow aware of the military's next supply drop-off date, which just so happens to coincide nicely with his arrival. It gave the team two days to plan their attack. It was almost too good to be true.

Your suspicions against the smuggler grow with your inability to discern his reason for aiding Marlene. There was no question that he was no longer involved with his brother Tommy, the two seemingly ending their relationship on less than amicable terms, and there also appeared to be no love lost between your sergeant and Joel.

Yet despite his apparent limited reward, Joel was focusing all of his efforts on ensuring that this mission was successful. His rucksack, which he had held close to him since entering the Fireflies’ hideout, was filled to the brim with rudimentary grenades and modified firearms. He admitted his knowledge of creating these weapons had come from manuals scavenged throughout his time as a smuggler. Reluctantly, Joel shares the blueprints, and the mission squad are armed with Molotov cocktails and nail bombs by the end of the evening.

You wish you could say that Joel's helpfulness had warmed you to his presence; however, you find yourself increasingly irritated by his constant attendance. You see him arrogant and consistently standoffish despite your fellow member's attempts to appease him with light conversation.

Following the half-a-day-long effort to sufficiently arm the team, Marlene had pulled all on-site members of the Fireflies into a meeting room. She stands at a table, an aged, worn map of the Boston quarantine zone spread across the surface. From where you're standing, you can see circles marked in red ink along the border.

Something akin to optimism clings to the air of the dusty meeting room. You feel it when the group goes silent as Marlene raises her hand for attention. Joel stands by her side, eyes assessing the map as he awaits the beginning of the briefing.

"Everyone listen in," Marlene orders, authority drenching her tone as she commands her army, "I want everyone confident in their role on this mission. We only have one chance to get this right."

You swallow thickly, readying yourself to hear how Marlene had taken Joel's absurd mission plan and cultivated it into a scheme for which her troops would feel comfortable risking their lives.

"We have information that the military is due a supply drop from FEDRA in two days. We are almost certain that this restock will contain firearms and ammo that could help us take down the military presence in Boston." A series of murmurs sound, those in the room comforted by the prospect that they may no longer need to ration their supplies.

"It is crucial that we obtain these weapons to take control of the Boston quarantine zone. With civilian support, we could increase our numbers and once again focus our efforts on obtaining a vaccine for the Cordyceps virus."

It was an unspoken truth that the Fireflies' efforts to acquire a vaccine had ultimately fallen by the wayside, the lack of soldiers, weapons and equipment making it increasingly difficult to travel across the country to the medical facility at Salt Lake City where the trials were taking place. The Fireflies focused most of their resources towards protecting the medical officials integral to finding a cure. Taking control of the militarised zone would provide more than enough manpower, vehicles, and firearms to travel safely and restart the process of searching for an immune individual who could help turn the tide of the war against the virus.

"I can confirm that most supply drops are handed over on the east side of the quarantine zone. Our best option is catching the vehicle containing the cache in the Outskirts before it reaches the wall.”

The Outskirts are notoriously dangerous, their desolate plains unlit and infested with runners that try their luck getting past the military blockade. If you somehow managed to survive the creatures, you then had to contend with the snipers on the wall. Many Fireflies had lost their lives crossing these lands to supply the medical facility in Salt Lake City at the peak of testing.

"I will be handing the mission over to Joel to ensure we have the best chance of obtaining these critical supplies,” Marlene finishes, stepping back and letting Joel take control of the meeting.

Wasting no time, Joel points towards the circled area on the east side of the quarantine wall. "They plan to hand over the cache at the gate on the East wall. If we can intercept ‘em before they reach the lit areas surroundin’ the zone, we should be able to take out the soldiers and grab the weapons before they can call for backup."

You're unsure where your frustrations come from. Perhaps it's the simplicity with which Joel delivers his plans, but you find yourself questioning whether or not it was possible to succeed without losing enough men to bring the Fireflies to their knees.

"I assume you expect us to travel through the underground tunnels beneath the apartment buildings. Who's to say we won't run into Clickers and Runners that drain our resources or leave us late and unable to complete the mission?" You question Joel with sincerity, but he looks at you as though you’ve queried his authority.

Marlene opens her mouth to interject and scold you for insubordination, but Joel raises his hand.

"I am gonna do a run of the smugglin’ tunnels myself and sweep for any infected so that the path is clear for tomorrow evenin’," Joel answered smoothly, despite the obvious irritation laced between his words, "Shipment is due at 9 p.m. tomorrow. We're gonna move out at 5 to make sure that we have enough time to get to the Outskirts and set up for engagement."

Still, you find yourself concerned with Joel’s leadership. None of you knew him. He hadn’t developed trust between the team and himself; instead, he kept you all at arm's length and maintained distance.

“How do we know you won’t hand us all in and take the weapons yourself? You’re a smuggler; you’d earn a lot from them,” you accuse, not unlike the tone Joel had taken with you hours before.

“Soldier-!” Marlene speaks up, running out of patience with your disregard for her ‘smuggling saviour’. Once again, Joel keeps his hand aloft to quieten her and fight his own corner.

“This is a job,” he states with a gravelly tone that betrays his relaxed posture, “I ain’t for your little militia group, and I’m not against it. I will lead this mission, hand the weapons over, take my ration cards and my cut of the firearms and leave. You wanna distrust me and end up dead? Be my guest.”

You can’t help but scoff, taken aback by his inability to choose his side of the moral compass. To fight for good with the Fireflies or battle to maintain the new world order with FEDRA. Instead, he doesn’t even sit on the fence. He’s situated in the shadows, benefitting from either side only for himself.

Joel’s expression serves as a warning to interrupt him again, pointing to the map as he begins to detail the step-by-step of his mission.

“Plan’ll go like this….”

—————————————————

You can’t exactly claim to be surprised that you had been left out of the mission squad and ordered to remain at the hideout after questioning Joel’s leadership. ‘One loose link’ and all that. However, you find yourself wracked with nerves as you return to your room for the night. What if they needed you? What if everything went south, and you were the one pair of hands required to maintain a grip on the delicate situation?

That wasn't to say that you didn't have faith in your fellow soldiers to carry out the mission successfully. Joel had picked the brightest and most skilled of Marlene's troops to carry out this night raid, and you knew they had enough experience to achieve this critical assignment. But what if…?

Marlene had delivered her scathing reprimand following the meeting when she had dragged you down a corridor and insisted you get your act together. You hadn’t been able to look her in the eye, believing her reckless for putting the lives of her troops, your friends, in the hands of a man who couldn’t care less what happened to them as long as he got his payout.

Were you being naive? Was it foolish to believe that every surviving person not aligned with FEDRA should stand opposed to the regime and attempt to restore some level of order? Or had humanity evolved beyond the return to everyday life, much preferring to fight for themselves, to remain in the dog-eat-dog system this virus had granted them?

You find yourself fearing the answer.

As you enter the doorway to the barracks, you hear the rapid pacing of footsteps down the hallway approaching you. The sound drags you from your thoughts, but not before a hand firmly grips your collar and pushes your back to the wall so hard that you hit your head off the jagged brickwork.

Pushing his forearm across your chest, Joel stares back at you with rage burning in his pupils. The metal of a watch strapped around his wrist digs into your collarbone painfully, but you grit your teeth in response, standing firm against Joel's display of intimidation.

His chest is heaving with heavy breaths, seemingly infuriated by your display in the meeting room. Despite his fury, his voice is relatively even. "You gotta problem with me?"

"Ha," you scoff, "That's funny. What was it you said? ‘Be my guest’?”

Joel answers first by applying pressure to your chest, his forearm balancing his weight and crushing your bones beneath it in a painful warning. You grab at the skin exposed by his rolled-up sleeves and dig your nails in, though it does little to de-escalate the tension.

"Look,” he sneers, brows creased together, “You don’t gotta like me. Ain’t even gotta respect me. But what you’re not gonna do is put doubt into your fellow soldier's heads. That shit’ll get them killed. You want that?”

"What's it matter to you? You don't care how many die as long as you get your payout," you dig in, not allowing Joel to think he could muscle you into submission.

He inhales shakily in anger, glaring at you as you attempt to pry his arms off. "The role Marlene gave me ain't to ensure the survival of your friends. My only goal is to guarantee y’all get your hands on those weapons, no matter the cost. So I suggest you assure their best chance of survival by keeping your mouth shut and your opinions of me to yourself."

"Aye, Aye, Captain,” you sneer.

"Atta girl."

The sarcasm dripping from those three syllables sets you off again. You grit your teeth while pushing hard on the limb that has you firmly pinned down, but your limited strength has little effect until Joel pulls away completely. Almost instantly, a bruising ache settles across your skin, and you suppose it's Joel's version of a parting gift.

There is a pause between the two of you as you take in Joel's command. He appears to be watching your expression for any sign of acknowledgement towards his order. You both breathe heavily, on the comedown from your respective anger aimed at each other. It's intense, the crackling tension in the air shared by both of you.

You're unsure how or why the mood shifts so violently in the room, but you can feel your heart racing as you watch Joel settle his hands on his hips. His tongue darts out to lick his lower lip as he exhales what must be the last of his anger. In this quiet moment, you note how handsome he is despite his weathered appearance. His usually aggressive, guarded expression is momentarily brought down and exposes the warm, earthy brown tone of his irises.

"Just…" Joel hesitates, searching for the correct words as he looks you in the eye. He's quiet for a long, drawn-out second as if processing you. "You ain't gonna like the guilty conscience of believin’ somethin’ you said is the reason your friends died. Trust me."

The gentle tone Joel offers indicates he has experience in what he's warning you against. When he offers this advice so calmly, who are you to deny this slither of kindness? So you just nod in acknowledgement, refusing to extend him any more appreciation.

Joel steps away whilst clearing his throat, appearing satisfied with your non-answer. He, too, provides little recognition, instead turning around and exiting your room in the direction he came.

You watch as he paces down the corridor, his broad back disappearing around the corner and leaving you alone to dissect what the fuck just happened.

—————————————————

On the morning of the mission, you see very little of Joel. It's all hands on deck, the mission team working hard to ensure they had the supplies needed for the hijacking. Every so often, you would catch glimpses of Joel's red tartan flannel or hear the rough intonation of his Texan accent. It was silly, but you began to think he was purposely avoiding you.

Yes, he had acted carelessly last night by cornering you the way that he did, though you're not sure that is entirely out of character for him. Instead, you believe that whatever happened that caused your heart to race when he pulled away was a shared experience.

Rather than concerning yourself with why he was skirting around you, intentional or not, you focus on enacting your promise from last night. You work hard to ready the troops for the deadline, a subtle nod that you approve of Joel's leadership to urge their confidence in him.

It is painful, but you take your time with each of them. There is almost a certainty that some may not return home, and so you commit them to your memory. It's something you did every time someone left to enter the field, but it felt especially pertinent considering how close the Fireflies were to shifting their luck. Those who died tonight wouldn't get to appreciate the spoils of their sacrifice.

By mid-afternoon, Marlene considered her soldiers ready for battle and ordered them at ease to relax and rest up before heading out. Some opted to share their last meal; others played card games while recounting the time they had spent together with fondness despite the difficulties shared.

Quietly, you had slipped away from the main halls and left them to their final goodbyes. You weren't going out there, so it felt disrespectful to sit amongst those waiting for the call to arms. Alternatively, you made your way to one of the medical bays to ensure that someone set up enough equipment for those who may come back wounded.

By now, you had set out multiple antibiotic syringes, readied bandages and sutures and prepped gurneys so that everything was ready should there be an emergency. You felt better this way, as though you had aided in the effort.

So caught up in the process, you failed to notice Joel leaning his shoulder against the doorway until he cleared his throat to alert you to his presence. When you look up, the sound having startled you, you find him watching you with his arms crossed over his chest.

"Do you… Uh-do you need something?" You offer awkwardly, unsure of what else to say. Joel shakes his head, eyes flitting down to where you had laid out the medical equipment.

"No. Everythin’ is ready, and the tunnels are clear of infected. Just comin’ to tell you I'm headed out." He walks across the room towards the desk you are sitting at, stopping at the foot of the wooden table and laying his palms flat along the surface. You can see the veins raised through his skin.

You look at him through your lashes, swallowing back the nervous energy you feel creeping to the surface as he leans over the table.

"Why should I care?" You ask. You intend for it to appear nonchalant, but it just sounds breathy even to your ears. Joel raises an eyebrow in question.

"Woah Woah, easy. Still bratty then, I see," Joel points out, his tone flat. You cringe inwardly, knowing that that must have been his attempt to extend an olive branch. "Thought we could put this little disagreement behind us before heading out."

"There isn't one."

"Could’a fooled me," Joel chuckles, but it lacks humour. His gaze slips over your body and appears to take note of all the tiny details. You hope it's all in your mind, but you can feel your face heat up and your heart thrum in your chest again.

"You know, you really remind me of Marlene."

Of all the things you expected Joel to say, that certainly wasn't one of them. You look back at him slack-jawed as you feel the warmth of what you assume was a compliment wash over you.

"Huh?”

"She doesn't put up with none of my bullshit neither. Always tellin’ me to take a hike when I'm outta line and put me back in my place," there's a hint of a smile and Joel's face as he recounts their strange dynamic. A fondness touches his eyes, a fraction of warmth you hadn't yet seen in the hardened smuggler. "Thinkin’ that's maybe how she managed to keep Tommy in check for as long as she did."

You hesitate in your response, unsure how to approach this conversation due to the awkwardness from this morning. Turns out you don't have to because Joel continues.

"Only difference between y’all is that you have the balls to question things you feel ain't right. That's a high-value quality in a leader."

You feel as though you've been bowled over. Yet another compliment from the man who had attempted to strangle the life out of you nearly 12 hours ago. They were starting to make you think that maybe he'd succeeded and that you had entered a strange alternate dimension.

Laughing awkwardly, you shift the syringes around the tabletop in an attempt to keep your nervous hands busy. "Don't let Marlene hear that, shall consider it mutiny."

That earns you another elusive chuckle, the Texan shaking his head in amusement.

"Yeah, well, it ain't mutiny if I ain't part of her little militia army. Don't think I got much to worry about." This dynamic isn't friendship, you figure, though it's undoubtedly more amicable than tussling in your bedroom. It may be the closest Joel ever got to anything akin to amity.

It's not hard to assume that almost 20 years of solitary survival might make it challenging to establish emotional ties. Plus, you know nothing of Joel's ordeals getting to this point. Still didn't excuse his arrogance, though.

Again, silence creeps between you and you feel your stomach somersault while Joel maintains his close proximity. You dread to think what you look like, horrified that your expression could give away your internal panic. Even if it did, it wasn't Joel causing it. It wasn't.

"I'm off," Joel grumbles, standing up and pulling away from the desk and allowing you to breathe a silent sigh of relief. You watch him stroll leisurely towards the door, his hands on his hips. "I'll see you in the mornin’."

Most people in the Fireflies were surprisingly superstitious. It wasn't often you heard someone announce with such certainty that they would return from a mission. Regardless of its abnormality, it manages to ease your nerves – not that you were concerned about what happened to Joel.

"Good luck."

The flippant comment causes Joel to stop in his tracks, pausing in the doorway. He peers over his shoulder at you as if to make certain that you said it. He appears surprised.

"Yeah. Thanks."

