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katiexpunk · 17 hours

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fuck me fill me was so fucking hot omg, i love me some breeding kinks. would you consider a party 2 where they’re just fucking the whole time on her work trip when she’s not working (OR even during a zoom or team meeting lol obv cameras off {hmm or.. on? 😏 and the mic muted lol}) let’s get joel’s baby in herrrr 😏😏

Thoroughly Fucked, Thoroughly Filled

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!Reader | W/C: ~2.2K | Rating: 18+ Minors DNI

Summary: You’re insatiable. Obsessed with how your husband treats you like a princess, and fucks you like a whore. It’s non-stop for you both, your thirst to always be full of him, and his persistence in keeping you that way. The only question is, will your hard work pay off?

Warnings: Joel has one mission in this one -- knock you the fuck up (if that's not your thing, kindly move on). Heavy on the breeding kink. They fuck like rabbits, there is no stopping them. No age gap is mentioned (make it your own). So much dirty talk. Fingering. Praise kink. Consensual Somno. Unprotected P in V. Rough sex. Oral. Desk sex. Sex on an active Zoom call. Multiple creampies. No use of Y/N, no use of daddy. TLOU au. Reader has no physical descriptions except hair (no type or color) long enough to hold on to. Let me know if I missed anything!

A/N: I wasn't planning on doing a part 2 for this one, but the thought of Joel railing reader during a Zoom call was just too hard to pass up. Thanks for the slutty thoughts and request, Non babes.

Read Part 1: Fuck Me, Fill Me | Masterlist | Read on AO3 | Notifications

You’re insatiable.

Obsessed with how your husband treats you like a princess, and fucks you like a whore.

It’s non-stop for you both, your thirst to always be full of him, and his persistence in keeping you that way.

It’s all so much, and not enough at the same time. You want more, more, more.

You rarely wear underwear anymore, there’s no point. Sometimes he gives you the time to gently slip out of them, but his impatient and callused hands tear them from your body more often than not.

In the couple of months that followed that first fuck in the kitchen after you told him you wanted a baby, he’s been diligent in his duties to knock you up. It’s all-consuming and nothing is off-limits — no time of day or location.

You love it all.

You love your begging, not that it takes much, that slowly turns into those barely audible uh, uh, uh whimpers from being so ruined and fucked out on his cock.

You love him using you whenever he wants. The feel of his body weight pinning you to the bed at night, after you’ve already drifted to sleep, slowly sinking his thick cock into you until he’s buried himself deep inside. The rasp of his sleeping voice whispering “Shh, I know, I know it feels good. But I’m not done yet, okay baby? Go back to sleep for me, sweetheart.” That morning you woke up to his load deep inside of you, the sheets a mess and your thighs sticky.

You love the bruises on your knees from you taking him in your mouth in the kitchen, worshiping at the altar of the man you love while you let your sore, somewhat swollen pussy rest for a day. The feel of his thick cock so far down your throat, deep enough to make you gag, but not enough to make you stop. “Taking it so well, baby — you’re so fucking perfect.” Instead of spilling down your throat, he’s commanding you to get up and bend over. Braced up against the counter, he holds you steady as he pushes his nearly there cock inside of you, the length of him slick enough with your saliva to slip right in, just in time for him to paint your cervix in thick ropes of his cum. He stays there as his cock pulses inside of you. Even though you’re sore and he’s already spent, you fuck yourself a little on his cock and he hisses, but doesn’t dare pull out. He dips down and places a soft kiss on your shoulder, and chuckles a little when you moan at the sensation of him pulling out. He does so slowly, attempting to keep all of his cum inside you. “I’ll give you more tonight, okay sweetheart?”

You love the sweet things he does for you, like making your favorite dinner. It shouldn’t come as shocking that it took minutes for you both to abandon your still-full plates because he tells you how beautiful you look in the candlelight, and that he can’t wait to make you a mom. The sex was so good not only did you forget about dinner entirely, you forgot words, his cock reducing you to nothing but a cum slut, a babbling mess, just for him.

You love his way of greeting you after a long day—his hands cup your face, drawing you into a deep, passionate kiss that leaves no room for words. When he finally breaks away, the intensity in his eyes says everything. Silently, he leads you to the bedroom, where he ravishes you. He hushes you as you sob, keeping you sensitive, on edge, so keyed up you think you might burst. He grinds his cock up into your core, the tip of him kissing your cervix, helping you ride out each orgasm before edging you into another. You love the way he slowly gets rougher and rougher until he’s pounding into your tight cunt, pressing the damp hair from your forehead, whispering sweet praises against your skin — my girl, so perfect baby, you’re so fucking pretty, I hope our baby gets your nose. It’s so much, the rough sweetness of it—a perfect juxtaposition.

++++

You not only love it, but you also find yourself missing it deeply—missing him, the way he stretches and fills you. It’s been almost a week since you’ve seen him, as you’ve been gone on another work trip.

The only thing getting you through the days is knowing he told you he’d save every drop of himself for you.

The night before your trip, after he filled up your tight cunt so full of his spend, you threw your legs up against the wall at the head of the bed and stuffed a pillow under your hips. You did this frequently, wanting every ounce of his seed to coat your cervix completely. Most of the time Joel stayed by you, playing with your hair, or tracing shapes over your tummy, the both of you imagining how it might look with a baby inside.

But this time, a knock on the front door had left you alone. You subtly shifted your hips, just enough to grasp his phone from the nightstand. Scrolling through his apps, you open the camera and decide to leave him an unforgettable surprise. You capture a photo hot enough to make a pornstar blush, then swiftly place the phone back exactly as it was before he returns to the room.

Of course, he finds the photo while you’re gone. He finds the photo at work, no less. It has him so hard that he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to get up from his desk the rest of the day. His cock is so full, his balls heavy, it’s nearly painful. He groans knowing there's not a damn thing he can do about it. Joel Miller is a man of his word.

He pulls out his phone and types out a quick text to you — oh sweetheart, you’re going to pay for that one. You’re in the middle of a meeting when your phone buzzes on the conference table. You risk a glance down at the message and immediately know what he’s talking about. You clench your thighs together, arousal building in your core. You grab your phone and hide it under the table as you type out your response. Promise?

He does promise. You will pay for it, just not in the way that you might expect.

++++

It’s that series of events from a few days prior that has you in your current predicament — legs open, getting absolutely railed on your desk, in the middle of a fucking Zoom call.

The sound of his boots on the hardwood floor signals his approach down the hallway to your home office. He pauses at the doorframe, leaning against it casually. You glance over your computer screen to find him looking effortlessly stunning. His thick neck sports a sun-kissed tan, and his curly hair is damp from a day's hard work. The denim of his jeans is marked with streaks of paint, yet his shirt remains bleach white, accentuating his muscular arms. He is undeniably handsome—the kind of man many dream of finding, and you’re grateful you did.

Devastating. Joel Miller is devastating. And he’s all yours.

He doesn't say a word, just looks at you, his eyes drinking you in as if you were a refreshing glass of lemonade on a sweltering summer day

Your colleague’s voice echoes through the room. We’re looking into it, but initial analysis suggests that the email headlines weren’t as compelling. We’re planning A/B testing to improve them. You try your best to maintain your composure, but you feel like you’re melting under the heat of his gaze. A little flustered under his attention, you make sure your microphone is muted and turn off your camera.

“Hi, baby. I’ll be done in 30 minutes or so, I’m up to present soon,” you tell him, expecting that might be what he’s waiting for. It’s not.

“I’ll be quick then, sweetheart.” he rasps.

Wait, what?

He quickly closes the distance between you, his steps confident as he approaches. Circling around your desk, he gently spins your chair to face him. He gives your computer a brief glance to double-check that both the camera and audio are indeed off, and then, satisfied, he leans in to plant a fiery kiss on your lips.

When he pulls away, his heavy hands are already on your thighs, inching your skirt higher and higher. “Mmm, have I ever told you how sexy you are when you’re like this? My pretty girl works so hard.”

Fuck.

Your eyes flutter closed as he kisses down the nape of your neck and sucks at your pulse point. His hand cups your sex, the tips of his fingers prodding at your already wet, seemingly always ready, hole. He holds your gaze as he sinks his middle finger into you, which your needy pussy willingly and greedily accepts.

“Fuck, baby. All this for me?" He groans, and you want to tell him that not only is it for him, but it’s also from him. Your cunt still holding onto the remnants of your shower fuck from this morning.

Perfect, thanks, Linda. Moving on, we have the upcoming virtual conference. Mark, how are the preparations going? In the time that Mark is sharing the details that were requested of him, you manage to get Joel’s cock out from his jeans, sucking him to full hardness, drool dripping down your chin as he holds your hair back in a makeshift ponytail and helps guide you up and down his length.

He pulls you off of him and looks down at you, and there’s something so primal in his gaze, his pupils blown open with lust, his face set in a look that conveys everything words could fail to.

“Up,” he orders, and you rise. He holds you tight against his chest, and lifts your skirt all the way up and over the curve of your ass, coming to rest bunched up at your waist. He scoops you up by your ass cheeks, and gently deposits you on the desk, not bothering to move the papers that are scattered there.

“Joel, please fuck me, want to feel you baby, need it so bad,” you mewl, and spread your legs open into a wide V, giving him full access to your glistening cunt.

He admires you for a moment, working his length in his hand, collecting the bead of pre cum that gathers at his tip with his thumb and working it into the silky smooth skin of his cock. He takes a step forward and positions himself at your entrance and gently pushes his hips forward so the tip of him is inside of you. He pauses there, giving you a second to adjust. Your heart throbs in your chest, and your eyes flicker closed.