—————————————————

Pacing.

You're pacing uncontrollably, circling the room in a failed attempt to ease the nervous energy pent up in your system. No matter how hard you attempt to block out the repetitive dialogue in your mind, it rushes back to the surface of your brain. What if, what if, what if –

Joel and his squad had moved out the minute the clock struck five, just as he had promised. Although Marlene had provided Joel with a walkie-talkie, the mission's reliance on stealth meant that no one intended to use it. You were completely cut off, uncertain of Mission status or if the squad was even alive.

Hoping it would make your wait more bearable, you turned your ticking clock to face the wall and put your watch inside your bedside drawer. It had helped initially, but now the sun had set, and you were expecting their imminent arrival. Every second your colleagues don't step back into the compound, your faith dwindles.

Though she maintained a stony expression, you knew Marlene was equally anxious. The most wanted woman in America, though able to defend herself, still depended heavily on her armed personnel. Reliant on this mission being a success, she had offered them up to Joel in the hope that their experience would assure victory. You can't help but wonder if she feels exposed without them.

What if they didn't come back? Could she survive without them?

It’s bordering on the edge of midnight when Marlene informs you she’s turning in for the night. You can’t say you blame her, needing to sleep on the off chance the team didn't return. She had informed you upon the group's exit that if the mission failed, the two of you would be heading to Salt Lake City at dawn.

You opt to stay awake, knowing well enough that you won't sleep until you are confident there will be no return.

Continuing your anxious circling of the room, you pick at your wounded cuticles. They are weeping blood down their knuckles thanks to hours of torture, yet you can't bring yourself to stop the self-destructive behaviour. Not while you wait for news.

Your heart practically leaps out of your chest at the sound of the main doors creaking open. It's so quiet you almost miss it in the silence, the sound of your blood rushing through the shell of your ear nearly drowning out the barely audible noise.

Grappling for your pistol, you release the safety and suck in a shaky breath. No one had announced themselves, and without guards on the door, there was no way to discern that those who had entered the building were Fireflies.

You shake with nervous energy, carefully stepping across the rickety wooden floor to conceal the sound of your movements. Had the US military found your hideaway? Surely not; they would have moved in before any threat to their organisation could be enacted

Leaning your back flush to the door frame in an attempt to conceal yourself, you listen out for any advancing danger. It's quiet at first, but you hear the scuff of a boot against the uneven floor cut through the silence. Inhaling swiftly, you ready yourself before lurching out from behind the door frame with your pistol aloft.

Shock wracks your body upon setting your eyes on the intruder that stands before you. Joel. Covered in blood from head to toe, his hands drip the viscous liquid onto the floor. The shoulder of his flannel is ripped open, loose threads sticking to his sweat-soaked skin.

"Oh-oh shit-“ you gasp out, horrified by the state you find him in. Given the state of his clothes and the sheer amount of blood that continues to run from his hair down his temples, your immediate thought is to check for wounds-but you can't see any. Sure, there is a scrape on his shoulder where the fabric of his flannel has ripped open and a cut that spans the length of his whole knuckle that you can see when he wipes the sweat from his brow, but other than that, you can't see any wound that would cause that much blood loss.

Joel, however, appears relatively unfazed as he points over his shoulder.

"Most came out with minor wounds," he states calmly, his gruff voice laced with exhaustion, "Lettin’ Marlene know we are back and that I have her guns."

It's as though Joel had just completed a simple sweep of the hideout parameters rather than one of the most dangerous and vital missions since the fireflies began their fight for humility, all without having received a single major wound.

As he walks away and leaves you gawping after him, frozen in place, you hear your team filtering in through the main doors behind you one by one. They are shouting your name and proclaiming their victory as they surround you, holding their hard-won weapons aloft. Despite their hollering, you can barely hear them over the frantic thoughts buzzing through your mind.

How?

It takes hours to ease the excitement and adrenaline buzzing through each of Joel's soldiers. You stitch up the wounded and listen to their battle stories in awe. They are enthusiastic about informing you of Joel's brilliance, frequently admitting that they could not understate how much of this victory they owed to him.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” one laughs incredulously. "There were more than we had expected, but it didn't phase him. He took out two of them on his own, and when his gun jammed, he knocked them out with his fists!”

Turns out that the four soldiers the fireflies had expected were accompanied by another five unaccounted for. Joel hadn't let it affect the team, pushing them ahead with the mission. By blinding them with smoke grenades, the team had been able to ambush successfully, and despite the physical tussle that resulted in Joel's bloodbath, the mission had otherwise gone just as planned, the fighting all wrapped up within moments.

According to the many recounts told as you patched up your friends, the only reason it took so long was that the weapons boxes were heavy and made for a tight squeeze in the tunnels. You could have cried at the stupidity of it all.

Eventually, Marlene joined in with the festivities, having been woken by Joel to confirm "Mission accomplished." Leftover Molotov cocktails from the mission we used as celebratory drinks that had the majority of your colleagues wasted within the hour - including your commander.

As fresh, golden beams of sunlight peered through the windows, you excused yourself to bed despite the drunken protests of your colleagues. After explaining your exhaustion, thanks to your immense concern, they reluctantly allowed you to leave on the condition you would celebrate with them later. You imagined their hangovers would be too severe for further partying.

Practically clawing your way to your barracks, you breathe a sigh of relief as you walk through the open door. You can still hear the shouts of jubilation downstairs, noting that you’d probably have to drown out the sounds by covering your head with a pillow. The mattress calls to you like a siren, promising rest. You plan to skip removing your clothes and fall into bed as you are-

"Didn't expect to be greeted with a gun to my head."

The heavy, Southern drawl that sounds from your doorway behind you makes the hairs on your arms stand on end. You wish you could say it was a fear response or disgust, but your heart leaps in your chest with excitement.

Swallowing thickly, you close your eyes to collect yourself before you turn to face him. Your inhale is so deep you feel the edges of your lungs ache at the strain before you turn around to face the Walking Headache.

Joel is leaning against the door frame as he had in the medical room before he left. He has bathed since you saw him an hour ago, scrubbing the gore from his body and dressing in fresh clothes. His hair is still damp, and you assume he’s been forced to borrow the outfit from one of his new-found friends, the seams a little too tight on his broad body.

"Yeah, well, I didn't expect to find a serial killer walking the halls either," you dig at the state he had returned in. It earns you a deep chuckle that resonates in his chest, and you can't help but note the way you hold your breath to hear the pleasant sound better.

"That how you treat all your commanders?" Joel questions, his voice lilting with a hint of humour that you find dangerous, your heart stuttering at the drastic change in him since the last time you were in this room together.

You let out a scoff that doesn't quite match the indifference you were attempting to convey. "Don't flatter yourself. You were consulted to lead one mission; that doesn't make you a commander."

He doesn’t like that.

Standing gormlessly in the middle of the room, you immediately regret the words as soon as they leave your lips. Joel is gazing at you with an intensity in his earthy irises, taking in your feigned lack of respect with a slight arch of his brow. It's less of a look of surprise than it is an unspoken challenge. It makes your body flush with heat.

The sense of security you feel with him on the other side of the threshold to your door bursts the moment he effortlessly steps inside. He has no issue with invading your personal space, finding it even easier when you fail to find the words to protest his intrusion.

Joel doesn't hesitate, but he also lacks urgency, taking his time to leisurely bridge the space between the two of you. Again, he is close enough that you can see the intricacies of his face. There is a myriad of delicate freckles and a small, ruddy scar that kisses the bridge of his nose.

You're so wrapped up in the tiny details that you almost miss the flicker of consideration in his eyes. Despite his steady, authoritative body language, he’s questioning whether or not he can say what he has in mind as he studies your expression carefully.

He leaps.

"Insubordination results in punishment, don’t it, soldier?" His volume pitches right down, each syllable buzzing through your veins as he maintains heavy eye contact that has your knees melting beneath you.

It's only when he speaks that you realise you have stopped breathing, your lungs burning in a desperate attempt to shake you from the trance he’s put you in.

You have no explanation for your response. You don’t have the chance to argue, to insult him for playing this ridiculous role. Instead, each word forces itself from your mouth upon your shaky exhale, coming out in a broken whisper.

“Yes, Sir." Your answer is spoken embarrassingly quickly. There’s a flash of something powerful in his eyes, like he’s still buzzing on residual adrenaline left over from the mission. It surges forward at your answer, and he clings to it, taking control of the room- of you.

“Atta Girl.”

It drips through you like honey, coating your insides and warming them. Your body tingles and pleads for Joel’s attention despite your best efforts to fight the need he draws from it as he drags his eyes across its length.

A tiny voice in your mind rears its ugly head. He’s probably pent up from fighting, and you’re still stressed from waiting up all night. You could give in to what you want. Doesn’t mean you like him.

Joel seems to hear it too, his eyes searching for a hint of approval. You can see he’s itching to touch you, to release the anger that you’ve built in him back onto you with tongues and teeth.

Doesn’t mean you like him.

“On your knees, soldier.” He commands, and it’s like his voice strokes something hedonistic inside of you because your body surges with arousal at the implication of his order.

Doesn’t mean you like him.

Against your better judgement, you slowly sink to your knees in front of Joel, eyes pin-set on the toes of his dirtied boots. The wooden floor smarts your knees, but you maintain your position in an effort to appease him.

Joel doesn’t move, feet firm in their place on the floor as you bow before him. He’s making you wait, arms loose at his sides. You don’t dare to lift your head to look at him, to urge him forward, instead straining your eyes upwards to watch the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Prickling heat teases at your skin, your arousal triggered, knowing he was watching you submit to him so easily. The tension grips you, finding it ironic that Joel entered every situation all-guns-blazing yet had utmost patience when it came to prolonging your suffering.

Your need condenses, acutely aware of Joel’s entire being. It’s as though you can feel his eyes trail over your body like a feather-light touch, and you swear that you can smell the dampness of his hair. Most of all, you focus on Joel’s even, quiet breathing, the expansion and deflation of his lungs acting like a metronome in the silence.

Then- God, then he’s moving his hand forward achingly slowly, fingertips pressing delicately against your left temple. The brush of his fingerprint over your skin ignites a humming arousal between your thighs, and you subconsciously press them together when he pushes his digits into your hairline.

Your jaw drops, slack as you exhale shakily. So starved for Joel’s touch, you’re more than grateful for the innocuous brush of his fingers along your scalp. It’s probably so obvious to him, your desperation, but he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he takes a step forward, his boot settling into the wooden planks you’re kneeling on, his feet on either side of your thighs.

Joel is so close you can feel the fabric of his jeans brush against your forehead. So frequently worn, the denim has lost that rough texture and could almost pass for cotton. You don’t dare to move, knowing if you so much as twitched, your nose would graze over his crotch through the material.

“Atta girl,” Joel murmurs, unironically this time, his voice rumbling in his chest. It cuts through the quiet so suddenly that it makes you jump, almost loud to your ears. He sounds pleased with your reception of his proximity, rewarding you by taking a firm but painless grip on the roots of your hair.

It’s as though you can read his mind. His pulse thrums in his palm against the soft flesh of your scalp, matching the thumping pace of your own. Joel doesn’t speak his thoughts out loud, yet it’s like he whispers into your ear. ‘Good soldiers get rewarded.’

The pressure he applies to the crown of your skull is minute, but it’s enough to push your face into his crotch. Your gasp of surprise is so loud that it almost drowns out the resonant hum that he releases, gripping tighter to your hair as you nuzzle into him.

Rock hard beneath your cheek; you can feel Joel’s cock twitch at the delicate friction you gift him. Having plunged so deep now, you no longer have to reason with yourself to take what you want, kissing the shaft of his dick through the fabric he wears. Again, your reward is to be pushed closer to him, the adrenaline pulsing through Joel’s veins causing a heavy-handedness that makes the walls of your pussy flutter.

“Look at you,” Joel growls as your tongue drags across the fabric his cock strains against, as if resorting to desperate measures to taste him, “Totally shameless.”

You can’t contain it, the whimper that bubbles in your throat. It sounds around Joel’s twitching cock, and it seems to rile him up, momentarily cracking his composure when he thrusts his hips forward slightly.

Fuck, it’s like he’s hypnotising you with his grunts and groans, your body liquidating as they heat you from the inside out. Heaving breaths indicate the magnitude of your desire, and you’re kneeling up before you can even think of the consequences of taking matters into your own hands.

Pushing your nose into the seam of the crotch in his jeans, you use the tip of your tongue to search for the zipper. The brass is warm when it brushes your tastebuds, a metallic tang coating them as you slide your tongue beneath it.

Carefully, you take the fastening between your teeth, lowering your head to drag the zipper down. You probably only manage four links of the chain before Joel’s hand shoves itself between you and the fabric, bumping your nose as he tears the button of his jeans open with a stuttery exhale.

He releases his cock from the confines of his pants, and God, you’re so thankful he does. A thatch of thick curls frames the base of his cock, a subtle curve to the veiny shaft that stands at attention beneath your gaze. The tip gleams in the low light seeping through your thin curtains, coated with precum that weeps from the head that’s flushed a dusty purple. He’s not too big, with a perfect girth and length to him that has you convinced he’d fit inside you just right-

Joel doesn’t allow himself to examine how you practically melt at the sight of him, wrapping his fingers around his shaft and steadying it with his thumb. In any other situation, the gentle slap of his cock against your cheek would have you leaping from the floor and throttling him, but you’re both so needy that you open your mouth greedily without prompt. It drives Joel insane.

“Hah,” he heaves, pressing the tip of his dick to your flat tongue, “Shit- oh shitshitsh-“

Joel sheathes himself inside your mouth with one long stroke of his hips, and you’re almost sure your throat stretches beyond its limits to accommodate him.

“Fuckin’ shit,” Joel curses heavily, watching your eyes brim with tears at the intrusion as you fight your gag reflex. When you glance up at him through your watery lashes, you catch the way his upper lip arches at the sensation of your tongue tracing the underside of his cock. He’s sweating, brow glistening with evident arousal on his brow, and your stomach flips at the concept that you were the one making him feel this way- breaking his almost impenetrable composure.

Carefully, you inch him further down your throat until the tip of your nose buries into the curls framing his pubic bone. A musky smell that is uniquely Joel coats your senses, and you find yourself almost dizzy at the concept of being totally surrounded by him, filled by him. Just hours ago, you couldn't stand him, couldn't bear to be around him, and yet now you think you'd cry if you pulled away.

Joel groans above you as you swallow around his length, his fingers grappling with your hair for purchase and gripping tightly to the strands at the crown of your head. You use Joel’s distraction to begin bobbing your head, slowly pulling off him and feeling him drag against the walls of your throat until the tip of his cock rests over the flat of your tongue. Before he can complain, you sink back down and take all of him back into your mouth, and you swear that you can see Joel’s eyes roll back into his school in your periphery.

"Ah- fu-“ Joel appears entirely enraptured by the sensation of the head of his cock catching on each little ridge of your throat, and you can see him watching you work him in and out of your mouth at a lazy pace. "Look at you- Hnng- So fuckin’ good."

As you get used to the sensation of the velvety skin bumping against your throat, you begin to experiment a little more. You use the slow, steady pace to drag your tongue over the length of his fraenulum and swirl it around the head. The salty taste of the precum beading at the slit pushes you further, feeling him twitch with your ministrations.

Throbbing aches begin to settle in your knees, complaining about kneeling against the wooden floor but are drowned out by Joel's heady groans and the tight coil of arousal between your thighs. It's as though you can feel your pulse throughout your body, complaining about the lack of attention, but also invested in the way Joel appears to be losing his composure that you can't find it in yourself to protest.

“Christ-“ Joel groans out above you, suddenly taking a firm grip of your hair and pulling you up and off of him. The burn in your lungs has you gasping for air as you look up at him in concern. Had you messed up?

Opening your mouth to ask him what you’d done wrong, you find the words die in your throat when Joel pushes the tip of his weeping cockhead against your lips again. He’s staring down at you with this look in his eyes, something dark and potent swirling in his pupils. You taste him on your tongue again, and Joel pushes your head down onto him again.

He's unable to control himself, driven by the sensation of your mouth around him. The comprehension makes your mind spin with pride, and again you submit to Joel.

It’s rough, your hair wrapped around his fingers to better his grip as he forces you to still. Your eyes tear up, leaking tears down your cheeks as he begins to fuck your mouth at a brutally satisfying pace. Despite the bruising sensation of his cock hitting your throat, you’re practically dripping in your underwear when seeing the way Joel snarls at the overwhelming bliss.

Grasping desperately onto his hips to brace yourself, you cling on as Joel fucks deep into your throat. The hinges of your jaw ache at the effort of holding your mouth open for him, but Joel doesn’t let your efforts go unnoticed.

His free hand brushes his rough knuckles across your cheekbone, sliding down your face so his palm can cup your throat. Joel lets out the most wicked groan, applying pressure to your neck to feel himself slide in and out of you.

“God- You feel that?” He laughs out incredulously, his cock twitching, “You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good.” He’s mouthing off, a lot more talkative than usual. You put it down to the blood having rushed from his head to his co-

“Touch yourself,” he orders, and it’s like the oxygen he’s starving you of begins to make you think you’ve imagined it. Your eyes flutter and blink back tears, your brain working to figure out if he honestly said it. It’s only when he yanks your hair in an attempt to wordlessly urge you to do as told that your hands snap down to your waistband.

Blindly, you push your fingers beneath the waistband of your trousers, practically sobbing with relief as your fingertips clumsily brush your clit. It sparks white hot, the muscles in your thighs trembling as they brace your weight on your knees.

“Mhmmm fuck,” Joel rumbles, watching your face as he fucks into it, noting how your brows pull up at the pleasure you draw for yourself between your thighs.

It drives him insane. You can feel it. His dick twitches against your tastebuds, and you can feel his pulse in the thick vein that runs down the underside of his cock. Joel’s fingers paw at the back of your head, pushing you down onto his length and making you take him impossibly deeper. You’re choking on him, gagging around his girth. It makes your eyes stream, yet it just makes your fingertip swirl around your clit quicker, seeking that high you craved.

“Nuh-uh,” you hear Joel’s gruff voice, his palm patting you harshly on the cheek. Just enough to sting. “Focus right here, right here.”

Blinking through the teary haze and the surging arousal that grips your muscles, you only notice with a particularly sharp slap to your cheekbone that you had closed your eyes. Joel’s urging has you looking up through your wet eyelashes as he continues with his harsh thrusts.

Sinking your digits into your heat, you melt against the intrusion in your throat as the walls of your cunt flutter around your fingerprints. Severely neglected, your pussy aches and arches towards orgasm at breakneck speed. Under the weight of your body, your thighs tremble at your ministrations, and your brows pull together as if to brace against the impending crest of ecstasy.

“Oh fuck, yeah, just like that,” Joel rumbles under his breath, eyes set on your twisted expression as his hips begin to stutter. You feel his pulse on your tongue and draw clumsy, sloppy circles over your clit to match.

The groan that tears its way through Joel’s throat when he cums almost startles you, and you’re almost sure it does the same to him. His fingers are white-knuckling your hair in an attempt to brace for the surge of pleasure, his cum streaking down the back of your throat.

He watches as you desperately stroke over your throbbing clit and swallow his load without prompt. Even through your blurred vision, you can see his awed visage as he watches you take everything he gives.

Perhaps it’s the apparent appreciation he shows you when you hear him mumble a muffled ‘Jesus fuckin’ Christ’, or it’s finally rendering the argumentative Joel Miller borderline speechless. Still, you hurtle off the edge with barely any warning other than a split second of a hot white crackle up your spine.

Your body contracts inwards as you rub yourself through the crescendo, grateful Joel was with it enough to remove himself from your mouth just before. The ragged gasp you exhale sounds strangled, your orgasm blinding you in its onslaught. Your vision spots and slides out of focus, seeing double as the warmth ebbs away.

Soon, the only thing your hearing focuses on is the inhale and exhale of your lungs, sharp and clawing at the oxygen that keeps you from blacking out. Had you stopped breathing?

Joel turns away for a moment to right himself, pulling his jeans back up and buckling his belt again. The afterglow of such an earth-shattering orgasm makes everything slow, and you can’t help but smile almost dopily to yourself as you watch him ruffle his salt-and-peppered brown locks.

A sharp inhale drags you from your brain-melting comedown, settling back on your haunches and stretching out your aching legs as you watch Joel struggle for words. He looks conflicted, opening his mouth to speak and then firmly pressing his lips together in frustration.

Cotton sticks to your back thanks to the perspiration beading there, patches of the khaki shirt you wear stained with darker sweat patches. The birds are singing to fill his silence, allowing him a moment to approach his thoughts without awkwardness. You don’t push him.

“You wanna help me?” He tests the waters, mahogany eyes flicking to your face to gauge your reaction, “You know… Takin’ some time to smuggle instead’a doin’ this militia suicide task?”

It’s like he douses your sticky sweet, pleased muscles in ice-cold water in your shock. You certainly hadn’t expected him to like you, let alone ask you to work for him. It’s your turn to be speechless, the oxygen you had fought so hard to breathe catching in your throat and choking you.

“I-“ You swallow thickly, wanting to approach this carefully, “Joel, I made a promise.”

He nods slowly, eyes shifting to the wooden floor and seemingly tracing the rough surface of each plank as though it were the most exciting art installation he had ever had the time to take in. Perhaps it was. Joel didn’t seem the type to stop and smell the roses.

“I have to fulfil my promise to help find a cure,” you tread delicately, but it’s almost pointless because Joel agrees with a nod of his head, neither forceful nor resentful. He appears to take your word, wordlessly encouraging you to chase that ‘pipe dream’, as he had once called it.

“You got it,” he clears his throat roughly, clasping his hips with both hands as he exhales slowly, letting the implications of your decision sink into his bones. Certain death. There wasn’t much else out there for a Firefly, and you weren’t naive enough to think any different.

‘When you’re lost in the darkness, look for the light.’

You couldn’t turn away now. Not when these guns he’d hand-delivered made that light almost close enough to touch.

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you watch him slowly pace to the door, wood creaking beneath his weight. He leans his palm against the frame, glancing back at you momentarily.

“There’s a spot for you, y’know? If you change your mind.”

A melancholy smile plays at the corner of your lips. The likelihood that you’d survive long enough to begin sufficiently regretting your decision and change your mind was slim, but the thought that Joel was willing to set a place aside for you…

“Thank you, Joel,” you whisper, shocked to hear your voice crack with emotion with the gratitude you show him.

Doesn’t mean you like him.

“Mhm,” he nods awkwardly, thumb brushing against the circumference of the watch that had dug into your collarbone 48 hours ago. There’s a tenderness in that touch, something that your cheekbones ache to experience. Instead, you ignore the infuriating pining of your body for the man who had irritated you only moments before, watching as he steps out into the hallway and out of sight, no doubt to grab his stupidly oversized backpack and slink away into the darkness of the underground tunnels and return to his regular trade.

Your heart strains in your chest, but it doesn’t mean you like him.

It doesn’t.

END

Taglist 🏷️ : @hoeneey @howaboutcastiel @welcometostayingawake @syrma-sensei @ethanhoewke @polaroidpetal @foxilayde @bookfrog242 @wh0reforbucknasty @zakizigekwe @ahookedheroespureheart @buckys-other-punk @anxious-sappho @alexloveskili @captainrexstan @astroboots @knights-power @southcrnbelle @niallsbunny @ofmortems @hold-our-destiny @xcatnapsx @vermillionwinter @stormkobra-5 @erenbissexual @alwritey-aphrodite @maggotzombie @deadpige0n @bakerstreethound @whatthehekko @cottagebunny9 @bit-dodgy-innit @peachyproserpina

#Joel miller #Joel miller x reader #Joel x reader #Joel miller x y/n #Joel miller x you #Joel miller fanfiction #Joel miller fic #Joel miller imagine #Joel miller the last of us #joel the last of us #the last of us #TLOU #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #1k+ club

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survivalove · 7 months

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Air Temple Island, the Water Tribes & the Real Life Influences that bring them together

I was gonna screenshot a post I saw and add it to my post but I don’t feel like giving that individual attention (and the 300+ notes they got), so I just decided to make my own standalone post debunking this narrative that air temple island is this fully air nomad brothel (yes they said this) with ZERO water tribe motifs which katara is forced to live in until aang passed away.

frankly it just reminded me of how little people in this fandom actually bother to analyze the actual content, instead preferring to write entirely made up scenarios of katara being reduced to an air nomad incubator along with dozens other female acolytes (yes they also said this lmao. also them acting like both male AND female acolytes weren’t living on the whole other side of the island 😭)

when in truth, i’ve come to find a lot of elements of both water tribes as well as traditional inuit elements across air temple island:

1. the paifang

a traditionally chinese element that for some reason is exclusively found in the northern water tribe (why do they have a gate inside a throne room, you ask? ask the white people that made this show). the one on the left is actually one of two aang BUILT, at the main entrance and another at the temple entrance. this is just one example of water tribe design on the island.

2. the bagua mosaic

another structure is the bagua mosaic on the training grounds. bagua is a set of traditional chinese symbols of the cosmology, taoism. the bagua composes of 8 sets of broken or unbroken lines that represent yin and yang. where have we seen yin and yang in the original series? oh yeah, as tui and la of the water tribe! (because atla is a mess of asiatic and indigenous motifs joined together and spread out across each nation, mainly traditionally chinese elements at that.) aang building this right next to the air nomad training grounds is a symbol of the dual bending heritage their children will have.

3. gold and blue accents

now, gold and blue are the main colors of the exterior structures but is also very strong inside the air temple itself. note, the massive air nomad symbol designed fully in blue in the center and the blue banners and rugs throughout the temple. this is no doubt, for me, a visual depiction of both katara and aang’s representative cultures, but of course this is not limited to color only.

4. cloud carvings

now, this is a slight detour since clouds aren’t a significant part of either of their individual cultures (that we know) but i love the kataang monopoly they have on clouds as a couple so i’m talking about it. if you look at these images very closely what do you see? CLOUD CARVINGS!! specifically near the ceiling of the pavilion (left) and the arches and walls of the temple (right) just imagining aang painting and etching these very consistent swirls, like he’ll never be the selfish inconsiderate unromantic loser you people want him to be, but let’s get more into the southern water tribe style interior.

5. interior design

so here is a southern water tribe white lotus outpost vs the air temple island main dining room. first thing, the seat cushions and rug! while we don’t see air nomad eating quarters we do get to see enough SWT customs both in atla and lok, to know this is how they traditionally eat compared to the north (limiting myself on pics cuz mobile).

another thing is the dining table itself. both have what i believe to be built in fire pits (i couldn’t actually tell for the air temple island one cuz of the quality but if you zoom in you can see the lines go in the table plus the hanging kettle on it makes it obvious to me idk). the southern water tribe one however is clear and likely a more traditional version of what aang and katara have.

thirdly, the exposed timber on the ceiling. i actually looked it up and found this is a common element of these two inuit structures: left is an aasiaat peat house and right is an igloolik turf house. all this for me to believe not only did aang build air temple island to be a haven for the TWO of them but also that katara herself had a lot of input on the interior than people care to notice lol.

maybe instead of projecting these loser fantasies of katara being some unwilling air nomad baby making machine so you can feel better about your fantasies of katara living in a red palace with people that tried to wipe her out for a whole century, you all can go study the actual canon you were shown and the real life cultures the franchise takes from.

6. lastly, some of my own headcanons/stuff i want to see in the movie

the bathroom because I LIVE for a white marble tiled bathroom. i just know katara has to have a HUGE tub and they have one of those insane glass showers that can fit like 3 people, with cloud swirls everywhere because aang clearly got it like that

the KITCHEN, i imagine it being timber like the dining room and is probably on the other side behind the built-in shelf (get into the details like hello). in a perfect world, it would be open plan but hey

the bedroom, now we saw it in lok a bit but i wanna see it in the gaang movie too. i’m on pic limit but there’s a lot of artwork and flowers throughout the whole house which i give katara credit for because I can. like the desk, the bookshelf, that fancy looking vase thing? these two clearly have taste like don’t talk to me rn

I also didn’t show the rooms and aang’s study but there’s a lot of blue decor in those places which makes me think katara decorated the whole house, even the acolytes’ hall has blue sitting cushions and columns which i think is such a nice detail.

if you guys have any air temple island headcanons of your own please reply with some i’m feening lol

big shoutout to this user:

atla-annotated (their page is so great and filled with a lot of incredible information if you guys like this sort of stuff)

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cosmicstarlatte · 8 months

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Pumpkin Carving (Obey Me!)

The guys want to try out pumpkin carving. How does it go?🎃

»Characters: Demon Bros+Dia, brief side characters as judges »Tags: Humor/Fluff, Bulleted Fic »Notes: Part of OM! Flufftober 2023 // reblogs are always loved & appreciated :3 // halloween divider by saradika!

Lucifer: The Show Off™️

Decided to go for an intricate design for his pumpkin

He worked carefully & put his entire lucifussy in it

It was beautiful watching him work his magic he looked like he was creating a symphony

However his pumpkin looked like mush in the end

Everyone laughed. Everyone. Satan & Belphie the hardest.

Solomon: "...it looks great Lucifer. I can see the hard work you-"

"Don't patronize me."

Mammon: Macaroni Art Vibes™️

Complained saying the whole thing was lame but he got really into it

"Heh, look at the little guy!"

It actually looked really cute for his first pumpkin, it had a simple silly face!

Took photos with it only because "it's the type of thing you're suppose to do!"

The judges liked his very much & he came in 3rd place🙂

"...Ya so where's my reward!?"

Levi: Limited Edition Collector's Item 2023: Akuzon Fall Exclusive™️

Geeked out because he always wanted to carve a pumpkin! JUST LIKE ANIMES!

Of course he had a ruri chan stencil already made, he was waiting for this day

His pumpkin actually looked really good & made with love! He even added glowsticks to it!

However dun dun dun, tragedy struck!

He dropped it before he could show the judges

Poor baby cried his eyes out & you guys had to buy him his favorite milk tea

Satan: The Smashing Pumpkins™️ (please don't sue me, thanks!!!)

A little too good with a knife

Made the best intricate design out of everyone, it wowed the judges (& pissed off Lucifer)

Then he started punching & smashing it, completely obliterating it

Beel tried to eat the flying pieces that flew into the air

Delicately placed a pretty candle on top of the mush as the finishing touch

Solomon: "...You know what I like it."