“No breaking eye contact, sweetheart. I want you to look at me with those pretty fuck me eyes when I cum inside you,” he says, wasting no time as he bottoms out inside of you.

Your pussy walls clench against him, and your jaw goes slack. He’s so fucking big, but god, it feels good. The way he fills you is always so perfect. You could take him again and again and it would never be enough.

“Such a perfect cunt,” he groans, beginning to set a relentless pace. Something about this angle does something for you, too. His cock fits just right, pushing and gliding over the spongey spot inside of you that makes you see stars. He holds your hips tightly as he pumps in and out of you, eliciting throaty moans from you. The air is filled with the filthy wanton sound of skin slapping against skin.

“I –” you mew, “I’m gonna come,” you say, breathless.

“Come for me, baby. Be the good girl I know you are and show me how well you milk this cock” he says, a little out of breath, voice deep.

And you do. Your pussy pulses around him as the wave of your orgasm takes over you, your mind hazy and filled with nothing but the thought of the way he fills you just right. The sensation is intense, enough to make him cum inside of you at the same time. “Yeah, that’s it, sweetheart. Take this cum” he groans and holds you tight as he spurts out the final bits of his release inside of you.

It's so good, you almost don't hear your name being called through the speakers on your computer. He quickly steps back, helping you off your desk. He fixes the strands of hair around your face that have come loose and plants a kiss on your lips.

“God, you’re perfect. Come find me when you’re done?” You nod and he walks off. You straighten your skirt and quickly take your place at your desk once more. You turn on your camera and hope your coworkers don’t pick up on your my husband just bred the fuck out of me glow and start your brief. As you speak, you tightly cross your legs, hoping to keep all of Joel’s cum inside of you.

But this time it’s just because you like it there, like being full of him.

Not because you need it.

END

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A/N Continued: I wanted to say thank you for all of the love you showed on Fuck Me, Fill Me. It's truly wild the difference even 10 reblogs can make in the visibility of a story on this platform. Reblogs really are the best way to support creators, and y'all showed up for me, and I love you for it. Thank you.

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#joel miller smut #joel miler x fem!reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #breeding k1nk #joel miller the last of us #joel miller one shot #pedro pascal character #pedrohub #pedrostories #joel miller #joel miller fanfic

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kiwisbell · 2 days

Text

helen ; chapter five

be seeing you

Si vis pacem, para bellum. Or, the choice.

series masterlist | my masterlist pairing: joel miller x f!reader tags/warnings: 18+ (MDNI), john wick AU, hitman!joel, husband!joel, established relationship, artist!reader, love as worship, sacrilege in the name of romance, flashbacks, graphic violence, guns, blood + injuries, tess cameo, childhood/religious trauma, criminal underworld, secrecy/lies, betrayal, ANGST, bamf miller bros, smut, fingering, joel is an emotional munch, shower sex, unprotected PIV, handjob, male whimpering, conflicting emotions, orgasms aplenty, Big Angst and Big Sad but also Big Epiphanies, ambiguous ending, i'm getting emotional writing these tags, it feels so final, the typical alcohol/smoking/profanity, dividers by @/saradika word count: ~ 9.3k a/n: hi, friends. i can't believe we're already at the end of the main story, and tbh if i think about it too much i'll probably cry. i want to thank @cavillscurls for beta reading this chapter as always and giving me the guidance and support i need. we'll have an epilogue after this chapter, so there's still more to look forward to, but nonetheless, i hope you enjoy and thank you so so much for reading. xoxo prev | next

Her eyes are so sad, you think, stepping back to take in the full scope of the canvas. It’s doused in paint from corner to corner, still wet to the touch, the woman and her lover intertwined so thoroughly that it’s difficult to tell where they both end. It’s in shades of glum blue and flecks of angry red and brown where his eye watches you. But it’s her eyes that cannot lift to meet yours. It’s her lashes that fan across her cheeks as she casts her gaze toward the bottom edge where the canvas is wrapped taut around the wood.

The sun will soon rise, but you haven’t slept. The contours of the sky are washed in a haze of greys and pale blues and light pink and the air smells warm, heavy—a storm about to roll in. The clouds on the horizon are thick with a blackening rage. You sit in the alcove by the window and put your temple to the cool glass. You yawn. Joel does not come back.

“Do you think it's true,” you asked him one night, your head on his chest, hand on his heart, “that art makes nothing happen?”

Joel, drawing shapes on your back, dozing off in the golden light of the sunrise, frowned. “Someone tell you that?”

“It's something my art teacher used to say,” you told him. “No matter how much it moves people, it doesn't do anything.”

“Your art teacher sounds like a fuckin’ downer.”

You laughed, hiking your thigh up over his hip and playfully biting his jaw. “So it's bullshit?”

“I think,” said Joel, tucking his chin to kiss the top of your head, “that your art makes people feel. It brings ‘em together. It's important because it's yours.”

You propped your head up on his chest and threaded your fingers through his too-long hair, overdue for a trim. A curl draped over his forehead, his beard patchy and soft under the pads of your fingers. “Sometimes I wonder why you chose me,” you said. “I wonder why the universe brought you to me.”

Joel shook his head, guiding his rough, callused fingers up your arm, curling them around your wrist, gently prodding your veins. “Wasn't the universe,” he said quietly. “Wasn’t a choice. I was yours the second I saw you. So, I guess it's your fault.”

You just rolled your eyes and kissed him, mouth to smiling mouth.

Your paintings may be yours, made with life and energy and colour, but when they are finished, they don’t move. They are stagnant as a heavy rock beneath a cliffside, washed over and over again by the cresting waves, its salt stolen for the water, eternal damnation to a fate of non-movement. And sometimes an artist will walk under the cliff, shove their easel into the fleshy ground the way a man erects his country’s flag in the earth he has stolen, and paint the rock. The artist is moved by the breathtaking colours of the shore and the way the wind flutters through the grass. But the rock does not budge. It never will.

Your art will never erupt from the boundaries of the canvas and tell you what it means. The lovers in your painting will not tear open their mouths like the seams holding a wound together. They will not tell you what they want, need, crave. They are you, and that is what you hate—because dimpled flesh and lustful fingers and the press of his mouth to her throat cannot tell you what you’re supposed to do.

You had become complacent in his love for you. You had let him press his worn hands to your body and pull your soul out through his mouth and you had been a wife, while all the time there was a stranger who occupied his heart, a spirit in an abandoned body. All the time, he'd been haunted. And although you had loved him, your love had not been enough to exorcise the guilt and trauma, pecking at him, an eagle at his liver.

Crossing the room and sitting back down in front of the easel, you press your fingers to the corner of the canvas. The paint is cool to the touch, and you leave behind fingerprints where your signature should be. Pulling your hand back, you examine the accumulation of colour, the blues and reds swirling into the deep purple of a bruise, the bodies on a canvas that may only ever mean something to you, and you wonder, Is this all I am? A cautionary tale, a love lost? A fucking footnote at the end of a clause that reads: “See, for example, the one who never loved deeply enough to make it count”?

You bring your hand to your face to wipe away the tears beneath your eyes and blink hard at the sting, realising you’ve smeared paint across your cheekbones.

In the bathroom, you scrub furiously, the cloying scent of it clinging to your throat and your tear ducts, washing away the evidence of their entwined bodies, their love, your pain.

Once, you tried to get Joel to paint. You sat behind him on your bench, your legs bracketing his hips, your paintbrush in his hand.

“I don’t know where to start,” he said.

Your lips brushed the shell of his ear as you spoke. “There’s no rulebook.”

He tried to turn his head and kiss you, but you nipped his ear in reproach. “Remember when you took me out driving at the airstrip because you wanted me to feel the road? Think of this like feeling the canvas. Go on, cowboy. Make nothing happen.”

Joel’s painting still hangs over your shared bed. The intruders never found it, or never cared enough to destroy it. It’s a candle, just a candle, its lines imprecise, the paint unevenly applied in places, the shine of the flame more orange than yellow. But it’s a painting, so the candle always burns. He titled it Love.

The pain still sits low in your chest, pulling down your heart as if tied to it by a string. But Joel is still out there, fighting his way back to you, the way he always has, always will. You look down at your left hand, clutching the edge of the marble vanity, and decide to clean your wedding ring.

“I’m sorry, brother,” says Tommy, turning the gun on Joel.

“What the fuck are you doing?” growls Joel, struggling against his bonds. The clip rattles faintly in his brother’s hand as a tremor courses through him.

“He’s following my orders,” says Cabrera, clapping his hand down on Tommy’s shoulder. “Fascinating what a man will do when he must consider his family’s well-being.”

Joel sucks on his teeth, his eyes not once leaving his brother.

“It's my son,” Tommy says through his teeth. “It's Maria. If I don't do this—”

“Yeah? You gonna kill me, Tommy? Is that why your hand’s shakin’?”

“Shut your goddamn mouth,” his brother snaps. “You think I want to do this? I gotta save my family, Joel. You know what that's like.”

“All I’ve done for you,” says Joel, his hands curling into fists behind his back, “and you put a bullet in my head?”

“Not just your head, Joel,” says Cabrera. “When we're done with you, we’ll take your pretty girl as payment for my son’s life.”

Joel growls like a dog, blood roaring in his ears. “Kill me yourself, you goddamned coward. Kill me yourself and don’t you mention my wife again, or I swear to Christ—”

“You take His name in vain a lot for a nonbeliever,” says Cabrera, pulling his sleeves through his coat and setting his teeth as he looks toward Tommy once more. “Do it.”

“Yeah, brother,” Joel says darkly, “do it.”

Tommy nods once, planting his foot and pivoting. Five distinct sounds of handguns cocking echo throughout the warehouse as Tommy points the barrel between Manuel Cabrera’s eyes.

“Now that I’ve got a gun to your head,” he says evenly, “you can go ahead and pull that contract.”

Joel at last twists his wrists free of the ropes that bind them and shucks down the sleeves of his jacket to rub the raw skin. Not one soul does a goddamn thing to stop him as he rises to his feet. His chest heaves, his open lungs coarse and wet with a brittle rage, his exposed heart throbbing red, transparent as the stained glass windows of the church.

God does not tolerate anger, said the Sisters, again and again, bringing down the whip across his back. Sinew and bone and skin peeling back to lay bare some tender part of him they sought to rot out. Put your energy into His worship.

Slowly, Cabrera lifts his hands, sneering. “Your wife,” he warns, “and your unborn son—”

“Are family,” says Tommy. “Just like my brother. Now tell your guys to put down their guns and I won't kill you where you stand.”

Joel joins Tommy at his side. “Took you long enough,” he says under his breath.

“Got held up,” he says. “Your wife’s a good artist.”

“Yeah, whatever. You bring me a gun?”

“I’m sure you can find one yourself.”

“Jesus, Tommy. I’m too old for this.” Joel turns to Cabrera and glares at the same stubborn arrogance that once gleamed in his son’s eye. “You pull the contract, and I’ll leave for good.”

Cabrera’s laugh weans out in the air like rings of smoke. “You think you can really leave, Joel? You think that there won't be consequences for what you've done to my son?”

“Yeah,” says Joel, “I think I’ll take my chances.”

“And you?” Cabrera’s lip curls up at Tommy, whose gun no longer wavers in his grasp. “I promised your wife and child security. You’re willing to throw that away?”

“My wife and child are safe because I don’t take deals from men like you,” says Tommy. “You trusted a Miller to turn on his own blood, Manuel. That was stupid. Now pull the contract.”

“So this is your great suicide mission.” Cabrera smiles, a man who knows he has lost or a man who still expects not to. “A man who has seen Hell does not willingly descend back into its depths—not unless he likes the taste.”

Joel feels the corner of his mouth twitch, a wound on his cheek reopening. “Maybe I do,” he says plainly. “Maybe it’ll taste even better when I take you down with me.”

The gleam in Cabrera’s eye shifts as his gaze flickers behind Tommy. Night has since descended, and yet the predator’s eye glints in anticipation of the hunt. Joel turns and shoves his brother out of the way—just as the shot rings out.

He hears Tommy’s breath punch out of him as they both hit the concrete hard. Joel tears the handgun from his brother’s grasp and puts a bullet between each of the two men behind them. He rolls behind one of the hulking bodies and holds up his weight as a shield against the incoming bullets. Tommy takes the dead man’s gun and fires at the remaining three assailants. Only one shot misses, but Joel sends his brother a look anyway and finishes the job.

“Rusty,” grunts Tommy, pushing himself to his feet.

Joel grimaces as he accepts his brother’s outstretched hand, his wrists bleeding from the relentless rub of the ropes. “He ran,” he says, grinding his teeth. “Goddamn coward. Just like his son.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome, by the way,” says Tommy, giving Joel the dead man’s gun and snatching back his own. “Saved your ass.”

“And he got away.” Joel kicks his chair, and the clattering echo of metal reverberates like a choir off the cavernous walls. His hands flex, open, closed, open, closed, until they make tight fists and he can see nothing but red and the silver moon mocking him through the broken windows high above.

“Joel…”

For a moment, he hears the young boy his brother once was, whispering across their shared bedroom to him in the middle of the night when they were both meant to be asleep.

Joel… Are we going to be okay?

“I gotta finish it, Tommy,” he says quietly, his hands shaking loose. Parts of him bite and sting, touched by new and old wounds alike, and he wants to come crawling home to you. He wants to curl into your side and wash away the blood in your cleansing pool, daisy and honeysuckle, some faraway field where you are the warden, where he knocks on the door to be let in, to be gathered, covered in white, buried, unearthed.

“Was he right?” asks Tommy. “Do you… enjoy this?”

Joel casts his eyes toward the ground, his trembling hand, the gleaming band on his ring finger, his skin speckled with blood but the metal pristine. “I don’t know,” he says.

This is who you are, Cabrera would tell him. The Sisters: Your place is here, under God, under His word. And God Himself, silent as the air, the ringing in his ears only ever quieted by the soft brush of your knuckle across his cheek, the whisper of My Joel in his ear.

“Think hard on it,” says Tommy, “because you may like it, but you’ve gotta consider if your revenge is worth more than what you’ve already got. And if you choose wrong, Joel, you’re gonna lose no matter what.”

A figure leans stone-still against the wall by the hotel room door, the gleam of a blade in the soft light the only indication that it is not a mere shadow.

“Hey, kid,” says the apparition.

Joel nods in greeting. “Tess. Could get in trouble with that knife out in the open.”

“You expect me to keep your girl safe with just my fists?”

“You make it sound like you couldn’t.” Tess snorts, and Joel places fifteen gold coins in her waiting palm. “I appreciate you doing this.”

Tess peels away from the wall. “You and your brother are paying me good money to babysit a door. I think I can live without the thanks.”

“Still,” he says, “you did us a solid.”

Tess, who itches at the prospect of gratitude as much as any other gun-for-hire, shrugs. “Everyone’s saying you’re coming back. That true?”

“Just visiting,” says Joel. “On my way out soon.”

Tess flips one of the coins and turns it over and over across her knuckles, evidence of a restless energy that’s always made Joel’s eye twitch. “One way or another, huh?” she says.

“One way or another.” He shakes her hand and watches her retreat down the hall, still twirling the godforsaken coin, before he turns toward the door. Joel presses his forehead briefly to the cool wood and turns the key to seek the field that awaits him.

A key rustles in the door and Joel steps through, closing it gently behind him. Judging by the quiet click of the lock, he expects you to be asleep, but you jolt upright from your seat in the alcove and cross the room toward him.

He meets you halfway, his right hand flexing at his side. You inspect him: the gash on his cheek, the bruise on his jaw, the blood splattered on his white shirt. He makes no footfalls as he walks but you can hear every stride like thunder between your ears. You feel his hand at the back of your neck, cool from the night air, rough as the underside of a shark’s belly.

The moment coils taut between you as your hand reaches up to grab the lapel of his jacket, and he smells of iron, cologne, Joel, some paint. Maybe that smell is you, stuck underneath your fingernails, embedded in your blood. Maybe this is a mistake, maybe you could never help but fall, maybe it never mattered anyway, and you’re already snipping the final thread, unwinding the spool, and kissing Joel Miller like it’s the first time.

He let out a small groan, tasting the first drop of water in a drought, steadying you with his arm around your waist, his hand cradling your head. He’s gentle, exploratory, careful not to jostle, to shock you out of it. You feel his heartbeat thud, strong, calm, steady behind his clothing and skin and muscle, and your body caves.

It’s coming home, you realise, your arms snaking around his neck, fingers tousling the messy curls on his head. It's the warm press of his hand to your spine where it begins to curve inward. It's a soft mouth, a plush lower lip, made for slow mornings and black coffee, for the aching release of a thumb pressing deep into a muscle knot, a wound. Old aches soothed in the space where bodies meet, beginning to colour the slate-grey world.

It’s the exchange of gasping breaths when you pull apart, his mouth still vaguely chasing yours, opposite charge.

You hold him tighter, swallowing the lump in your throat, your hands squeezing his shoulders. "Are you…"

Joel inclines his head. "Yeah."

"Did he..."

"Yeah."

Need pulses. Supernova. Bright as the moment of obliteration. "Can you—"

He nods vigorously. "Yeah."

Joel’s kisses are like raindrops: velvet-soft to the touch—his hands bringing the hem of your shirt up over your head, his fingertips scorching, branding, grazing the supple swells of your breasts—before the crescendo roars in your ears and he loses himself to the storm. He always does.

There is nothing reserved about the way he shows his love. Lightning crackles across your skin where he touches you, baring you to him, his lips making a map of you, mouthing at your jaw, your throat. You hear yourself hum at the press of his lips to the spot beneath your ear, detaching from your own body, absconding with the pleasure of being close to him and leaving the fucking world behind.

Joel staggers forward so he can press you to the wall and begins to sink to his knees. Your breath catches as he pulls down your ratty bottoms, your cotton panties, his mouth burning into your hips and your belly and the ring on your finger.

“Joel,” you say brokenly as he clutches your fingers. Tears prickle, pressure building behind your nose, and he shakes his head, unfurling your palm like a bud in bloom and kissing its heel. Wordlessly, you watch him, your eyes shuttering, blood singing.

Don't hurt me again.

He understands even though the words cannot come alive on your tongue. He squeezes your hips, his thumbs dumpling your flesh, his forehead falling to your belly.

“I’m yours,” he says. “I’m whatever you want.”

Your legs haven't forgotten the way they part so easily for him, one thigh on his shoulder, opening the core of you to his waiting mouth. His lips part, his tongue wetting them, glistening, and your stomach tightens at the sight of his eyes so black.