He came in 2nd place!

Asmo: Bedazzled & Bright™️

"It screams 'I AM the now' you know!?"

I mean, he added jewels & even a mini light up disco ball inside

He carved his face into it & it projected his face onto a wall

some say they saw it reflect on the night sky like a hero signal

Was Luke's favorite because it looked fun & bright!

Note: his pumpkin got stolen off the HOL porch during the night.

Beel: Frankenstein Era™️

I know what you're thinking & no he didn't eat it 😐

(Everyone made sure he was well fed before doing the group activity)

His pumpkin looked the silliest, he added mini pumpkins to it & stacked them

Solomon: "What do you think would happen if we brought that thing to life?"

Barb: "Don't."

He did snack on the few pumpkin pieces that got carved out

...OK yeah he ate it all in the end but that was later!!! Leave him alone! He tried so hard!!!

Belphie: BANKSY™️

Didn't really want to participate but whatever brother Lucifer says, goes.

While everyone carved & decorated their pumpkin, he just napped on his like a pillow

Lucifer scolded him for doing nothing to his pumpkin

Belphie challenged him saying it was a work of art & up to interpretation

The judges 'ooo & ahh'd'

His pumpkin came in 1st place

LuciferGrindingHisTeeth.jpg

It's possible Lucifer chucked the pumpkin into oblivion when no one was looking

Diavolo: THE Pumpkin Face™️

"You can't beat the classics!"

Wanted to do a classic pumpkin face to keep human tradition! He appreciates human culture!

He took his time, stenciling was fun & cutting was a little rough

It got a little messy but he enjoyed it

The pumpkin ended up being a thing of nightmares but no one had the heart to tell him

(Barbatos cringing in the background)

Luke fainted at the sight. Dia naively took it as a sweet compliment

⬦You might also like: Costume Shopping Coconut︱Waffle House︱

#obey me #obey me headcanons #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me shitpost #obey me crack #obey me imagines #obey me scenarios #obey me fluff #obey me funny #obey me humor #Halloween divider by saradika !#◇˖・ﾟ— › cosmic obey me . ⊹

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ntls-24722 · 12 days

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It's about time I made new refs for these 3 c:

They're this polyamorous trio of Debu who got known in their tribe for 1. Sindeer actively throwing herself into the wilderness alone to get hunted by their equivalent of lions and 2. Frequently winning against them, and the three working to make their shells into dye, selling the dye made from their lion-equivalents, and selling things made with the dye.

Breakdown of designs and general loredump below the cut:

*rated on how easy they are to acquire, not how common they are in Debu art/fashion

So, a big thing with these 3 is that they've gotten famous for dealing with their last competent predators - the lionfleas (bottom of post), these bipedal pack-hunting bugs that take advantage of their enourmous size, and their dye isn't just desired because it's made from lions but also because the color is valuable in general, similar to how purple was prized and usually reserved for royalty because of how difficult it was to get.

The first 2 sections of colors are really common with the first one being found constantly in the rocks they're constantly quarrying to make their caves, and the second one being a really prominent color in their plants' "flowers." Yellows, greens, and cyans aren't usual plant/organic colors, so they're very hard to get as pigments, at least for Debu who need a lot more of it. Usually they can only get it through trading Zebrapeople who can create these pigments much more efficiently than Debu, as zebrapeople have domesticated bugs who create them. But these lionfleas' shells produce a surprising golden yellow hue from the vesigial wings that got incorporated into their elytras, and this dye is used in the fabric Sindeer makes as a huge moneymaker and a giant ass flex in their stoles.

Speaking of which, Valley Debu have 3 big ideals - heritage, your in-group, and history/recordkeeping. The second of which I'm about to show off rn:

*The right side is the right side of all of their stoles to show they're all a part of the same group, and each of their left sides show their role in it.

Also, the fertility symbol - I went over this in the first try of this post, but the debu fertility symbol is kinda universally known as this centermost circle within the object it's on, since it's supposed to resemble a yolk from an egg. A lot of societies have a specific sigil but it's very easily recognized from the aforementioned center circle thing. The damn thing is everywhere on account of fertility being a very big ideal for Debu - their environment is harsh, arid, and susceptible to frequent famine, and prospering crops and other Debu is something they look forward to.

Valley Debu really like grouping themselves, establishing and aligning themselves with communities, on the broader and individual scale. Yes they're very nationalistic, but they're also extremely proud of even just friendgroups, they love to show the pride and demonstrate their exclusivity within groups as niche as possible(which leads to a LOT of polarization and wars within Valley Debu). These 3 are no different and when they're out and around other Debu they wear a stole around their hump+shoulders showing off how they're the freaks who keep surviving their equivalent to lions and live to make them into dye. Usually though, around the house they're just naked :P

Also, Extra notes on some of the stuff I added as their professions!

Sindeer is a huntress but she's specifically a whistleblower one, and also carves whistles, and here's why. On Bolur, all 3 species domesticated cloes instead of something like a dog, these bird-like flying reptiles who originally were domesticated to keep bugs off of their crops, who can often be trained to respond to specific whistles that mimic the ones they use naturally. The cloes Debu domesticated act a lot like hunting hounds for Debu, they can locate and kill game. So basically, she hunts with flying dogs and makes dogwhistles.

Then there's Rinkalla, who among other things, makes cement?

On Bolur, they have have land coral, these photosynthetic things with a soft, marrow-y pith and a hard limestone outside. The homo mousike (3 sapient species) really like using it in their cement and concrete since it's really widespread, and Rinkalla... does that! The original reason was because Bolur didn't have wood, but I'm realizing that wood as a concept for plants is so incredibly simple that I don't think I can make it Not canon, even though it was a fun design constraint.

Also, last names: Valley Debu societies are generally patriarchal, but their love of recordkeeping extends past this - they prefer the mother's last name to be passed down since the mother is the most reliable parent. If someone gives birth, no matter what they say who's the father, you can never be sure. But whoever gave birth is DEFINITELY the parent, you know? Their last name also doesn't change even with marital status.

Lepit made his last name up

#dj music man #ntls-24722 #djmm #homo mousike #sindeer #lepit #rinkalla #speculative biology #speculative evolution #worldbuilding #fnaf djmm #djmm fnaf #dj music man fnaf #fnaf dj music man #digital

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privateanxieties · 9 months

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for all you give (give it back to you)

Summary: The story of how you worm your way into Frank's heart and mind, making him believe he might be worth a second chance.

Pairing: Frank Castle x Reader (she/her, no y/n)

Words: 3,300 (hurt/comfort, fluff, some canon-typical descriptions of violence, allusions to sexual intimacy, romance, trauma healing)

--------------------------

It starts slowly, which Frank can attest is uncharacteristic of all events unfolding in his life. Even more puzzling, there's no grand design — it's soft and simple, the way she carves out a spot inside his heart. He runs into her every day on his evening run, and every day he gets more unsettled by the thought of danger lurking in the shadows of alleys and bridges, just waiting to swallow her up. It's not because of any budding affection that he feels, at least not at this point. He doesn't even know her name. What he knows is how he was raised, and if anyone condemns him for being old-fashioned in his views, then so be it. He can't bear knowing she's out there past ten at night, wandering the streets of a shitty New York neighborhood in the name of cardio.

It's a progression of these thoughts that leads him to do the unthinkable and introduce himself one day, and the way he goes about it would make for good nightmare fuel, were he not already stocked up on that.

He pretends to trip and falls on his face. He's tried a version of this before with Sarah Lieberman, and back then just as well as now, he knew there was no other way. You don't just approach a woman who's outside at this time of night, especially if she wants to triple the danger for herself and wear those stupid noise-cancelling headphones. He'd expect someone his own age to have more sense than that, and sometimes he wonders if she's not just looking for trouble on purpose.

His assumption is rather quickly disproven, because nobody who speaks in the manner she does could ever be brazen enough to start a fight. No — she's all softness and kind eyes, and the gravel in his palms stops stinging the moment she pins him down with a concerned look and a soft hand around his wrist. It's a minute or two before she's got him following her to her private practice just a block away, because apparently he's a little too good at faking accidents. The nasty cut she stitches up for him with quiet precision and a rambling mouth doesn't even hurt, not when he's so focused on whatever's in her voice that he finds so familiar. She speaks in a way he can't seem to shake, like there's something there that his own mind knows intimately yet remains secretive about.

He should've said no to grabbing coffee the next day. He really should've refused, because now that he knows what her laugh sounds like, he's in real trouble. And he fights it, at first. He gives it his goddamn best. But a man like him knows when he's done for, despite all the bravado and all the willpower. He knew it the moment she looked away from him and stared into her black coffee, quietly telling him she was glad he let her help him, that he was going to say yes to the next coffee they'd grab together. And the next. And the next.

And eventually, his own rambling mouth — a novelty exclusive to her presence — reveals things it really shouldn't, like a first and last name he's supposed to have buried and forgotten, along with an identity he's sure will ruin dinner. The information falls on deaf ears. Not because she isn't paying attention; she seems to look at and see only him as he moves between the stove and the counter inside her kitchen, prepping his mother's old pasta recipe. No, Frank has a feeling she isn't just listening. Her gaze is as soft as always, yet this time there's a spark that finds him trapped, frozen in place in the middle of the kitchen while she raises one delicate eyebrow and says two baffling words: I know. Then, even more perplexing: I was waiting for you to be comfortable.

Comfortable. What does it mean for him to be comfortable? Is that what he was when he opened his mouth and revealed the truth? Or was he just compelled by attentive eyes and an openness that hurt to be in the presence of while he was still hiding his true self? He doesn't deserve her acceptance. He's not even sure he wants it. He's been past wanting things for years, just waiting for life to happen as he crawls along, fragments of what could've been fighting to quell his breath on each new day bestowed upon him. He's got nothing to want. Nothing to hope for.

So why doesn't he move when she approaches him, slowly, fearlessly, in the way one might a startled creature? Why does his chest tighten and expand all at once when she greets him tenderly, a whisper of his real name falling from her lips? Most importantly of all, why does she keep worming her way further inside his gut, and why doesn't it burn like he knows it should?

Maybe it's because she does it at a glacial pace, which a famously impatient man can't help but respect her for, at the same time that he fears the place from which that tenacity springs forth. A restoration project of his magnitude isn't just daunting — it's straight up dreadful, rotten floorboards and black mold eating away at every inch of a once proudly robust construction. It's not smooth sailing as the months dissolve away, but she perseveres. He has bad days and worse nights, and every time they bid each other farewell once the clock strikes eleven and their run ends, Frank's mind is left to stew in words and gestures that make no goddamn sense — his and hers both.

For one, he's smiling what feels like all the fucking time. What he's so happy about when his life is what it is, only God may know. What he knows is that there's no possible way to keep his lips flat and his chest empty when she tells him stories of long nights in the emergency room spent removing dubious objects from places they really shouldn't be. One too many phallic contraptions was what it took for her to finally quit hospital work and open a private practice. Frank tries and fails to keep a straight face while asking her to describe the experience. She, on the other hand, meets his challenge head-on, attempting to draw a diagram of the witty invention on the napkin resting by her coffee — thus, a weird game of pictionary unfolds between them, and they have to stuff their pockets with no less than eight scandalous napkins each before leaving a generous tip for giggling like lunatics the entire time.

Next, and maybe this one's all in his head, but she's on a frequency his stubbornness can't find fault with. She gives him space when he needs it. Sometimes they don't see each other for days, despite living less than five blocks apart, and never does she push for contact. She doesn't ask him what he does during that time away, maybe because she knows or maybe for the same reason she didn't tell him she knew who he was. Maybe she's waiting for him to confess how he still spends a good deal of his nights, despite not needing the confirmation. She lets him come to her and he does it without fail each time, though his little I'm sorry for my radio silence apology tokens don't hold a lot of variety. She likes flowers, coffee and whatever baked goods he can get his hands on, so now Frank is a regular at the neighborhood florist and a fancy bakery on 51st knows his order.

Most of all, he's baffled by how little needs to be said between them for a world of knowledge to be exchanged. She gently coaxes one or two sentences from him that leave a lot to be desired in the way of details, but then she meets his eyes as they sit next to each other on her couch. And finally, he tells her — not with words, but with his own eyes, blinking rapidly or not at all, dry as the desert one moment and the next suddenly flooding. He tells her about a little girl he had, one whose body would have only been identified by prints or dentals. He weeps over his baby boy without so much as a cry, because he too left the world a worse place for his departure. And where he used to mutter it to himself repeatedly, Frank says his wife's name only once— he says it with the same reverence as always, and he hopes she won't begrudge him the comfort he receives from another woman.

He knows Maria wouldn't blame him, but he's not so sure he isn't blaming himself. Whatever he's doing here, it needs to stop. Whatever he tells himself her soft touches mean, or those looks, or that smile — he can't be right. This isn't meant for him. He shouldn't have this. There should be no one he looks forward to seeing, no one he thinks about before the thundering fall of hammer on concrete and after the laying of his body down to rest. There shouldn't be anyone to stay his hand and extinguish his anger. Only rage should exist, because rage is the only thing he really has. He doesn't know what he is if not this, and he makes the mistake of telling her as much while she stitches up the first real wound he's gotten in a long time. Neither of them pretends not to know what the result of a knife fight looks like, and he doesn't tell her how it went down because she doesn't ask. It's a good thing, because every time he closes his eyes and sees that woman's face as she was held at knifepoint, his mind superimposes different features onto it and his blood boils over. All he saw in that moment was her. All the cops are going to see at the scene will be scattered fingers and a leaking skull.

Frank himself doesn't feel very put together as he fights sleep under her caress, a hug he didn't ask for suddenly enveloping him whole and quieting the one-track mind winding him up repeatedly. He was late for their run tonight. That could've been her. His fault, his fault, his fault. The words disappear when she finds the nape of his neck with a gentle touch, drawing him into her chest and resting her cheek atop his head when he finally relaxes. His own hands grasp at the plush edges of her exam table, mimicking her gestures almost subconsciously but not daring to reciprocate on actual flesh. Seconds pass, and then minutes.

My sister died because of me.

The words startle him like a shot went off right by his ear, when in fact they were barely whispered. Frank, however, doesn't move when frightened. He's learned this about himself: he can never twitch a muscle in any of his nightmares, can never stop what he knows is coming. He can't stall the tragedy any more than he can avoid feeling its effects.

I used to run with her. That was our thing. I got mad about something… something petty, I'm sure. And I didn't go one night. Just one time. I knew it was wrong. I knew it was dangerous. Should've told her not to go, but I didn't. Cops were at my door the next morning. She was stabbed four times. The thing is, she would've survived, if she'd had someone to help her. Someone who knows their way around first aid.

He can feel her shaking from their closeness, can infer what she's thinking by the slight change in her voice. She's all blame, that's what it is. That's what it was when she first spoke to him all those months ago, and he latched onto it without even knowing, pulled in by soft eyes that glimmered in understanding. He thought it was unending kindness that he glimpsed in there, and in part, that was still true. But there was something else that lingered, something that seemed to inform her approach with him over the better part of a year. That frequency he stupidly thought she was on didn't happen by magic, or by fate. They didn't click because of some grand plan. It was simply life in all of its unfairness, dealing out blows to whoever it found with their guard down, deserving or not.