You could easily cower. His hands are stained with blood. His knuckles are split. But your terror has become an arid thing, no kindling to burn, no oil to ignite. Watching him now, as eager to please as he always has been or maybe more so, on his knees like a supplicant, the hairs on your arms do not rise in apprehension. Your body does not squirm in fear. You see a broad horizon, the sun outside spilling its golden blood over the city, and you see all of him in a way you never did before.

He’s Joel, who grew up in darkness, lashed and beaten for not believing in a false god. He’s a man who has lied and killed and yet he is no liar, no killer. He holds you as he always has, your body liquid in his hands, your mouth proclaiming the word he will follow. You're the truth he's always told.

It still unsettles you to see the dark eclipse that warm brown, to watch his desire consume the hypnotic shapes in his irises, and wonder if that cavernous black was the last thing so many men saw before he snuffed out their lives. But there's nothing of the death shudder in the way you guide your fingers through his hair and beg him—

“Please.”

He brings his mouth to your core and parts your folds with his thumbs, slowly gliding his warm, wet tongue through your slit. You die a hundred little deaths in the split-second of that first touch, that first agony.

You sigh, your head thudding against the wall as he licks through you, his hands holding your hips in place, keeping you from writhing. Joel flicks his tongue over the sensitive pearl of your clit, the pleasure searing, and you tug at his curls to push him away even as you cry out, More, please, please. God, I need more.

He obeys you as easily as breathing, though you suspect he can barely hear your pleas, opening his mouth and flattening his hot tongue to your clit. You gasp, your core pulling taut, your eyes locking with his as the muscle undulates over, over, and over again.

“Oh,” you whimper, your hips bucking to meet his face. He groans, his mouth working your clit, closing his lips over it and sucking. You cry out, your leg kicking, the sounds of the world muffled in his stifling closeness. Your thighs begin to ache, tensing and relaxing a hundred times over in the throes of his attention.

And his fingers are gliding across your hip, seeking the warmth between your legs. You gasp his name, your hips flexing, as he collects your wetness on two fingers.

“Let me in, baby,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your puffy clit. It relaxes you enough to welcome the press of his fingers inside you, sinking to the knuckle, curling up against the spot he would know in his sleep.

You whine, your body keening toward him, tugging his face back toward your pussy. He obliges with a quiet moan, and you think he needs this just as badly.

The obscene squelch of his fingers inside you rings in your ears as he licks and sucks at your clit, his free hand grabbing desperately at your ass to keep you fixed to him. You’re crying, “Yesyesyes, Joel, please—fuck, that's it,” the pleasure stuck in the grooves of your brain. Absentmindedly, you reach for his hand and clasp it tight, your engagement ring digging into his palm. He holds you with the same fervour as he coaxes you higher, his face buried in your pussy. He grunts and groans like it's his own pleasure he seeks, his battered knuckles stinging.

“Joel… Joel, oh, I’m…”

He knows, of course, from the telltale squeeze of your thighs around his head, the relentless crushing of his fingers in your own, your body tightening for him, cavitating, unwinding—

You come with a shout, your throat raw, writhing in his grasp as he keeps sucking, keeps licking, rubbing, pressing. You're dizzy by the time your head lolls to the side, your muscles twitching, eyes glazed, and Joel is there, pulling his fingers out just to place them on his tongue and swallow you down.

Your breath rattles through your lungs. Joel presses his lips to your inner thigh, beard soaked in your arousal, moustache glistening. His mouth soothes your sore muscles and your eyes begin to droop.

“You need a shower,” you say, your tongue like lead in your mouth. You gently pass your thumb over a cut on his cheek and frown. “You're all bloody.”

He nuzzles his face against your thigh, inhaling you. “I know.”

“You were gone so long.” Your voice quivers, pressure prickling behind the bridge of your nose. “I thought…”

Joel rises to his feet, his hands cradling your face. “I’m all right,” he says. “I’m here, and I’m safe, and I’m so goddamn sorry.”

You shake your head, pressing your lips together so the sob will not escape. Tracing his face with your fingers, broken in places, healing in others, you see the echo of a boy who didn't know his place in the world. You see the haunt of days gone by. A ghost still occupies the cage of his ribs.

“I think you should tell the little boy that still lives here,” you say, putting your hand on his chest. “Tell him he’s alive. Tell him that he made it.”

Joel lowers his head, watching the way your fingers splay over his heart. He puts his hand on yours and pushes, and you feel the strong thump-thump-thump of his heartbeat.

“He knows.”

You lean forward and put your mouth to his temple. “Shower, Joel,” comes your whisper in his ear.

He nods, wrapping his arm around your waist and guiding you into the bathroom. The water hits you both true, scalding, the drain circled with red. He’s naked, his back to you as he sets his hair and lets his wounds bleed what they need to.

You lift your hands and trail them down his broad shoulders, your forehead dropping between his shoulder blades where your name is inked into his back. Joel’s muscles idly flex, his palm flat against the shower wall. His body shudders when you press your lips to the name on his back.

Wordlessly, you bring your arms around him, caressing his side, careful of the new bruises. Your other hand drops to his steel-hard cock and you begin to slowly stroke him. The noise that wrenches free from his throat is half pleasure, half agony, his hips bucking into your fist. You bump your nose against his back, your years-old sign to Just relax, and Joel hides his face in his bicep as you work your hand over him.

“G—fuck,” he grunts. “Goddamn… honey, I—”

You squeeze him at the base and twist your hand up and down the length of him, the weight warm and heavy, your thumb coaxing out a bead of precum. Your cheek is warm on his back, your arm struggling to reach around the width of him, your chest humming at the sound of his gruff moans.

“Let me…” He cuts himself off as you speed up your strokes, and you can feel his abdomen tense. “Fuck, let me make you feel good. Shit… let me…”

“Joel,” you say, “for once, stop trying to be my hero.”

His head falls back and you press your lips to his throat, nibbling the sensitive spot behind his ear: the old scar, that tiny circle, that hairless patch. He groans your name, and you’re smiling despite yourself, your mouth curling against his warm, tender skin.

“Inside me,” you whisper, the pace of your fingers over his length slowing to a crawl. “Remind me how it feels.”

He turns his head to look into your eyes, his lashes dewy, blinking hard to flick away the water, brow furrowed. His moustache bristles as his lips part in a question he does not (or maybe cannot) articulate, and you’re fractured into pieces by the intricate curve of his nose, the freckles on his jaw, the silver strands in his beard. A rough hand cups the back of your neck and another takes you by the waist, and you’re flattened to the wall, your hand braced on the glass next to you as he kisses you deeply.

Consuming, heady, warm—you give in, your hands avoiding the delicate skin of his wrists where he’s been bound, helpless. Sighing softly into his mouth, you let his kiss humble the part of you that still needs the walls you’ve built from the marrow of your anger. It circles the drain, lead-filled paint, as you remember under his hands how it feels to live.

You reach between your bodies, your leg wrapping around his waist, and slide the head of his cock through your weeping slit. Joel sucks in air through his teeth, the water lashing his back like a whip, and he surges forward, grasping you by the waist and sinking his cock into your tight hole.

You cry out his name, burying your face in his throat and baring your teeth. Your name leaves his mouth in kind, an apparition, sounds you barely recognise anymore. As you take him inside you, the memory of who you were with him pounds at your ribcage, begging to be let out. And you covet them, selfish as you are now for fucking him this way, needy and impatient, your fingers tugging his wet locks.

You see no point in scooping out the marrow; there is still sweetness stuck to the bones of your old life with him. Instead, you coat your teeth in this, the slow drag of his cock, the depths he reaches so easily, so knowingly. His fingers prod the bruised flesh of your hurt and yet you still guide him inside. You still pull his hair and kiss his throat where his Adam’s apple bobs and you still let him hold you close enough to splinter.

He’s grabbing fistfuls of your ass and sucking on your throat, his thrusts sloppy as he tries to hold back, to make you come first, but you tighten, clenching down on him, making his groans pitch up into whines.

“Joel,” you gasp, your needy fingers prickling his scalp where you pull his hair. His teeth graze your throat and you want him to bite, you want him to sink in deep, you want his jaws to latch onto your skin. You want him never to leave again.

He comes hard. His hips buck, pushing so deep he disappears into your body, and you see the blues, browns, reds of your painting as he empties all he has left inside you.

Panting, he drops his head to your breast, his open mouth still scattering weak, worn kisses over your skin. Your lungs expand under his palms, fingers stuck in the grooves between your ribs, his body an offshoot of yours, not the other way around. In the ringing afterlife of your pleasure, you vaguely feel him mouthing words you cannot hear. You run your fingers through his hair and enjoy the battering of the scorching water as it melts you both into one.

Later, in the sticky, humid silence of the bathroom, steam still swirling around your heads, fogging the glass, you trim Joel’s hair.

"Do you ever get scared?" you ask him, the shhhick of the scissors gliding across a chunk of his hair. "Do you ever go out on a job and think to yourself, What if I slip? What if this is it?"

Joel huffs. "It's not so much about myself as making sure the other guy goes down first."

“I think I’d be scared.” You twirl a lock of hair around your finger and let it fall over his forehead. “I don’t think I’d be able to look into someone’s eyes and take their life.”

He casts his eyes to his lap, flicking off some hair from his thigh. “One time, I thought it was over. I wasn’t quite seventeen yet, runnin’ drugs for some gangster. He sent me to El Sauzal to discreetly transport a couple kilos out of the city; someone had snitched and he didn’t want any rival gangs to find his stash. But the people there, they… They didn’t know any better. There were mothers, kids. Innocent people, y’know? Just strays. I decided I’d come back for ‘em.”