She doesn't deserve this. Frank knows it, and his chest puffs up in defiance of the pain in her voice as she tells him about the night they met from her perspective. It was a few short weeks after her sister's death. That evening run had become a ritual of a different nature, and he realizes with some horror what it was she'd been trying to do. The headphones made sense now, not as a tool of the careless, but of a person who cared too much. Cared enough to try to invite danger inside, scope it out and lure it back from the shadows in the hopes that she might look upon it herself. Confront it herself.

She confirms as much when she tells him they still haven't found the killer.

She made herself an easy target so she could look a murderer in the eye, and with that thought, he does finally recoil. He wants to argue. Wants to refute the notion. He can't. He can't, because to take that truth away from her would be to take it away from himself. She did what she thought she had to do. The difference is, she still has all her humanity left, yet the blame can't seem to leave. It eats away at the light inside her eyes, and despite that she's not bitter. She doesn't recoil from company or people in general, and she doesn't abandon everything she knows in favor of oblivion and a corner to waste away in. It's unfair. It's not right to live with it and still have to function. It's not right to have to get up and be a good person in a world of shit. It's not right… and she does it anyway. For a man who sees only one kind of injustice, the realization is almost enough to demolish him. That's life — you can be riddled with guilt and still unflinchingly gracious.

It's just never that simple, Frank muses quietly, until it is. It's never this quiet in his mind, unless she's somewhere near.

For the first time ever, he wishes she wouldn't wait for him to move or speak. He can see it in her face, what she needs, but much like him, she won't ask for it. He wishes she knew that there's nothing she can't ask of him, but since she doesn't, he's gonna have to make that clear. And if he has to move at a glacial pace too, then so be it. He'll worm his way in just like she did, and he hopes she won't begrudge him the same tenacity she showed. By the way she leans her cheek into his palm, he doesn't think she will.

It's a little easier after that, as more months melt away, to stop questioning everything they do together and its meaning. When they laugh together, it doesn't feel foreign or undeserved. When he has bad days, he doesn't hide any place beyond her apartment, doesn't stray much farther than her sheets and doesn't utter many words besides praise for how she moves and feels around him. When she has bad days, which he's come to learn the look of, he unearths the meaning of devotion to something other than rage. He's not known desperation like this for longer than he can remember, because it takes a while to figure out what she needs and how to help. He thought he could see it clearly, but all he'd really been looking at was another one of those injustices. Frank turned his grief into anger. She's unfairly burying hers inside and watching it lay waste with a careful eye, never cowardly enough to admit to what she really wants. She's so brave, this woman. His.

He almost can't believe he's thinking it. Frank's role as protector ended with the last breath his family took. He didn't think it could ever be born again, but with the first tears to fall from her eyes, a brief moment sees him meeting a different type of rage. It scalds, but doesn't leave him empty. That's how it used to feel when he was all consumed with it just a few years ago. Instead, it's just a means to an end now. So he starts going out again, looking for the shadows that haunt her, because the only thing that will help her is the thing only he can provide. Kisses help. Hushed promises soothe. True healing, and he knows this in his bones, can only come after an end, and that's what she never got. She graciously gifted him a fledgling second life, but he won't start living it until she meets him halfway.

You did it for me. Let me do it for you.

He doesn't try to lie to her — it doesn't even occur to him. He tells her the truth and his plan in full as she sits on the couch and he paces her living room restlessly, now and then chancing a look at her. At first, there's silence. It stretches unbearably, and when she speaks, the tide breaks.

I don't know what hurts more. The fact that she's gone, or that it's my fault.

Hey—

No matter what, that won't change. I've thought about it. Killing the man who did it won't make it any less my fault or her any less dead. Frank, I—

Sweetheart—

It's you. You're… the only part of this equation I didn't see coming. You're the only thing that makes a difference. When I have bad days, I don't think about the man I want to see dead. I think about the one that makes me feel alive.

She says things like this sometimes — things that yank his heart straight from his chest and stomp on it until it comes apart at the seams. He's practically vibrating with it, this need to say something in return, but nothing rises to the magnitude of her confession. At least, nothing that he thinks he's earned the right to say to another person again. But his girl… She knows. He can see it in her eyes that she knows, because he's on her knees in front of her, holding her face in both his hands. Frank has done so much with them throughout his life. He's taken more than he's given. He's hurt more than he's comforted, ripped apart more than he's put together. What he now uses them for is as sacred as a thing can be, because if he won't speak it with his lips, he'll press it into her skin with his fingers. If the words won't form in his mouth, he'll use it to adorn her body with the reverence of a man who has found and lost and found again.

In the end, as his hands rewire themselves for holding and forget all else, he stops questioning it entirely. Whether by accident or by design, what's been given to them both is not something to make sense of. It's something to cherish, a devotion to each other that consumes not, but instead nurtures. He knows now the answer to that most important question: if she wormed his way inside his heart and the path she trailed doesn't burn, it's because she belonged there all along.

-fin-

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this piece as much as I fell in love with it in just one afternoon. Please let me know what you thought of it, and if you liked it, kindly allow others to reach it through a reblog or comment. Thank you for reading.

#frank castle x reader #frank castle x you #frank castle imagine #frank castle #the punisher x reader #frank castle smut #frank castle fanfic

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evolutionsvoid · 2 months

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I think it is safe to say that swamps, to most people, are one of the "spookiest" ecosystems out there. You very rarely hear any happy tales set in one, and any legends attached to them tend to be dark and grim. It's a place that outsiders never want to visit, and if you tried inviting them to a swamp, they would instantly assume the worst. Don't you know what lives in those things?! Ghosts, eerie lights, shapeless mud creatures, foul witches, alluring voices spoken from slimy throats, the clawing rotting arms of the drowned! The stories and monstrosities are endless! Which I find kind of funny for a few reasons. One is that swamps are like any other biome, but gets a bad reputation because it is slightly soggier and the vegetation doesn't look as pretty. The other reason I find this all amusing is because swamps do hold dangers and beasts, yet the scary stories don't bother with them! You have real living breathing creatures that could star in many a cautionary tale, but instead we shove them aside to make up our own monsters! It's almost insulting! The wompogo work hard to be stealthy haunting predators of the cypress swamps, only to be ignored in favor of imaginary spirits and seductive leech women! If you want some real scary encounters in the swamps, then talk to folk who live in them. They will tell you of places in the muck and weeds where few dare travel. Is it because of strange disappearances? Odd lights and whispering voices? No, it is because of the hulking mud-covered beasts who are capable of biting a canoe in half.

Is this dangerous brute I speak of some kind of swamp dragon, or magic-born monstrosity weaved from mud, reeds and corpses? No, it's a mammal, but one that is big and very irritable. The creature I am talking about is the hippalus, a relative of the hippopotamus who lives exclusively in swamps and marshes. They like it wet and muddy, where they are surrounding by soggy vegetation and soft earth. Though they share their love of water with their hippo cousins, one can clearly see that there are some physical differences between the two. One that really stands out is a long flattened tail, often announcing its presence with a loud slap against the water and muck. Then there is the massive hump on their back, which is pure muscle meant to help power its large head. The hippalus has the same impressive maw as other hippos, but its teeth jut out in different ways. Its lower incisors emerge straight out of the jaw, while a curved set of tusks are brandished like deadly blades. There is a pair of hardened growths upon their snout, which some like to call "horns" (even though they are very much not). Their head also has a bowed part on the upper jaw, almost like a horse saddle. Take all this, and then consider their sheer size! A height of over seven feet at the hump, and a length of eighteen to twenty! There is no denying who the powerhouse of the swamp is!

The hippalus are absolute behemoths, and their power is openly flaunted. While other creatures of the swamp may swim or slither through the water and muck, the hippalus plows through anything in its path. When it comes to identifying their tracks, you aren't looking for footprints, but rather deep ruts carving straight through the whole ecosystem. Their sheer size and weight is part of the reason, because you can't exactly walk on top of mud when you weigh over four thousand pounds. So they sink in deep and simply tear their way through the swampy gunk in front of them. Their strangely shaped head and powerful muscles is what comes into play here! Their whole skull is like an organic shovel and plow, designed for cutting through the mud and flinging it away with a whip of their neck. Their lower teeth help dig through and move earth, while their scooped skull is able to collect a whole load of mud and reeds and send it all flying! The muscular flat tail behind them also aids in propelling them forward, undulating as their powerful legs push them forwards. It should be mentioned that while it looks like hippalus swim through the swamps, they can't actually swim. They don't float, they sink. What you see is instead them walking or "galloping" underwater, only sticking their snouts out to breathe from time to time. What helps with the illusion of them floating or swimming is the fact that they are so big, that they tend to stick out of the water without any real effort. They just stand there in the swampy gunk, and it looks like they are floating with ease.

All of these powerful adaptations, however, are not just for traveling! As any local would know, hippalus are famed for their construction work (and a lot of destruction work as well). This species is a solitary one, not living in herds or "bloats" like their cousins. A single hippalus will claim a large chunk of territory and make sure no one ever forgets it. Their powerful jaws and scooping heads tear up mud and vegetation, dropping dead trees and ripping sunken stumps from the murky bottom. Tangles of torn weeds and branches are left near the edges of their territory and given a musky coating of urine and feces to let people know who lives here. In the heart of their realm is their home, a lair built from mud, vegetation and woody parts, like the world's biggest beaver lodge. This construction is possible with the help of their strong jaws and head to carry materials, while their flattened tail pats it all into place. The lodges of these beasts are half sunken, and less like a roomy mud cave and more like a sopping wet burrow for them to park their massive bodies. Part of the support for these dwellings is their own bodies, wedging themselves inside and holding it all upon their backs. These lairs are important for when they have young, as it is where their babies hide during their vulnerable stages. If their mother has to leave them behind to forage or defend her territory, they will remain hidden in this den. When they venture outside to learn the ropes, she will be close by to make sure no predators get any funny ideas. Young hippalus can indeed be on the menu for the likes of wompogo or swamp basilisks, but a full grown adult is avoided by all. I don't think you need me to explain why. Lets just say that a healthy adult hippalus is a creature that does what it wants wherever it wants, and woe be to any who try to say different.

As for diet, hippalus are herbivores, dining upon the various water-logged plants found in the swamp. Like many plant eaters, they won't say no to a free meal if they find a random carcass. While others may nibble upon bones or pick at scraps, a hippalus will take the body in a single bite, crushing it to a bloody, ruined pulp. When it comes to plants, their horned nose is good for digging up ones buried in the muck, and their teeth scrap away at bark and hardened exteriors. When they aren't eating or building, they are resting, as such a huge body uses a lot of energy to work. Best to spend some hours lazing about and grazing upon the weeds.

I mentioned before that locals steer clear of areas where hippalus are active, and hopefully now you see why! It should be said that this species has a temper and are quite territorial. One can be seen sleeping in the muck without a worry in the world, but a split second later they are barreling towards you with jaws agape. Another thing to be said is that they are faster than they look! Yes, they are hulking and huge while stuck in deep mud, but when they want to move THEY MOVE. You would think a mudslide is headed your way, with their massive weight charging through the muck and sending gunk flying everywhere. With this speed and their sheer power, hippalus tend to be avoided at all costs. Locals don't even try hunting them, because it is way too dangerous. What weapons they carry when entering hippalus territory is meant to slow the beasts down, not kill them. Their thick muscles make it difficult to do any real damage, thus resulting in most attacks being annoying rather than dangerous to them. In areas where civilization and hippalus territory overlap, you will find specimens with various weapons poking out of their hide. These are reminders of run ins they had with people, and trophies from failed hunts. "But wait, Chlora" you may ask. "I thought you said people don't hunt them?" That is correct, I said locals don't hunt them, as it is simply not worth it. So if the natives of the region don't do it, then there can only be one other answer of who! You all know it, so say it with me: Rich Idiots With Dumb Hobbies!

Yes indeed, the wealthy nobility love showing off by killing large dangerous beasts and sticking them in their parlors. With their sheer size and power, any person with too much money and a poor definition of confidence gets the idea that they would make a fetching trophy. They take a whole hunting party out to try and down one of these behemoths, so that their head may be hung above the fireplace. Needless to say, plenty of people get killed trying to do this, and sadly the rich idiot isn't always the one. Turns out when you are the first to flee at the sight of danger and you use your guides like meat shields, you tend to survive. Then they go home and craft fanciful stories about their bravery and perilous escape, while the poor folk they hired for chump change to carry their bags are left dead in the mud. I swear, can't these people find better hobbies? Why do you have to kill things for showmanship and bragging points? Bird watching lets you see the wildlife without any harm, and it is just as rewarding! And if you have to just kill something for a trophy, why not bug collecting? There are plenty of those and it isn't nearly as dangerous! But then again, I am sure dumb nobles would find a way to make that hobby absolutely destructive. Only choose to pin endangered species or something. I don't think there is a winning option here. Like so much of their ill gotten gains, they thrive on misery! Aaaaaand this part is getting cut! I already know it, so don't bother writing it, Eucella!

Chlora Myron

Dryad Natural Historian

---------------------

"Hippalus"

#monster #creature #hippo #hippopotamus #swamp monster #art #drawing

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makoodles · 10 months

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I've read your fics multipul times! So much so that I just... forgot to follow you (So sorry!!) But your stuff with Tonowari and Ronal is what really opened my eyes to them. did NOT know what I was missing. ngl you're turning to to Jake now too But I'd love to hear your general na'vi headcanons. I've seen you mention things like courting/courtship, sent marking, differerent instincts, stuff like that and I'd love to hear as much as you're willing to give, like anything you wanna talk about inside and outside this ask. All of it. please. If you don't mind. That stuff is like my bread and butter.

(and sorry for my spelling mistakes! I'm just not good at spelling)

this made me laugh lmao i imagine there's a lot of people who read my stuff but don't follow me, so don't worry!!

i don't know if i have a lot of general courting headcanons, but here's some of them!

courting is typically marked by a gift exchange; traditionally, a piece of jewelry. this jewelry is usually designed exclusively by the na'vi seeking a mate, but it is common for family and friends to contribute to its construction by donating beads, feathers, textiles etc. towards it. this symbolises the acceptance and support of the future bond by the future in laws

the beginning of courtship periods are often celebrated, but courting can actually take quite a long time. the na'vi mate for life, after all, and making tsaheylu with their intended mate is a sacred act, so they don't believe in rushing it. (this is what makes jake and neytiri's sudden mating so scandalous)

throughout the courtship period, gifts and acts are service are exchanged in order to prove their worth as a mate. hunters/warriors will gift their intended mates with their kills to prove they can provide for them. carved wooden figures and tools are common too, as well as textiles and clothes woven by hand.

scent is big for the na'vi! my favourite headcanon is that the na'vi are like cats, and that they have scent glands in their noses, cheeks, foreheads, and chins! so you'll see a lot of nuzzling their faces into their mate's face, neck, shoulders, etc. in order to coat them in their scent. it's a form of claiming, and it's big among courting couples who haven't yet made their mating official!

(i like to think that's what neytiri's doing below)

#asks #avatar headcanons #okay that's all i've got for now lol but i'm sure more will come to me #avatar 2009 #na'vi

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indignantlemur · 4 months

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Larger image (STRONGLY recommended): HERE The resolution on this is painful, so I'm including detail shots below the cut.