Your stomach twists. “What happened?”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “I was too late. By the time I got back, the whole goddamn city was on fire. The people were either dead in the streets or close to it. They didn’t do anythin’ wrong. They didn’t ask for any of it. But they were weaker, slower. I couldn’t walk ten feet without seein’ some kid wrapped up his mother’s arms, burned to a fucking crisp. So, I came back with weapons, marched into the gang’s territory, and I killed ‘em all.”

Days ago, you’d be afraid of the man whose back warms your belly where you stand just behind him. You would hesitate to reach out and put your hand on his shoulder the way you do now. But you curl your fingers over the muscled curve of his arm and his head falls back against you, spidering open, his gooey molten centre bared for you.

Joel. Just Joel.

“Did you see the painting?” you ask him quietly.

“I see everything you do,” he says. “It's beautiful, baby.”

You drop your gaze from his face in the mirror and set down the scissors on the vanity. “I can't pretend to understand what you've been through, Joel, and that makes things even harder. All I've ever wanted is to love you, to take your pain, and all this time there's been so much I never even knew about. And I’m sorry.”

Joel’s hand comes to cover yours, clasping your fingers. They’re warm, rough, but you do not sense the phantom blood. “If I’d told you from the beginning,” he says, “maybe I never would've hurt you in the first place. All those years I thought I was protecting you from myself, I was hurting you—the one thing I swore I would never fuckin’ do.”

“Joel…”

“Baby, don't apologise to me,” he says firmly, putting his lips to your knuckles. “Never apologise to me. And don't you let me off easy.”

“Have I ever?” you say with a halfhearted smile.

“Yeah,” he says, “the day you let me marry you.”

You scoff. “Oh, please. Wedding planning was hell on earth for you.”

“Just because I didn't like the photographer—”

“You didn't not like the photographer, Joel. You wanted to draw and quarter the photographer.”

He huffs like an angry dog, frowning at you in the mirror. “He kept puttin’ his goddamn hands on you.”

You laugh, brushing your thumb over the patch in his beard to indicate you're finished. “He was posing us, cowboy.”

Joel rises to his feet and closes the scissors away inside the drawer. “Posin’ you, sure.”

“He was afraid to touch you. Probably thought you’d take off his hand. And the pictures turned out great.”

“Yeah,” he says, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Way the sunlight caught in your hair, your eyes… I don't know. Beautiful.”

He was so shy the first time you kissed him. Cheeks flushed, eyes cast toward the ground, the wind ruffling his curls where it blew over the water. He was made in an artist’s image, you thought that night, the details pored over like paperwork, the sparkle in his eyes something the painter covets. But the portrait has never wilted in the years you've known him. It's grown older, sure, but it is not old. He's still shy sometimes; he still looks down when he smiles, and he still turns his cheek when you tell him he's beautiful.

“Do you…” He rubs his palms over his thighs, looking up at you through his lashes. “Do you wish you could go back?”

It's your turn to sit. You drop into his chair, your arms curling over the back of the seat, and watch him on his journey to his knees. “I don't know, Joel,” you tell him. “I think about that day and part of me wants the magic of it back. I want the breeze and the sun and the white canopy and I want you sliding this ring on my finger. But knowing what I know now…”

“You wouldn't have married me,” he says like it's the only answer. His eyes are wet and sad and they sparkle so bright in the day.

“I wish I’d known,” you say plainly, bringing his hand to your cheek and resting it over the cool wedding band. “I wish you would have told me everything. I wish you didn't make me question your love, even for a second. I wish you could have spared me all this anger I have—all this pain.”

He’s stone-still, a figure in a portrait, and you brush your fingers across his cheek. “But killing isn't what you are, Joel. It’s what you do. And I’m so tired of being angry.”

You say it fiercely, your tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth, your throat tightening. You swipe your thumbs under your eyes and meet your husband’s eye. “I love you more than my anger and my hurt have room for. And if I can love you this hard, if I can feel all this pain and still be that same girl who fell for the guy from the restaurant, then I can let myself get hurt all over again.”

Joel shakes his head, cupping your face in his hands as his eyes brim with tears. “Oh, baby…”

“I know it's never been an easy marriage,” you say, your voice breaking, “and I’m always travelling, and I know that I can get snippy and we bicker, but I wouldn't go back to that day, Joel, because I wouldn't change anything. Even if I have to feel all of this again, I wouldn't take it all back.”

His inhale shudders through him and your heart lurches out of your chest. “I don’t deserve that,” he whispers, his thumb stroking your cheek, catching a tear that falls. “I’ve hurt you too much to ever be worthy of what you've given me, sweetheart. I ain't a good man, or even a decent one. But fuck, if I can be good for you, I’ll pray to whatever God they want me to. I’ll scrape my knees and put my hands together and fake it ‘til I’m someone you want. I swear it, baby.”

“Joel.” You gently pry his hands away. “The life you've lived, the things you've been through… I can't change any of it. I can't be what you need all the time, and fuck, I want to be. I do, Joel. But this life is something you have to figure out yourself. Nobody should force you to believe in something that's only ever caused you pain.”

He never told you about the tattoo; you had to find it yourself. Shucking the hem of his shirt up over his head, two weeks separating the last time you’d been able to indulge in his body, you trailed your fingers up his back and paused at the sound of him hissing through his teeth.

“Easy, cowboy,” you cooed. “Are you all right?”

Wordlessly, he turned, taking your hand and lifting it to the reddish skin around the black ink. You gasped, your fingers jolting backward as if struck by a feeler of lightning.

“Joel,” you said tremulously, “please don't tell me you were drunk and this was an impulse decision.”

“Guys in the Marines would get tattoos that meant somethin’ to them. Easier to carry around with you when you're away.” Joel met your gaze again, your tearful eyes, and brought your knuckles to his mouth. “Tell me you want it gone, and it's gone.”

You shook your head, a laugh snaking past the lump in your throat. “Selfishly, I think it’s very sexy.”

He chuckled, kissing the breath from your lungs.

The memory is heavy in your stomach. It's something you'll have to roll around in your mouth a thousand times before the taste begins to dissolve.

“I need time, Joel,” you tell him. “I need to wrap my head around things. I… I can't be the girl you want right now.”

Joel brushes his thumb over your chin. “You have always been the girl I want,” he says. “If you need time, you have it. If you need a warm body, you have it. I’m whoever you want me to be. And if it ain't a husband, then… then that's okay. But I can’t promise you that I won't stop tryin’ to get my wife back. That’s not who I am.”

You sniffle, twirling the ring on his finger. “You’ll get sick of it. The waiting.”

He smiles so softly that you can feel a bud begin to bloom in the core of you, nourished by the way he keeps his hand on your thigh, absently rubbing the sore muscles there. “I waited my whole life for someone like you to come along—someone who could give me the purpose I’d been lookin’ for. I can wait another lifetime. I can wait a thousand.”

“You’ll resent me. You’ll start to hate me.” You don't know why it comes pouring out of you, but the gates are brittle wood and they snapped in the torrent. “I’m an angry drunk. I smell like paint half the time. I travel for work.”

Joel just studies your face, some inexplicable calm etching out the agony. “You take your coffee with milk and sugar and you can't stand it black, but you make it that way for me anyway. You sleep until noon when you're jet lagged and I sit up in bed just to watch you dream. You lie in my arms on the couch at home and ask me about my day even when you're noddin’ off. You dreamed about love when you were a little girl, the way it happens in books. You told me in your wedding vows that you'd found it with me. You think I could resent a girl like that?”

He smiles like it hurts and heals all at once, like it's a foregone conclusion, like you were meant to be loved by him.

“Time doesn't mean a goddamn thing. I know the girl I see in front of me now. Time won't change how much I love her.”

Flipping through the list of potential venues, Joel tucked into your side, you said, “We’ll have an outdoor ceremony. No churches.”

“Baby, I won't burst into flames if I step inside a church.” Joel playfully flicked his tongue over your nipple, obscured by his T-shirt. “Tommy, on the other hand… things he's done…”

You laughed, gently pushing at his head. “No churches,” you said again. “I don't care how much more we’ll have to pay or travel to get around it. You're my husband. You're my comfort, and I want to be what's comfortable for you. Understood?”

He looked up at you, his lips parted as if on the precipice of speech. You beamed, bringing his face to yours and kissing him deeply.

“But if the wind knocks over the gazebo, you're not getting your dick inside me on our wedding night,” you said against his mouth. Joel shook his head, yanking you on top of him and tearing the shirt from your body. Your binder landed with a flutter of loose pages to the floor.

“You didn't kill Cabrera.”

Joel lowers his eyes. “No. He got away.”

“So there's still a contract on your head.”

“For now.”

“So,” you say with a sigh, crossing the room and digging through your bag, “you have to go.”

“I have to go,” he echoes, following you like a shadow. “No matter what… I’m finishing it. Tonight.”

You pull the switchblade from your bag, open Joel’s fist, and place the cool wood hilt in his palm.

“Goddammit, Tommy,” he says under his breath. “He shouldn't have…”

“But he did,” you say. “He said I should be the one to have it. I think it should be yours.”

He curls his fingers over the hilt and flicks open the blade. It's light, but it seems to weigh him down. You rest your hand over his.

“Do what you need to do.”