This meeting room was furnished many centuries ago by a renowned artisan who could carve stone and shells in stunning detail, and could shape and colour glass in a way that was never seen before and has never been replicated since. He took the secrets of his techniques to the grave, dying at an unexpectedly young age in a duel with a public safety official over the seizure of a rare and extremely toxic pigment imported from a Clan to the far south. His name was Kelenthor, and he was the only Clanless to ever attain such a high level of renown and fortune purely on his artistic talent. He lived during what would eventually be called the Post-Unification Andorian Renaissance. While this artisan was alive, he had a somewhat adversarial relationship with various officials and was known to use his art as a medium to mock and criticize his social betters. He was beloved by the general populace for exclusively taking on students from the lower social classes - almost as much as he was resented by the upper classes for his habit of hiding subversive messages in his commissioned works. Regardless of where one stood with Kelenthor, none could deny his talents. If you wanted the best of the best, Kelenthor was the one to commission. As such, he was eventually commissioned to design and create furnishings for a number of rooms and even entire buildings which are now used exclusively by government officials today or otherwise preserved as precious cultural works.

This particular room is widely regarded as his best work: the walls are conspicuously and almost insultingly plain, barely carved at all. At the centre of the room lies a heavy and imposing table of solid marbled stone - also barely ornamented, save some bevelling along the edges. The surface was treated with a substance which renders the stone almost entirely impervious to damage. No matter how one might rain blows upon it, barely a scratch remains to remember them by - much like many of the politicians who have sat at this table since its creation, which many believe was the subversive message behind the thing in the first place.

The focal points are the throne-like seats arrayed around the blunt instrument of a marble table, intricately carved and inlaid with precious shell and glasswork, iridescent and shining under even the faintest rays of light. Each scatters prisms randomly around the room, illuminating the shadows and often causing quite a few headaches when meetings stretch too long. More importantly, every single one of them was deliberately carved to be as uncomfortable as possible. No one in a position of power, Kelenthor once said, should be comfortable there.

First up, courting and wedding bands! Shral and Dagmar are only courting, so they have simple rings with minimal ornamentation, with Dagmar's being modified to fit as a cuff earring.

Thoris is married, so he has two bands on each antennae. Quite often marriage bands are more decorative and ostentatious than his, but Thoris isn't one for baubles and it's bad enough he has to wear these ridiculous robes. Frankly, if he could get away with just wearing his old Guardsman uniform to these meetings, he'd vastly prefer to. As such, his wedding bands are almost incongruously plain for his rank and status.

Next up, the lady and gentleman in the foreground! These two are Ministers, and high-ranking Andorians besides, so they ornament themselves rather loudly in comparison to our main cast's more sedate preferences. The lady on the left is Minister Zaathi, who we will be meeting in-fic very soon, and she's very fond of gemstones and carved hair beads - and not afraid of losing any, if she sheer number she's wearing are any indications. It's a weighted fashion statement, if nothing else, from a woman whose home province is small and relatively modest otherwise.

By comparison, Minister Bhael - on the right - is much more conservative in his ornamentation, but his robes are heavily embroidered and that is quite a lot of Andorian silk to be toting around. A closer look will reveal that his sleeves are embroidered with an ocean wave pattern, which is particularly interesting given the relationship Andorians have with the sea. Is it some kind of political statement, or just an odd choice of attire?

If those two are making statements with their sartorial choices, then Thoris has them all beat for layered meanings.

The silvery outer robes of office are closer to a cloak than a robe, with an inner layer that is belted around the waist and a loose outer layer that is joined to the inner layer at the shoulders and seams along the upper arms. This permits the maximum range of movement for the wearer. Being made of Andorian silk, which is several times stronger than Terran silk, it is an excellent means of protection against slashing and stabbing weapons. Despite their merits, however, Thoris loathes them. They're lightweight, sure, but they're still long and ostentatious and entirely too liable to get caught on something in a real fight. Sadly, they're also mandatory, or he'd have binned them ages ago.

The vibrant blue mid-layer is a heavy material, durable Andorian silk woven through with tiny filaments of something very similar to a carbon fibre composite, providing a measure of protection against many forms of projectiles, though less so against phase weapons. The innermost tunic is more obviously armoured than the other two layers, with panels mimicking an extensive chitin pattern along the length of the torso and forearms. The sleeves in particular draw attention to a very vibrant yellow flash - much like the chitin of the predatory veeg he is known for hunting in the past.

Next we come to Shral, who is obscured partially by shadow at Ambassador Thoris' right hand - and ready to draw his ushaan-tor at a moment's notice.

This is not standard armour for an Andorian, but rather something one might wear while sparring or training in their personal time. The armour takes the form of layered, almost beetle-shell like layers, layered over a long, cowl-necked tunic. The cowl is an unusual choice for sparring attire, as it provides a potential hand-hold for an opponent - only a very arrogant or a very skilled duelist would wear such a thing while sparring.

In contrast, Dagmar stands in the light on Thoris' left. Her working attire is lightly embroidered, and features large, pearly buttons - but otherwise she's almost conspicuously plainly dressed. Hyper aware of how shockingly pink she is in comparison to everyone else in the room, Dagmar wears muted and neutral colours to try to off-set how glaringly alien she is - which, ironically, only serves to highlight her differences even further.

@the-lady-general @starrynightgardens @emilie786 @horta-in-charge @emochook @velvet-luvie @creature-of-the-stars @unknownfacelessfanfictions @auroramagpie

#star trek #emigre by indignantlemur #andorian #andorians #digital art #headcanon #An Eventful Meeting by IndignantLemur #ambassador thoris #Anlenthoris th'Kor #Vilashral of Clan Hrisvalar #Shral #Dagmar Gunnarssen #Kelenthor the Clanless

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southwest-pottery-bracket · 3 months

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Preliminaries: War of the Utility Wares!

Most pottery you find in archaeological sites isn't painted. Most pottery is unslipped, undecorated utility ware - with the assumption that "utility" typically here means "cooking over a fire." Sometimes grain storage. Usually cooking, though.

It doesn't mean they can't be beautiful in their own right. And one of my friends is working on a dissertation which among other things argues that "surface treatments" like incising and corrugation should be considered "decoration" too, when usually in archaeology "decorated" means "painted." There were lots and lots and lots of types of utility wares. Some were plain. Some were gorgeous.

So this is a Preliminary Round - four different styles traditionally called utility ware will go up against each other... only two will move on to represent utility wares in the final bracket.

Vote for your favorite: More information about each is under the cut:

Corrugated

Mesa Verde Corrugated jars. Southern Colorado, AD 1100-1300.

There are SO many different types of corrugated pottery; if I listed them all we'd be here all day. However, they all have commonalities: They were primarily (though not exclusively) made in the Mogollon cultural region, primarily (though not exclusively) plain and unpainted, and primarily (though not exclusively) used for cooking.

In this region, potters don't use pottery wheels. Pots are hand-built, typically from coil-building: using many thin coils to build up the shape of the pot. For most pots, those coils are scraped smooth as they're still wet. But for corrugated pots, those coils are only scraped smooth on the inside. The outside coils are instead pressed using a tool or the potter's thumb to make a patterned, scaled, or woven texture. Corrugation, due to its association with cooking pots, is not typically considered "decoration" by archaeologists, but it creates beautiful and captivating patterns.

Micaceous

Micaceous Bowl with Etched Flowers. Made by Virginia Romero (Taos Pueblo, 1896-1998).

In northern New Mexico, there are golden-red clays with a lot of sparkly mica in them. The mica self-tempers the clay, and creates a lovely shimmering effect when you see the pots in person. There's evidence of polished micaceous pottery being made as early as the 1300s, but it really took off as a popular type of cooking ware in the 1500s-1600s. In this time, it was made primarily by norther Pueblos like Taos, Picuris, and Nambe, but was enthusiastically adopted by the Jicarilla Apache as well, who have strong social ties to those northern Pueblos. Cimarron Micaceous, the handled jar seen above the cut, is a 1600s Apache micaceous pottery style.

Micaceous pottery is still extremely popular with Native potters today. Some of it is as an art form, with many different experiments in structure and style, but some people still swear by cooking in these micaceous clay pots - beans just taste better when cooked in clay instead of metal!

Incised

Taos Incised jar sherd. Northern New Mexico, AD 1050-1300.

Incised ware is SO underappreciated. However I am also biased because for the past three or four summers I have worked on an archaeology project in the Taos area and we find so much of it.

Incised designs are carved into the wet clay. Usually, these are not painted. Incised pottery is very common on the Great Plains, but less so in the Southwest. The Northern Pueblos like Taos and Picuris, however, has long-standing interactions with Plains groups, trading corn and buffalo hides, holding market days together, Picuris and Taos people fleeing the Spanish invasion to live in Kansas with their Apache allies. This is also visible in the sharing of pottery styles in the northern Pueblos, where incised ware is common. Parallel lines that mimic corrugation, chevrons, and herringbone patterns are common.

Plain Smudged

Reserve Plain Smudged, Mogollon Highlands, AD 600-1250.

As I described in my pottery jargon post, "smudging" is a method of getting that shiny black interior during the firing stage. During firing, different levels of oxygen will cause the minerals in the clay to turn different colors. An oxidized environment (high oxygen) turns iron-rich clays red; a recducing atmosphere (restricted oxygen) plus an infusion of carbon turns them black. To smudge a pot, the inside is polished, and then in the firing pit is covered with ash and charcoal. This puts a lot of carbon on the surface, and blocks the oxygen from reaching it. When the pot comes out of the fire, the part that was covered in charcoal will be shiny black. This was another pottery style particularly popular in Mogollon areas.

#pottery #archaeology #pottery poll #Here We Go!

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makingqueerhistory · 8 months

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From 1938-1939, San Domino in Italy was designated an internal exile exclusively for queer people. What began as an attempt to exclude any men who didn’t fit the fascistic ideal of perfect masculinity, ended as a glimpse of the queer community in an impossible time. Equally a prison and a carved-out space where queer people connected in hostile circumstances, San Domino proves the resilience of the queer community.

#queer history #queer #lgbt #lgbt history #gay history #making queer history

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roodles03 · 7 months

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Hunter's Room (Fan Design)

It is about time I finally did this, now I can make so many drawing ideas come true with a room for Hunter designed. Also, for those who read my "Timeskip Watching and Dreaming AU" series of fanfics on A03, this is what Hunter's room looks like. This room is a room in Darius' house, so yippie Dadrius.

Alright, I know the doors can be confusing to let me break this down.

The door on the south wall with the small cuckoo clock like doors is the door to exit the room. I put cuckoo doors on the door because it's for Waffles.

The door that's on the wall that's jetting out is the door to the walk-in closet

And the the door on the west wall is the door to Hunter's private bathroom.

I originally wanted to do the entire Deamonne household at once, but, no way that would take forever. Maybe I'll do parts of it in the future but for right now, NO. If I did, I'd probably do Darius' room next and the living room after that.

This took such a long time to design, and it was my first time ever designing a background completely on my own. I needed to take off the training wheels and design my own background for once, and for my first attempt, I think I did a decent job.

The only thing that I couldn't add is a ceiling fan, but that was only because of the angles I had. I'm sure I could've if I had a different angle. Im going to have to design that separately.

This took since October 20th to finish, I probably could've got it done faster, but uni kept me busy and such. Either way, now that I've finished this, I can't wait to make drawings with this room. Yay!

Alright so: Tumblr exclusive content from here on out since insta has a stupid character limit, and their cropping system sucks

I'm gonna go on an infodump to why I decided to put almost everything here in Hunter's room.

North Wall:

Bed: I decided to make the headboard and footboard a cherry colored wood because Hunter would definitely like cherry wood because it's reddish. Referencing Willow's headboard that has a flower, I changed that into a bird for Hunter. I gave him a blue blanket in reference to Waffles. I headcannon that Hunter LOVES plushies, so I gave him some plushies I'd think he'd like. He'd definitely like squishmallows, so I gave him a blue-jay, cardinal, and wolf squishmellow. I also gave him a small wolf plush, as well as a small parrot plush and a peacock plush. The Sprig plushie is special, as it's not the same one as he had in the castle. It's a life-sized one Willow won him at a carnvial. (Reference to one of my fics).

Nightable: Nothing much to say here outside of the fact that I felt like Hunter would need one. I gave him a crystal ball because I felt like he'd like one.

Desk: This is where Hunter does work, from designing clothes to sew to studying for school. He has a log of regluar wood to practice carving on. (This room is set when Hunter is still a kid early during the WAD timeskip) He also has a punch a pencils, a desk lamp, and some books on there.

Corkboard: Hunter keeps notes for his school studies, and personal projects here. Sometimes he doodles things and puts them up there, such as the wolf and birds doodles.

Wall: Hunter would 100% be that person to have a trillion posters. I gave him a Flyer Derby poster, and a hummingbird poster. The Ruler's Reach poster is actually signed by King himself. Here's also a wolf calender, since I'd figured he'd like that, and a cuckoo clock that I headcannon Hunter and Dell carved together.

Bookshelf: On the bottom shelf, Hunter keeps a bunch of random books he likes.

On the second shelf, he has a photo of Flapjack, textbooks for his abominations and potions classes, and a photo of Willow

On the third shelf, he has textbooks for his illusions, construction, wild magic, plants, beastkeeping, and runes classes.

On the forth shelf, he has a photo of Darius, textbooks for his bard, oracle, and healing classes, and a photo of Waffles.

On the top shelf, he has his two favorite books of all time, Cosmic Frontier and Ruler's Reach, specially displayed with them propped up.

Jesus, that was by far the longest description we'll have.

East Wall:

Window: Hunter has a basic window with blue curtains. I originally wanted to make the curtains space themed for Cosmic Frontier, but then realized that would be a pain to draw over and over again, so I kept it blue. Maybe I can make Hunter's shower curtain space themed instead.

Other then that, there is nothing new on this wall that I'd like to cover. (I'd rather cover things that appear on other walls in their sections)

South Wall:

Wall: Hunter has two more posters on this wall. A Cosmic Frontier Poster. This is a reference in itself, where in Star Trek, the equivalent of O'Bailey has an asian wife that is a Bontonist, and that is sorta a parrel to Huntlow. So I decided to make a headcannon design for both O'Bailey, and the Bontonist I decided to rename to Aiko. So boom. Huntlow reference. The other poster is simply a wolf poster.

Box: This is pretty self explanatory. Its a box with sewing supplies.

Mannequin: Since Hunter sews, I'd imagine he'd like to have a mannequin to help make the clothing design process easier.

Table: This is the same sewing Machine from Thanks to Them, as Camila gave it to Hunter as a gift.

West Wall:

Outside of the door of the bathroom, there is nothing new on the west wall that I haven't already covered.

Bonus:

Here is the original blueprint for the entire Deamonne household. I could go from here and design every last aspect of the house, but that would take ages. I'd definitely like to, but its just so much work. Like I said, the next two rooms I'd design are Darius' room and the living room. Plus, Hunter's room was by definition going to he the hardest, since he has the most stuff and therefore detail in his room.

For when I wanted to focus solely on Hunter's room, I referenced the upstairs blueprint snd made a more detailed blueprint just for his room. As you can see, A LOT ended up changing from this to the final version.