He drops his forehead to yours and closes his eyes, soaking in this final breath exchanged between your silent bodies, dipping his fingers in the sanctified waters and coming out unscalded.

Bill calls Joel not a moment after he steps onto the street outside the Continental.

“That's a heavy price on your head.”

“Yeah, Bill, I know.” He breathes in the cool air, like cigarette smoke, his nostrils stinging. Trash and a new, fresh breeze carried into the city. Nothing that stays here ever thrives. “Stayed alive so far.”

“So I hear,” grunts the Manager, “and leaving behind a hell of a lot of cleanup.”

“I won't stick you with the check,” says Joel. “It's my business.”

“I don't conduct business inside this hotel,” says Bill, “which is why I won't tell you that a certain helicopter at a certain helipad is refuelling as we speak.”

Joel smirks, flicking out his cuff to check the time. “Any reason why you aren't tellin’ me this?”

“I like you, Joel. Despite myself.”

Silent, he waits for more.

“Besides,” Bill continues, “we live and die by honour. And you've saved my ass more than once.”

Joel snorts. “Which time are you thankin’ me for?”

“Just take my goddamn advice and leave this world. For good this time.”

“I will,” says Joel. “One way or another. Thanks, Bill.”

High above the ground, sitting in the alcove by the window, you watch storm clouds gather over the city, darkening the sky, the sun, and your Joel, so far away, slouching calmly toward whatever end he will choose.

It's raining.

The first time you kissed him, a downpour suddenly swept up the both of you and you'd scrambled underneath a bridge by the water. You both laughed until your ribs were sore, holding hands as you ran, a soaking wet playbill above each of your heads for cover.

“At least the show was good,” you shouted over the roar of the rainfall.

Joel was mesmerised into stillness by the colours of the traffic lights in your eyes, how they shifted over the planes of your face. Starting to think like an artist, you'd tease, and he'd lean into it, a planet circling its sun.

“It was all right,” he said, taking the playbill from your hand. “You could catch a cold. We should get a cab.”

“Always my hero.” You grinned up at him, your eyes scanning his face in that particular way they did, as if ingesting the sight of him to later put the lines to a canvas. “Did you have a good time, Joel? I mean, really. You won't offend me.”

He grimaced. “I, uh… well, see, I’m not the best judge, and… I guess—”

“Joel.”

There was a gleam in your eyes that could have been amusement or could have been hunger. He doesn't remember. He only saw you tilt your chin and lower your eyes to his mouth, to that one place the Sisters always called vulgar, obscene, a place meant only for His word—

“Can I kiss you, Joel Miller, or will you keep being all heroic?”

It was soft, gentle, exploratory. Your mouth opened his like a wound, setting the scorching blade of your lips to the gash, staunching the blood. You healed and burned him, one hand on his back beneath his jacket, the other cupping his face. It reminded him of the statue that lived in the theatre underneath the church where all the boys and girls trained. An angel cast in white marble, cradling the face of Saint Eustace. The statue was chipped where his eye was meant to be.

He remembers the way he shuddered when you touched him like that. He remembers the chill that started in his feet and crept up his spine. Something like coming alive, settling back into his own body—no longer a spirit haunting the shell of a home but a man.

You pulled back, but Joel curled his hand around the back of your neck and kissed you again, deeper, maybe a little too eager, too inexperienced—but you gasped, fingers curling in his hair, your body curving into his. Your noses bumped when you separated, and he remembers laughing.

The rain is nothing like that night. It's the lash of a whip across his face, seeping colour from the world instead of infusing it with light and movement. The water by the docks slaps against the concrete and boats rock and groan against their mooring. The lights of the city are distant now.

Joel steps out of the car.

He marches toward his target, cocking the pistol in his hand, and calls out a name. It gets lost in the roll of thunder across the sky and lodges in his chest.

Cabrera waits on the landing pad, looking wraithlike in a long black coat and a pair of leather gloves. His pilot fuels the helicopter nearby. Neither of them hear Joel’s voice in the air. The rising sun is what gives him away—or maybe the gunshot, as he lifts his arm and pulls the trigger.

It does not pierce flesh. It ricochets off one of the rotor blades. He had aimed slightly to the left.

The pilot scampers off into hiding, but the slash of the bullet through the rainfall is enough to get the attention Joel wants. Cabrera reaches inside the lining of his jacket and fires a single shot. Joel can feel it tear through skin and muscle, but it doesn't hurt.

“Joel,” greets Cabrera.

“Manuel.”

His chest heaves, his jacket soaked through, the cold sinking bone-deep.

“Let's finish this.”

The glimmer in those depthless black eyes is the panther at the hunt, relentless in its hunger, licking its chops at the sight of a challenge. For all the coward’s blood in his veins, it still pulses at the prospect of winning.

“Like men,” says Cabrera, tossing his gun aside at the same time Joel does. “With honour. No more guns.”

And it's laughable: the thought that there is any honour left in a world like this. A world where children are beaten and lashed and trained to hold a weapon too big for their hands. A world that burns villages, butchers families, and still claims that without rules, we live with the animals.

A world as unruly as this cannot be ruled. He never truly considered it until he saw the sad gleam in your eye, felt the empathetic touch of your hand on his face, and began to realise that maybe he should be furious.

But because he already knows he's going to win, Joel lets his opponent land the first blow.

The blood is tangy, near-sweet, as he swipes his forearm over his mouth and smears crimson on his shirtsleeve. It tingles faintly on his lips and crackles, warm as the melt from a late-winter snow. He feels it settle in the grooves of his palms, the hairs of his beard. He’s drowning in it.

Cabrera hits hard, but he’s slow. He’ll take five punches in the time it takes to wind up for one. Joel brings his arm up to block the next and delivers a blow to the sternum with his knee as his opponent’s guard drops. Wide open, Cabrera stumbles a few steps back, choking down the telltale wheeze of being winded. Joel marches forward, relentless in his crusade, grasping him by the scruff of his neck, teeth bared like a mad wild dog, and bears his skull down on the side of the railing. Around them, the wind howls and lashes at his clothes, but he still hears the pained scream as if it were poured into his ears.

Cabrera drops to his knees, and Joel grabs him again, bashing his head repeatedly against the steel bar, the lapel of an Italian leather coat bunching between his fingers, tainted by rainwater and the fist of the man who's come to take his life.

And fuck, Joel wants to make it last.

But there's a knife in his opponent’s hand, conjured from the darkness of his coat pocket, and Joel must release him to avoid the lethal slash of the blade. Blinking blood and lashing rain from his eyes, the man lunges with a snarl, and Joel recovers from his lost victory, stopping him with his fingers curled around his opponent’s wrist. He brings his hand to the crook of Cabrera’s elbow and uses his leverage to snap the bone.

Yowling, Cabrera drops to his haunches, the knife clattering to the ground. Joel, chest heaving, stands over him, flexing his fingers as he readies his fist for the killing blow.

His name leaves Cabrera’s bloodied mouth, accompanied by a mouthful of crimson-tainted saliva spat on the ground at Joel’s feet.

“Joel…” He lifts his head, cradling his broken arm, and sneers. There’s a chilling glow of satisfaction in it. “Did you get your perfect life, Joel? Do you really think you’ve won? It won’t ever stop. Not after you’ve killed me, not after you’ve killed all of them. Is that what you’re going to do? Kill them all?”

He could. He has done far worse. He has spilled blood for gold coins and superficial alliances and someone else's revenge. He has stalked, stolen, lied, killed, and he could finish this now, so easily, with the flick of a blade.

But the song of death does not call to him now.

For so long he had trudged, unmoored, through heavy crimson blood. Like pulling at the seams of velvet, he'd sewn more lives into the sea of red and he never looked behind him to see the souls trying to pull him down at the ankles. He didn't know purpose until he saw the way the candlelight flickered in your eyes, until he tilted his head to the side and realised your smile was a new kind of beautiful from each angle.

The rain sticks to his lashes and he thinks of an old song of prayer the Sisters used to chant. He remembers curling his fingers around one of the rosaries that hung from the large cross in the cathedral and wincing in anticipation. He thought he would burn—that the metal would leave a red stain on his palm. It never did.

Maybe that's why he never believed. Surely, if there was a God, Joel Miller would have burned by now.

He thinks of shopping for furniture and date nights and lazy mornings, tangled in bedsheets. Your mouth, smiling against his, whispering I love you across the breakfast table. Dancing—or swaying, more like—under the kitchen light. Loving easily, never feeling as if he must grab hold of the cross and burn himself upon it just to feel.

Joel turns the switchblade in his hand, lurches forward, and plunges the knife into Cabrera’s chest.

There is no noise but a faint gurgle from his mouth, his hand weakly rising to grasp the hilt. Joel drops to his knees and fishes Cabrera’s cell phone from his pocket.

“The blade is stuck in your aorta,” he says. “If you pull it out, you’ll bleed out and die.” He puts the rain-slick screen in front of Cabrera’s face. “Pull the contract.”

A few feeble taps are all it takes, and Joel Miller is no longer a target. His name glares back at him on the screen, from two million to nothing, not the boogeyman any longer but something akin to a civilian. Joel tosses the phone into the water and turns to leave.

“See you in hell, Joel,” Cabrera chokes, still grasping the shiny wooden hilt of the blade.

He barely hauls himself into the car, which chokes to a rumbling start. There's blood seeping through his shirt where Cabrera shot him, and his fingers shake as they pull away from the wound, the red so bright, so alive. Joel grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut.

If there’s a God, he thinks, I hope you fucking hear me now.

Tell me that we don’t get what we deserve. Because there is nothing I deserve in this world if I cannot keep what I’ve found.

His fingers trembling, smearing blood across the screen, he makes a call.

And your voice on the line, soft, sticky with sleep, whispering his name—just his name: Joel?—is what wrenches the first sob from his throat.

Joel, you say, like it means something, like it's precious. A jewel pressed from dusty black coal. Come back to me. Come home.

So he does.

#fic: helen #kiwisbell's fics #pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #the last of us #the last of us hbo #tlou fic #joel miller angst #joel miller au #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fic #john wick au

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nyandaah · 2 days

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I don't know how to articulate my thoughts on it consicely (as usual, hence why I rarely ever write posts here anymore), but ever since this week's dunmesh ep I can't stop thinking about That scene between toshiro and laios and how it's been talked about as a piece of representation of the neurodivergent struggle.

I've seen those panels countless times before the anime got to it, and I can't understate how Real of a thing it is that we're seeing through laios- that pain and frustration that comes from having the rug pulled under you in being told that been getting it Wrong the whole time and nobody's bothered to point out the donkey tail pinned on your ass.

but I think that's only the first half of the statement, and the way people talk (and don't talk) about toshiro does the moment a disservice.

seeing how people talk about it before getting to the scene itself, it ended up catching me off-guard how much of a Person toshiro is. he's always talked about as the strawman or the figure representing neurotypical society- the one that others us.

I see where it's all coming from, he's not a likeable character to most of the fandom for reasons I won't hold anyone against, but again- he's an important part of the picture that dunmesh paints of the nd struggle.

I find it absurd to portray toshiro as a representation of the 'average'. being both of royalty and of a culture that has instilled upon him his own values and expectations when it comes to socialization. it's why the inclusion of his retainers (especially maizuru) was a brilliant story decision; alongside laios', we get to see HIS social ineptitudes and how central they are to HIS character.

like. a major point of grievance many of the audience has with toshiro is his rose-tinted 'romance' with obviously-uninterested falin. I get it, especially if you've experienced that type of engagement with an unwanted pursuer. but dear lord if that doesn't perfectly parallel him with laios as a fellow Socially Inept Man.

it hit me as much as laios hit me when he said he envied our boy's sincerity. because that's a true and often less talked about part of the neurodivergent struggle(tm)- the difficulty to express your feelings. just like the other end of the spectrum, it hurts yourself as much as it hurts others.

as someone whose brain problems often manifest as social anxiety and feeling like i'm either unable to or unworthy of expressing how I feel, I envy laios too.

tl;dr- there are two characters present in that scene in episode 17.

#dungeon meshi #laios touden #toshiro nakamoto

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wondersinwaynemanor · 2 days

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some petty scenarios between the Wayne kids just to annoy the other (or more like get some attention, even though they won't admit it).

Tim: You know I hate your paintings, Dami. They're too colorful and too bright. They're too... Ugh.. Good. And... And... Maybe find another hobby? It's getting annoying.

Damian: You know what's a nuisance, Drake? You.

Tim: Not as annoying as your -

Damian: Keep talking nonsense, Drake, and I'll be asking for the portrait I did of you and Kent.

Tim, wraps an arm on Damian's shoulder: Heyyyy, I was kidding. All good, Dami.

---

Jason: Remember when you had the long hair, Goldie?

Dick: And I want to have that hair again.

Steph: I wish I was there to see it in person. You slayed, Dick!

Dick, flutters his lashes: Oh, you didn't need to say that, Steph.

Jason, scoffs: Ha? That long hair slayed? It was too shiny, it stung my eyes. No, no--it blinded some rogues. You don't want that to happen to you, right, Steph?

Dick, pouts: What are you talking about, Little Wing???? You even said you wanted a hair like mine!!!

Jason: I was young and made bad decisions. Of course, you all know that by now.

Steph: Jason doesn't know what he's talking about. Have the long hair again, Dick!

Dick, huffs: I'm glad I got a supporter.

---

Steph, groans: I can't focus!!!

Steph can't see Cass' face with her cowl on but she knows Cass is giving her a questioning look.

Steph: You're too distracting, okay?

Cass continues to stare at Steph.

Steph, whispers: You're wearing the perfume I really like.

Cass, tilts her head: Okay. I won't use-

Steph, gasps: Who told you to do that???

---

Jason, tries to enjoy his toast and tea in peace: Maybe try to open the drawer harder, Timbo? I'm sure it will be broken then.

Tim, opening the refrigerator doors this time with extra force, raises his voice: What was that, Jay???

Jason: Are you serious? It's too early.

Tim, gets a cup of coffee: Not my fault you're in the kitchen. Go and eat in your room. You're not the only person in this house.

Jason, raises his brows at him: What's your fucking problem??

Tim: Nothing.

proceeds to steal the fruit that's on Jason's plate.

Jason: Seriously?????

proceeds to grab Tim's cup of coffee on his hand and chugs on it.

Tim: You're an animal!!!

Jason: So are you!!!

Alfred, by the kitchen door, pinches the bridge of his nose: Oh, should the young masters must really be shouting this early?

---

Duke: Do you need anything else, Dick?

Dick, grins: Nope, nope. Carry on, Second Little D.

Duke: I can't really help you with your bike if you're singing loudly right in my ear.

Dick, blushes: Oops, sorry. I'll keep quiet.

Duke, chuckles: No, it's okay. Just don't do it right in my ear. I need my hearing.

meanwhile, Damian plays a video in the Batcomputer in a high volume.

Dick, shouts from across the cave: Dami, maybe lower the volume?

Damian, shouts back: Tt. It's a tactic to cover up your singing, Grayson. And Thomas, I need your help with-

Dick: I still need him with my bike, Dami!

Damian: You've had him for the past three hours, Grayson!

Dick: And so???

Damian: And so, I need his assistance with something.

Duke, scratches the back of his neck: Maybe I can help you both later. It's time for me to call Izzy anyways-

Dick and Damian at the same time: Wait, no!

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a-dumb-sarcastic-bisexual · 3 days

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Clone wars headcanons that took me forever to edit

I feel like my last couple of headcanons have been mushy so I’ve decided to write some shit Ahsoka and Anakin do that piss each other off

Ahsoka bites the skin around her nails all the time and most of the time she won't stop till they’re bleeding

Anakin’s tried literally everything in the book to get her to stop

He tried putting spices on her hands forgetting that she likes spicy food, he’s tried painting her nails (like that’ll do anything) but she keeps picking the paint off, now he just uses the force to remove them from her mouth

That’s gotten a few growls from her but at least it makes her aware she’s doing it but it doesn’t stop her from bitting them a couple of seconds later

Honestly he’s given up and just sits in silence while she complains about the pain

Anakin paces whenever he’s even slightly nervous and she can tell how nervous he is depending on how fast he moves

If he’s just kinda anxious he moves pretty slow but if he’s like one shirt caught on a door handle away from a panic attack he’s teleporting

When Padme told him he was gonna be a dad he was ecstatic for about 24 hours but after that some invisible timer went off in his head he booked it to Ahsoka’s house (she lives down the street cause of course she does)

Walked into her room and woke her poor sleepy butt up with all his pacing

Girl swears to this day he broke the damn sound barrier with how fast he was moving

She just wordlessly sat up and patted her bed cause she knew she wasn’t gonna get any sleep until he did

She sat by him and listened as he rattled off all his worries and only really stepped in when the darker thoughts surfaced when it was all said and done she turned to him and said “Now let me kriffing sleep”

Should he have probably left the room yeah but he got a total of 30 minutes of “sleep” that night so it’s not surprising that he knocked the fuck out of

Padme was a little bit alarmed to wake up without Anakin but was quickly soothed when she read Ahsoka’s message “Your nerf herders with me”

She knew the pregnancy would dredge up some unhappy feelings and she also knew Anakin can’t think clearly if he doesn’t have Ahsoka to sort through the bullshit in his head

She just got ready for brunch with her two favorite people and smiled cause she knew Obi-Wan and Rex would join them for dinner with or without an invitation

When Anakin and Ahsoka were living together they would kick each other out of their own bathrooms

Why? Well Ahsoka said Anakin’s had better lighting and water pressure and Anakin would do it to spite Ahsoka because he knew it would piss her off

Slowly but surely their stuff gets moved into each other's bathrooms and it’s a weird amalgamation of crap

Also when they were living together Anakin would ask Ahsoka if she was hungry before cooking and she’d often say no because she didn’t want to impose but his cooking always looked and smelled good

So half the time girl would just end up eating some of his food when she thought he wasn’t looking

At first he was like “Snips you said you weren’t hungry” to which she would respond “Yeah I wasn’t hungry then but I am now” after that he starts making more food on instinct cause damn that girl can eat

Anakin gets back at her pretty easily tho by taking the first bite of her food whenever they go out to eat his excuse is that he’s “making sure it’s not poisoned” he never does this to Padme cause he respects her too damn much

And he can’t use that trick on Obi-Wan and Rex cause the former taught him the trick and the latter has a bullshit detecter built-in

Both Anakin and Ahsoka pull that trick on the twins tho (which gets them a quick scolding from Padme)

Speaking of the twins it’s not surprising that as they grow up they realize that their auntie isn’t human so of course like any normal child they have questions and Anakin being the little shit that he is spots an opportunity for some laughs

So he turns to the twins all serious-like and goes “Well my loves we actually found your auntie in a dumpster we have no idea where she came from” the twins are distraught and go to the nearest adult who just so happens to be their uncle Rex

And Rex also being a little shit backs up Anakin’s story with so much sincerity that even Anakin believed it a little bit

The twins being the angels they are apologize to their auntie for her terrible origin story with tears in their eyes and her reaction more than made up for the swift ass-kicking the boys got

When Anakin was taller than Ahsoka he made her life hell by making fun of her every time something was even slightly out of her reach

He would make a big deal about grabbing it for her while commenting about how the temple’s architecture wasn’t made with the “young ones” in mind

Obi-Wan has turned multiple blind eyes when Ahsoka socked the shit out of his arms when he tells one too many jokes some days

When she finally grows taller than him she makes the biggest deal about it and no one can blame her

While Anakin is the pilot Ahsoka is easily the navigator she often jokes that Anakin wouldn’t find his way out of bed without help

Which is funny cause he often acts like a herding dog with her putting his hand on her back or holding her arm to guide her

But he’s wrong 9/10 times so it’s not uncommon to see Anakin guiding her in one direction and then see him get dragged in the opposite direction a couple of minutes later

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abubblingcandle · 21 hours

Note

I would love to hear more about your thoughts on Jamie’s loan being terminated

You do not know the box you have opened my friend. I've been talking about this a lot today as fic may be coming but the one word summary is that it is all about the ✨optics✨

Because if we step outside of the AFC Richmond bubble and just look at the sequence of events that goes on, it looks so bad for our boy.