#the owl house #the owl house fanart #the owl house hunter #hunter the owl house #hunter toh #toh hunter #hunter deamonne #hunter park #hunter noceda #dadrius #darius deamonne #Deamonne Household #Darius toh #toh darius #the owl house darius #darius the owl house #toh fanart

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summitclan-chronicles · 6 months

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SUMMITCLAN CHRONICLES (SCC) is an 18+ roleplay inspired by xenofiction like Warrior Cats, Watership Down, Ratha's Creature, Zorba and Lucky, and the New York State Adirondacks.

Life is hard in the mountains. Creatures fight for every mouthful - for every birth is a death.

But does it have to be cruel forever, always? The cats of Summitclan came together not for battle but for the color of the leaves, the shine of the moon, the hush of fallen snow; together their ancestors brought forth a world where cats have carved a gentle soul into the slope of the harsh mountains. Where food is hidden away to feed the sick when the cold times come; where there are plants that quicken the healing of splintered bones; where one's newborns are always safe and loved. A kitten of Summitclan is a kitten that was told through act and word how wanted they were - and an elder never passes alone.

Life was hard in the mountains. So they changed how life was lived.

Could Summitclan be the perfect refuge, high on those wooded mountain peaks, in the eye of those ancestors who cared so deeply?

We offer you..

• A calm, loving, adult Warrior Cats community that assumes the best in you & others.

• A unique single-character model where every member has one cat with whom they experience Summitclan - in birth, through life, and in death.

• Exclusive lore and worldbuilding that must be taught to new generations & incomers.

• A system of real-time years and seasons with extended days and nights for extra roleplay time, with weather reflecting the Adirondacks themselves.

• A slow-burn style experience where characters are expanded upon as if they were living beings, evolving as they experience, conflict, learn, reflect and adapt.

• A series of unique festivals year-round to bring the community and clan together as a unit, each themed after a season and its associated needs.

• Resources and prompts members can access to give them ideas for interactions & relationships during slow periods or writer's blockages.

• Staff with high expectations and explicit instructions on how to settle disagreements and keep members lighthearted.

• A support system for less experienced roleplayers to learn from more experienced members.

• A stable design made to last beyond any single member, easily passed down so that it does not abruptly die.

And before you join, I want to inform you ...

This roleplay features feral cats living wild in the Adirondack Mountain Range. Everyday activities including hunting small to medium animals, possibly fending off small to large threats, cats being born + possibly not surviving long after, and cats recieving varying injuries, contracting varying sicknesses, or even losing their lives in tragic ways. All things will be handled with grace, and the roleplay is designed to be balanced rather than leaning toward good or bad events, but you will not be able to avoid these themes upon joining.

Who Are You Looking For?

We are looking for people that are creative, gentle, patient, open-minded, friendly and considerate. If you're someone who indulges in lightheartedness just as often as you do the dark side, and can see the gentle edge in everything, this might be for you...

Our Application:

Grand Opening applications have closed! This area will soon have a link to an app for kittens & loners.

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iibonniee · 7 months

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What's My Name?

Pairing: Yoo Kihyun x Reader

Genre: Smut, Non!Idol AU

Warnings: Warnings: non-idol!kihyun, sugar daddy!kihyun, unprotected sex, age kink, daddy kink, oral (male receiving), cock worship, bondage, spanking, semi-masterbation

Rating: R

Word Count: 5.5k

Summary: Their agreement was something Kihyun had always made sure was followed to the very T. After all, their agreement was signed in ink.

Masterlist | Tags: @beautifulworldandmore @kyunnielove @iamkyunie @doveslittlekpoparchive @dessianna1

Yoo Kihyun was the type of man who did things by the book and followed everything to the letter. He thrived on a well-structured and methodically planned routine. His approach helped him maintain balance in his otherwise chaotic lifestyle, granting him a semblance of serenity amidst the whirlwind of his everyday tasks.

Given his detailed nature, he had the habit of deliberating about every single detail before making decisions. While some might rush in, he took the time to consider every angle, every potential outcome, and every possible risk. This meant he was often slower to act, but his actions were thoughtful and precise.

However, his strict observation of rules and regulations had its disadvantages. While it lent him discipline and structure, it often kept him from exploring uncharted territories, testing innovative solutions to problems, or unleashing his creativity. The fear of stepping outside his comfort zone limited his experiences and sometimes resulted in missed opportunities.

Regardless, Kihyun maintained his orderly existence, content with its safety and predictability. He was the epitome of diligence and consistency—qualities that, for better or worse, came to define his life and career.

And with Kihyun being so by the book and the letter, it also meant that he followed their agreement to the signature. He followed each rule as if it were the law. But she saw the contract as similar to wonder, the lines resembling more suggestive guidelines rather than stipulations carved in stone. Her spirit was wild, seductively erratic, and unpredictable, which was a sweet temptation that she found hard to resist. She often strayed in this spot of their strange relationship, toeing the lines of their carefully designed accord.

Townhouse dinners turned into late-night city escapades. High-profile parties morphed into impromptu starlit picnics. She was the mistress of sly evasion, transgressing the rules in ways that gave her an intoxicated thrill.

Every transgression, however, did not go unnoticed or unpunished.

Kihyun was not oblivious to her playful disregard for their agreement. His commitment to the harshness of the contract was final, starkly contrasting her rebellious behavior. And his response was always swift. He would always ensure that there was no such thing as going behind his back for an enjoyable time out with friends. The friends he strictly disapproved of and made sure were a top rule to not be broken.

Their defined rules were there for a reason, he would tell her. Each rule broken correlated to a conversation—firm yet understanding—trying to drive her back within the lines she’d willingly agreed to. The repercussions for her disobedience were unyielding, yet not harsh unless he wanted them to be; they served as a reminder of their initially agreed-upon terms. The extravagant gifts would be limited, and the exclusive invites would become less frequent, cutting back on the luxuries she held dear. And, of course, if she pushed his buttons just enough, he’d make sure the punishments were much harsher.

Each rule broken meant double the punishment. The punishment only became harsher as one got closer to the top. Kihyun wasn’t sure why she enjoyed pushing his buttons so much. He gave her everything she wanted in favor of loyalty and good dick. So why exactly did she feel the need to push and push?

The house was unnervingly quiet as she returned home late from yet another unapproved escapade. Stepping through the doorway, a sense of unease enveloped her. The house was hushed, a stillness echoing through the lavishly furnished rooms, only disturbed by the ominous ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.

As she traveled deeper into their joint space, an isolated figure sat in wait in the dimly lit bedroom. Kihyun was a wraith of discipline, his silhouette imposing against the soft glow of the moonlight filtering in. His usually friendly gaze was replaced with a stern disapproval that filled her with a heady blend of remorse and exhilarating anticipation.

He rose from his chair that sat in the corner, moving with a rigid grace, the tension in the room mounting with each calculated step. He didn’t need to speak for her to know she had broken not one, not two, but three rules in their agreement. Three was the magic number that triggered more severe consequences.

“Three rules,” he said, his voice like ice. His disappointment hung in the air, heavy and tangible, yet there was an underlying concern that she couldn’t miss. The loyalty and affection he held for her were strained but not broken. “Three rules you broke tonight, Y/N? Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

Though sharp and methodical, his words were filled with a weight that made her reconsider her actions. Nonetheless, she held her ground, ready to face the consequences of her boldness. And though each punishment was harsher than the last, she wouldn’t change the person she was, not for all the riches Kihyun showered her with.

She realized she lived for thrill even as she stood in his disapproving shadow. And genuinely, Kihyun was catching on, learning the untamed woman standing before him wasn’t looking for an authority figure but an equal. Only time would reveal the depth of their understanding and the capacity of their adapted routines.

“I need you to answer me, Y/N.” Kihyun spoke up the moment he realized that she wouldn’t answer him. She studied his face carefully. The glow of the moonlight illuminated his stern gaze, casting stark shadows that hinted at the mounting tension.

She held his gaze unflinchingly, watching as understanding flickered within his eyes before morphing into unmistakable exasperation. Heaving a sigh, Kihyun groaned, pacing the room with growing agitation. The somber atmosphere seemed to pulse with his restrained anger, filling the space between them with sticky anticipation for the punishment she knew was imminent.

Eventually, he moved towards the bed, his figure outlined in the moonlight. Sitting down on it, he kicked off his shoes and glanced up at her. The stern set of his mouth and the cool detachment in his eyes sent a thrill of fear coursing through her. Yet, a part of her relished this nerve-racking anticipation, thrilled by the promise of consequences she was likely to face. She took a deep breath when he spread his legs and silently pointed toward the open space between them.

“Since you think it’s okay to break the rules time and time again because you feel like it, let’s make one thing clear. You are not above the consequences,” Kihyun’s voice was firm, not a hint of negotiation available in his tone. His eyes held a grim determination that made her heart pound. “Get on your knees.”

Her breath caught, but she complied, kneeling between his legs. The severity of the situation rolled off Kihyun, an almost palpable aura of authority enveloping her. She steadied herself, forcing down the electric thrill that sparked through her at the prospect of what was to come.

Their dynamic was evolving, growing more complex and layered with each confrontation. What started as a primary order was morphing into an intense game of power and dominance, with her defiance against his authority fueling their relationship’s rising tension and intensity. These encounters electrified her, luring her further into the depths of this thrilling power play. As she knelt there, waiting, Kihyun’s stern gaze rested upon her, promising a lesson she wouldn’t forget.

A chill shot through her body as his cold hand cupped her cheek. What she thought to be a loving smile quickly turned sour as his hand grabbed a fist full of her hair, jerking her head back so that she was forced to look at him.

“Don’t beg me or even think about using the safe word. Tonight, you pushed me to my limit. I have had it with you running around acting like a whore. If you want to act like a whore, I can treat you like one.” Kihyun growled, his voice filled with an edge of frustration and disappointment she had not expected. His usually warm voice was gone, replaced with a harsh tone that made her heart pound painfully in her chest.

The heated fury of his gaze bore into her, and she was pulled back from her thoughts by his fingers tightening around her hair. She gasped in reply, the surprise and pain mingling with a strange sense of anticipation. Seeing him out of control this way was almost exhilarating, even if it was at her expense.

Despite the fear coursing through her, a part of her felt oddly fascinated by this sudden change in him. However, she understood that he was not playing now. This was the punishment he had warned her about. The silence in the room was palpable, the tension thick and suffocating. She found herself swallowing hard, bracing herself against the impending storm she had unconsciously been courting.

She recognized the dangerous glint in Kihyun’s eyes. The moment of heated confrontation was here, a punishment waiting to unfold. It was clear that the evening was about to take a turn down a path she had not entirely anticipated. This was not their usual game; it was something far more intense and real. Steadying her determination, she held onto the strength within her as she prepared for whatever came next in their volatile battleground.

“Take my cock out and suck on it like a good little whore. Don’t even think about not choking on it, either. I want you crying and worshiping my cock. Got it?”

In response to his stern command, she reached for the waistband of his pants, her fingers trembling slightly. Her heart pounded in her chest as she unzipped them, revealing the hardness beneath the fabric that served as a reminder of his dominant authority.

She met his stern gaze directly, signaling her understanding and compliance. Then, slowly, she extends her tongue, running it teasingly along the length of his turgidity. Warm, soft hardness met the cool of her moist tongue, eliciting a responsive shudder from Kihyun.

His hand tangled in her hair, guiding her movements, setting a relentless and satisfyingly sinful rhythm. She could hear the raspy moan reverberate from his chest as she took him deeper into her mouth, his thickness pushing at the back of her throat. His pleasure manifested in the tight grip on her hair and the ragged pants he fought to control.

Tears sprang to her eyes as she fought her gag reflex, the strain evident as she struggled to accommodate him. But there was an intoxicating thrill in the act of submission, the intense satisfaction of being the source of his pleasure.

Embracing the discomfort, tolerating the burning lungs and the ache in her jaw was part of the game, a punishment she was willingly ready to bear. Her dedication firm, she continued, tears streaking down her cheeks, her eyes locked onto his, promising undying obedience in this unvoiced power play.

She gladly took his length into her mouth once more, feeling its hardened pulse against the flat of her tongue. The movement was slow and enticing, her purpose clear in every glide and press of lips against the hot, rigid flesh.

“That’s right,” He hissed, rewarding her with a rough card through her hair, the action making her look up again, an unvoiced affirmation of her obedience. “Just like that… worship it.”

Each word, each command echoed sharply in the charged silence, stirring a heady cocktail of dread and excitement that coiled tight in her belly. Her rhythm faltered just once, but she quickly found it again, the need to not disappoint outweighing physical discomfort.

Her cheeks hollowed as she sucked him deeper, the lingering taste of his skin intoxicating, irresistible. Her digits traced the veins on his cock with awe, a testament to his masculinity. Her eyes remained locked on him, an explicit display of submission that reeked of an erotic surrender that suffused the room. Every groan, every twitch of his was duly noted, encouraging her to continue in the act of dutiful worship. It was her testament, her tangible loyalty to his authority wrapped in the veil of the unspoken. The journey to heavy surrender, etched in silence and measured in rhythm, was sinfully unforgettable.

She swept up his length, her lips tight around him as she climbed, a close, slow motion designed to draw out the sweet torment. “Good girl,” Kihyun rasped, his fingers threading through her hair, reinforcing her act of submission. “Worship my cock just like that.”

Her tongue swirled around the swollen head, relishing his salty taste. Her fingers massaged his balls tenderly, adding another layer to the sinful act. With every idle, messily passionate bob of her head, she continued her worship, continuously tracing the tattoo of veins on his shaft, symbolizing his raw strength and power.

His low, throaty moans and how his hands gripped her hair fueled her motivation, seduced by the intoxicating power play. Her eyes lifted to meet Kihyun’s gaze, their raw hunger a testament to her success. The salacious taste and the feel of him in her mouth became her world; nothing else mattered.

She could feel him tense, his breath hitch, signaling his impending release. However, she didn’t relent, determined to see this through, to bring him the ultimate pleasure. Her eyes, glossy with tears, communicated an unspoken promise. She was here, willing and resolved, engaged in the act of intimate worship, refusing to back down from this gloriously revealing power play.

And so, she carried on, her hand firmly around his base, her tongue gliding over the throbbing veins and swollen head with devout veneration. His hissed curses and praises echoed in her ears, mingling with his ragged breaths in a wanton symphony of power and surrender. Her mouth, moist and warm, served as a temple of sinful pleasure dedicated to his satisfaction.

His hips jerked abruptly, his grip on her hair tightened to the edge of pain, and he moaned out a guttural warning. Then, his release’s first shot filled her warm and salty mouth. She swallowed instinctively, not daring to break from her worship.

The next few moments were a blur, his body locked in ecstasy and she, the devotional priestess, accepting his offering. Each pulse of his release marked a victory in their battle for dominance, a testament to her submission.

He gasped her name as the last spurts of his climax hummed in the back of her throat, his figure jerking in the aftershocks of pleasure. Even then, she didn’t break away, carefully cleaning him with her tongue, not letting a single drop of him go to waste.

When she finally pulled away, her eyes met his, mirroring the raw intensity that had fueled their power play. Kihyun, with his dark eyes gleaming in the dim light and his chest heaving, looked every bit the dominant figure he was.

As the tension hovered like an aftertaste in the aftermath of their carnal rendezvous, she savored the victorious satisfaction of a game well played, a testament to the authority she had deliciously delivered.

“Don’t think we’re done just yet.” Kihyun finally spoke as the moonlight showed just how dark his eyes were. “Stand up and strip in front of me.”

She stared at him for a moment, trying to process his words carefully. Her breath hitched in her throat, her cheeks flushing with a powerful mix of embarrassment and anticipation. Always, it had been him who undressed her, but not tonight. Tonight, he was making her bear herself in front of him, leveraging the power dynamics of their encounter.

Unsteadily, she rose to her feet, her legs shaking slightly from the intensity of their previous play. Her hands moved up to the buttons of her shirt, each one coming undone with a tremble of apprehension. Despite the heat still coursing through her, she felt a chill as the cool air hit her skin, immediately making her nipples harden.

Kihyun, always the keen observer, watched her intently. His darkened eyes objectified her unshielded vulnerability as a predator about to pounce his prey, a wolf relishing a moonlit hunt. Feeling his gaze tracking her, she unzipped her skirt next, the piece of fabric sliding down her legs to pool around her ankles. She was a sight to behold in her plain white lingerie, the soft glow of the moonlight casting shadows on her nude body.

Meanwhile, Kihyun had not remained idle. His hand had gripped his once again hardening length, the distinct movement of his arm signaling his self-pleasure as he started masturbating. He groaned, his eyes never leaving her, the sight before him acting as a sensual trigger.

This exhilarating combination of thrill, embarrassment, and vulnerability formed a novel chapter in their explicit dance of dominance and submission, one that she was learning to navigate with each passing second. The silence echoed with an unspoken dialogue of unspoken understanding, transforming their room into an arena of charged intensity. Each pull of Kihyun’s hand, each discarded layer of her clothing, was a pledge, a promise of the pleasures awaiting them in the impending thickness of the night.

“I know you’re trying to figure out what I’m going to do next so you can play off on it,” Kihyun grunted, his eyes traveling over every inch of her body. “Tonight isn’t about you. You’ll be lucky if I even let you cum once.”

Finally standing, Kihyun towed over her. His eyes narrowed at her. Her breath was caught in her throat as she watched him approach, anticipation prickling on her skin. Suddenly, in one swift movement, he gripped her arm, pulling her towards the bed with a force that left her breathless. She landed on the soft mattress, her heart pounding against her rib cage.

She barely had time to adjust before he was unlocking a drawer by the bed and retrieving something shrouded in darkness. A second later, she recognized them as a pair of handcuffs, glinting menacingly in the dim light. Her breath hitched, a mix of fear and anticipation washing over her.

He leaned over her, his hands pinning her down, a devilish smirk playing on his lips. “Remember, tonight, it’s all about me,” he said, his voice a delicious growl that made her squirm. He held her wrists above her head, locking one handcuff after the other swiftly, leaving her restrained and exposed before him. “Your body is mine to use. Mine to punish. Don’t forget that.”

Kihyun sat back, taking a moment to appreciate the sight. His gaze traced the curve of her body, bound and ready for his pleasure. His hand, slick from his efforts, resumed its motion, stroking himself leisurely as he continued to drink in the sight before him.

“Stay put,” he commanded, his voice rumbling with raw desire, “I’m going to enjoy this.”

Fear and arousal danced in her stomach, a tempting mix of emotions that heightened her anticipation. She was there, vulnerable and at his mercy, entrapped in one of the most exhilarating games of dominance and submission she’d ever played. Tonight, she realized, would indeed be a night to remember.

Kihyun, engrossed in his self-indulgence, continued his passive strokes. His dark eyes never left her as he pleasured himself, his intensity creating an aura of raw dominance that was as captivating as it was daunting. His touch on himself was familiar and practiced, eliciting throaty groans that filled the room.

Her gaze was drawn to his hand, which played a close rhythm on his hardened length. His response to the entrancing sight before him was a testament to her effect on him; every twitch and gasp he made only fueled her anticipation and her own growing need.

Kihyun’s dark gaze seared into her, making her squirm under his inspection. He was shameless, knowing just how powerful the sight of him touching himself was. His erect length, slick with his arousal, glistened under the soft light, making her mouth water with the need to taste him again.

After a time that was simultaneously too long and not nearly long enough, Kihyun’s strokes started to slow, his breathing growing ragged. He briefly closed his eyes, savoring the thrills of self-pleasure before opening them again. His gaze was predatory, filled with an insatiable lust that made her shiver in apprehension and arousal.

Purposefully, he propped himself above her, smirking down at her restrained figure. His hand left his length, reaching for the handcuffs to unlock them. However, just as she thought he would finally give in and take her and release her from the handcuffs, he instead guided his pulsing dick against her thigh, reminding her of her undeniable desire for him.

With a devilish grin, he leaned closer to whisper in her ear, “Not yet, sweetheart. Be patient. The night is far from over.” His husky voice promised an avalanche of pleasure that left her throbbing with anticipation for what was to come. She was truly at his mercy tonight, and there was no place she’d rather be. “I want you to beg to touch me, and I won’t even give in. Just like you refuse to listen to the rules I set in place for us. Unfair, isn’t it?”

A devilish chuckle vibrated through her as he unlocked her handcuffs. She sighed in relief, feeling the blood flowing back to her hands, but the respite was short-lived. Suddenly, Kihyun placed his hands on her waist, effortlessly flipping her onto her front.

He adjusted her, positioning her onto hands and knees until she was just as he preferred — her backside on full display for him. Underneath him, his dominance, she felt a twinge of humiliation coupled with a raw, throbbing anticipation. She felt the edge of the bed dip slightly as he moved behind her, allowing her a few precious seconds to regain her composure.

Then, the coldness of the cuffs again, a stark contrast to the heat of her skin, announced their return, this time locking her in place on the bedposts. She was re-stripped of her freedom almost as fast as she’d been granted, a play on her sanity that sent another gush of arousal through her body.

His labored breathing filled the room as she felt him settle behind her, the mattress dipping under his weight. Her body arched instinctively, seeking him out, but he held back. She felt him there, his cock teasing her entrance, yet he made no further move. It was pure torment. Every brushing contact sent bolts of desire shooting up her spine, leaving her panting and desperate.

“Please,” she gasped, her voice trembling as she finally surrendered to his relentless game, begging him for release. But his reply was a deep, throaty laugh that held a promise: the night was, indeed, far from over. His reply echoed in the room, an intoxicating mix of amusement and desire she could almost taste.

“Begging already?” he teased, running his fingers delicately along her entrance. The feeling sent electrifying waves of pleasure through her, her breath hitching at the contact. “You never fail to amuse me.”

He leaned over her, his body heat radiating onto her skin. His breath tickled her ear as he whispered, “The rules are simple. I touch, and you feel. You cum when I say so. Not a second before, understand?”

She could only nod, her mouth dry, her body tingling in anticipation. His finger trailed further, stirring a whirlpool of desire that made her want to break the rules he just set. But she refrained, knowing it would only lead to more teasing, more torment. She could feel him grinning against her shoulder, his pleasure palpable in the room.

Then, just when she thought she couldn’t stand the anticipation any longer, she felt him push inside her, slow and relentless. All the air left her lungs as she was filled, the sensation overwhelming her senses. She let out a scream that was swallowed by the emptiness of the room, her body finally succumbing to his dominance.

Kihyun grunted with satisfaction as he buried himself in her, a dark chuckle escaping as he felt the quiver of her body beneath his. He relished her shuddering gasps as he began to move, the initial slow pace quickly escalating into a maddening rhythm that set their bodies on fire. “Look at you, being so obedient,” he taunted. Each word was punctuated by a merciless thrust, the sounds of their bodies colliding, echoing in the space surrounding them. “It’s surprising how obedient you are when you have my cock deep inside you, huh? I find it amusing.”

His unsparing last thrust drew a whimper from her lips, the sensations rippling inside her too intense to bear. “Please,” she gasped. She could barely put the feelings into words; it was overpowering, raw, and intoxicating all at once.

Much to the surprise of her stinging senses, Kihyun’s hand landed a hearty smack on her backside. A loud gasp ripped from her throat, the sudden rush of pain igniting another wave of pleasure. His handprint burned on her skin, underscoring the game of dominance playing out between them.

“That’s right,” he praised, tone smooth as velvet, “You’re doing so well.” The sound of another slap resonating from their entangled bodies only added to the symphony of their pleasure - a raw reminder of his control over her. “Taking Daddy’s cock like a good fucking slut.”

He drove into her relentlessly, his grip on her hips bruising yet somehow comforting in its firmness. The sting of his hand on her ass had her gasping, chasing the peculiar blend of pain and pleasure that radiated from the point of contact. His voice echoed in the room, lacing her mind with a hearty dose of satisfaction.

“That’s it, baby,” he growled in her ear, his voice husky. The words vibrated through her, his praises a turn-on that enhanced the sensations coursing through her. His next thrust was particularly fierce; a resounding smack filled the air as his hand collided with her ass again. She yelped; the unexpected collision sent electrifying jolts of pleasure straight to her center.

“You love it when I spank you, don’t you?” he taunted, another hard slap punctuating his gravelly tone. The sharp sensation was swiftly followed by the gentleness of his hand, fingers tracing the tender area, soothing the ignited skin.

He resumed his pace, a relentless rhythm that promised to tip her over the edge. His name spilled from her lips, a prayer amid moans that echoed around them, bouncing off the stark walls and diving into the abyss of pleasure they were entangled in.

Her anticipation soared as his thrusts became more forceful and urgent, a testament to his nearing climax. As her body trembled on the precipice, he leaned over to whisper in her ear, his voice saturated with desire, “Beg for me, sweetheart. Show me just how much you need to cum.” The sinful request echoed in her head, the edge she was balancing on becoming more precarious. “And maybe Daddy will be kind enough to let you cum.”

Desperation clawed at her as she writhed beneath him, each thrust driving her closer to the precipice. A broken, needy sound slipped past her lips, “Please, Kihyun.”

He merely chuckled at her plea, his fingers tracing a burning path down her quivering stomach. His face was a study of lust and control, pupils dilated, and lips curved ever so slightly. “That wasn’t begging, sweetheart,” he chided, the tips of his fingers dancing tantalizingly near her overstimulated clit. “If you want to cum, beg for it correctly.”

Overwhelmed by the whir of sensations, every nerve in her body screamed at his restrained touch. She felt her walls tighten around him purposefully, trying to draw him deeper. Still, he resisted, merely grinning at her feeble attempts to control the situation.

With a whimper, she tried to plea once more, but the name came out wrong. “Kihyun, please,” she murmured, her voice shaky in the dim room. The moment the words tumbled from her lips, she could see it was not what he wanted to hear. He arched an eyebrow at her, a silent prompt for the correction he awaited.

Swallowing hard, she corrected herself, her cheeks flaring with a mix of embarrassment and arousal. “Please, Daddy,” she corrected hastily, her voice desperate in the quiet room. The shift in her address was a tangible submission, an acceptance of the sinful game they were entangled in. Her begging voice, the plea laced with an innocent rawness, filled the room, emphasizing the control he had over her. “Let me cum, please.”

His next thrust, directed with surgical precision, rubs against her sweet spot that sends pleasure-like sparks through her. Her desperate moan filled the room, her body bowing as if struck by an electric shock. His hand tangled into her hair, pulling back her head as he hushed her gently, “Begging now, are we?”

She nodded, cried out, lost in the intoxicating blend of pleasure and anticipation. She felt his grin against the pulse point on her neck, a sinful promise of a climax that was just out of her reach. “Beg me properly,” he continued, his voice sending shivers down her spine. His firm hands propped her hips for a deeper angle, stoking the flames of her desire.

Give and take, push and pull. Kihyun was the master of their sordid game, drawing puckish pleasure from her desperate pleas. Defeated, she surrendered to her erupting desire. “Please, Daddy,” She whined, her voice desperate and raw, “I need to cum.”

Before the echoes of her words had faded away, he buried himself deeper into her, his pace meeting her every wish. “Daddy’s giving you what you asked for,” he growled, his words broken by gasps of pleasure, “Cum for me, sweetheart.”

And like a dam breaking, her world exploded in colors as he kept true to his promise. His ruthless thrusts drove her higher and higher until she spiraled in an endless roll of pleasure. It was sinful and wild, a testament to their passion burning raw and relentless.

“Sweetheart, I’m…” His voice was gravelly, strained with his nearing climax. His grip on her hips tightened, his body tensed, and he pushed deep inside her in one final, powerful thrust. Lunging deep, he held himself in place, releasing a guttural groan that reverberated throughout the room.

His warmth filled her, his release marking her from within, causing her to gasp at the unexpected but welcomed intensity. His climax came like a tidal wave, crashing over them with a force that was both tantalizingly torturous and delightfully sinful. Milky evidence of his fulfillment lingered within her, satisfying proof of his passionate surrender.

After catching his breath, he uncuffed her, their bodies still intertwined. Despite the rawness of their encounter, his weight over her provided a reassuring warmth. Their breathing, while sporadic, began to synchronize - a fitting epilogue to the frantic rhythm they had shared just moments before. Their intermingled sweat painted a canvas of carnal desires and unrestrained satisfaction. The tangible presence of their shared climax remained engraved on their bodies, a trophy of their primal dance. In the quiet, he craned his neck and, with a tantalizingly slow pace, brushed his lips against her pulse point, making her shiver. His voice, now husky from their shared exertions, sent a new wave of warmth rushing down her spine.

“Look at you, so content,” He murmured, tracing her curves with a possessive touch that echoed their sinful indulgence. His eyes glinted wickedly in the dim room. “Such a well-behaved girl when you know Daddy has control, aren’t you?”

He let out a soft chuckle, his breath fanning against her, causing her eyes to flutter open. Beneath his gaze, she felt cherished, adored, laid bare by his sinful words. It was a promise, whispered in the silence of their shared satisfaction - a promise of more such sinful nights, testing their boundaries and losing themselves at new heights of ecstasy. And amidst the lingering haze of lust, she eagerly looked forward to nights that awaited them.

His voice deepened as he leaned in, his words a husky whisper against the shell of her ear. “I promise you, sweetheart, if you dare to break the rules again, the punishments will be much more severe.” A visceral thrill ran through her at his promise, a shudder of anticipation rippling through her body.

His hand gently traced her lower abdomen; his fingers danced lightly over her skin as his eyes held a sinful glimmer. “Next time, I might just breed you,” he murmured, the implications of his words causing heat to rush to her cheeks. “Imagine that, you running around with my baby inside you. Won’t that be a sight?”

His grin was wicked, a vulture biding his time. “Your friends they will be curious, no doubt, about who got you pregnant. They’ll ask who the father is, and you?” He paused, his thumb rubbing small circles on her warm skin, “You’ll know it was the older man that had you crying out his name until the dead of night.”

His words trailed off into a low, satisfied hum, his fingers lazily drawing patterns on her flushed skin. The implications of his sinful promise hung heavy in the air, a tantalizing prospect she was not sure she was ready for. He had marked her tonight in the most intimate of ways, and as she looked at him, a silent understanding passed between them.

“You are mine.”

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