He fights with his teammate on the pitch over his treatment of another teammate. They are both booked for this fight. Jamie is then yanked in the first half of the game very close to half time. This looks like disciplinary action. It looks like the blame is being placed at Jamie's feet and he is being pulled off the pitch as 'punishment'. Because if it is a tactical change, if it is a problem with the play on the pitch then you wait until half time so it can be a more thought out decision. And looking at the quality of Jamie's play during the match, he's not playing badly so it can't be because of that. So it must be disciplinary.

Then, in the press conference post match Ted makes the comment "Jamie knows what he needs to do". Which is just so Ted but I'm not going to get into the Jamie side of that now because that's not relavent to this argument. SO from a press POV, that sounds an awful lot like this being a recurring problem, internal disciplinary action had been threatened and Jamie continued with this behaviour and so it would be taken further. It also places the blame for problems squarely on Jamie's shoulders.

Next couple of days, Dani Rojas. Dani would be plastered all over social media about his return. Running around training, scoring goals, being hugged by his teammates. And who's missing from these scenes ... Jamie Tartt. The striker brought in when Dani got injured who has been walking a fine line. Whispers will start proper now, where is Tartt? He wasn't injured at the game, Kent didn't even touch him. Is this disciplinary as in being barred from training in which case that is ten times worse than anyone thought or is he choosing to miss training in which case that shows a major break down and potential breach of contract. Bad news.

Then ... Jamie's loan is terminated. Now from all the vagueness about Ted not being told, no one knowing if it was City that called him back or Richmond that terminated it that likely means there was a vague as fuck statement likely just saying "Jamie Tartt's loan has been terminated, all of us at Richmond wish him well". Which screams (say it with me now) disciplinary issues. The rumour mill would be going a mile a minute but what conclusions do we expect them to draw with that being the image that was painted in the lead up.

Jamie then barely plays for City the rest of the season which doesn't fill anyone with confidence that Jamie has been 'forgiven' for his transgressions.

SO - the point being, if any other team looks at Jamie during the summer loan/transfer window after S1, his record screams DISCIPLINARY ISSUES which for basically every team out there is a deal killer. Why would you want to spend premier league salary and transfer fees for a player that might come into your team and be hostile, refuse to train, fight within the team ... you just wouldn't.

Being returned from a loan for disciplinary issues is a career killer and it adds so much to beginning of S2 Jamie because what if he had looked for a footballing way out of Manchester but no one wanted anything to do with him for the money that Man City were asking and so ... what else was he to do? But then in running away to LCA ... he just proved all of those issues right and gave Man City a real opportunity to void his contract

... for ... disciplinary issues

#jamie tartt #meta #ask box is always open!

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bitethedevil · 1 day

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NSFW Raphael Headcanon: Ownership and Alienation

(It’s another Raphael headcanon, my dudes. It’s about themes that I have also explored in my fic ‘The Devil’s Dinner Party’ that I wrote recently, and which inspired this headcanon ʸᵉˢ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ⁱˢ ᵐᵉ ˢʰᵃᵐᵉˡᵉˢˢˡʸ ᵃᵈᵛᵉʳᵗⁱˢⁱⁿᵍ ᵐʸ ᵒʷⁿ ᶠⁱᶜ, ˢᵘᵉ ᵐᵉ. I think Raphael would 100% alienate someone he wanted simply to redirect their full attention to him and, more importantly, to make them more dependent on him. My thoughts turn to the plaque in his archive that says something along the lines of “Turn your attentions toward to higher things. Turn them towards to me”. Raphael does not only want to own you, he also wants to be the center of your universe.)

TW: Abusive and manipulative relationships.

Raphael would make it into a sport to alienate you from all of your loved ones. Your friends, your family, your allies…And if you already have a partner whom you love very much? Oh, even better.

He would start small when it came to spreading chaos within your relationship. He would insist on meeting alone with you whenever you were with others, so that they would wonder about what was happening behind closed doors. He would make sure to be close to you whenever you met, so that you would smell of him when you returned to your partner. His greetings had started out as a kiss on your hand, and it had now evolved to a kiss on each cheek every time you saw each other. You naively let him go one step further with you each time, because you saw it as simple cordiality.

Raphael would plant doubt in your mind by using everything you ever revealed to him to his advantage. He would speak directly to all your insecurities. Because your partner seems like such a good person, why would they ever want to be with you? Would they really love you if they knew about all the terrible things you have done? They are not like him, of course, who would embrace it all with open arms. He who would accept all of you, sins and all.

He keeps going one step further with you and then one step further again. Had you asked him to stop or told him that he made you uncomfortable, he would comply…but you never did, did you? During one of your meetings, his arms wrap around your waist and he trails kisses up your neck. By the time he whispers in your ear ‘do you want me to stop, sweet mouse?’, you are already too wrapped up in it to tell him ‘no’.

When he finally lures you into his bed, he is not gentle with you. His brutality in the way he takes you is a stark contrast to the gentle and caring lovemaking you have been used to with your partner.

He would cruelly transform into his devil form without warning while inside you, leaving you to yelp and grasp the sheets as your body struggles to accommodate his size. His claws dig into your hips and his sharp teeth leave bloody marks all over your body. The scariest thought is that despite the brutality that is making your entire body ache, the sheer strength of his cambion form reminds you that he is being gentle with you. He could break you with ease if he so pleased.

He makes sure that you cannot move. His hands and tail are gripping around you tightly, making sure you are locked into place and spread open for him while he fucks you without mercy. Occasionally he moves a hand to pull your hair to force you to look at him, or he moves it to grip around your neck to leave you gasping for air.

Your body hurts, but it is also intoxicating. It should all be too much for you, but to your great shame, you find it arousing…cathartic even, to be treated how you think you deserve to be treated. A fact that Raphael is well-aware of and using to his advantage.

When he is done with you, your body has been painted red, blue, and purple. Scars, bruises, bite-marks…all part of the morbid painting Raphael has created on your body with his teeth and claws. While you can barely move from the aftermath of his brutal treatment, he admires his handiwork and the underlying meaning of the motif: His.

It is almost as good as the expression on your face, now that you have come down from your high. Raphael has successfully proven to you that what he was saying was right: You are a bad person. He sees the self-loathing, guilt, and regret starting to show in your eyes and he is feasting on it. The exact same feelings that will inevitably turn you towards him, and only him, once your partner sees the marks Raphael has left and leaves you.

Raphael will gladly remind you of his little lessons over and over again, should you ever forget: You are not a good person, you don’t deserve love, and no one but him will ever accept you for it.

#writing #raphael the cambion #raphael bg3 #bg3 raphael #baldur's gate 3 #bg3

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brokenpieces-72 · 2 days

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Painting Faces

Navigation

Graves has no choice but to be present on the day Makarov addresses the force, but he keeps to himself while blending in. Makarov doesn’t bother himself with Graves expecting him to stay in line. At least at first.

Then he notices your empty desk. Graves had cleared it of your personal affects, including photos and personal documents.

“We’re missing an officer?” He wonders aloud while Graves files through some reports.

“Officers Graves, you’re missing a partner?” He asks.

“I am perfectly happy being single.” He replies with a good hearted smirk. “The desk is open, we had an officer resign.”

“I see. Very well.” Makarov walks away before Graves can try to make another smart comment. Graves sits up straighter in his chair though.

“That… that is impressive.” Gaz comments as he enters the warehouse seeing the mural you were working on for Los Vaqueros. You look down at him from where you were perched on a railing of a sort of cat walk.

“Thought a cowboy motif would be fitting. Alejandro told me there were good men and women who died here during a raid. Wanted to honour them.” You exclaim. You roll your shoulders and arms hearing a few cracks. By now your bruises were yellow, nearly healed. Your pants are covered in paint, and you old hoodie was warm enough to keep your from freezing in the dropping temperatures. That and Gaz’s very kind delivery of tea. He climbs up to you on the cat walk, and hands you the thermos. Just holding it warms your fingers in your fingerless gloves. He leans against the railing with you admiring your work.

“Figured a mural was the least I owed them. Can’t imagine Soap and Alejandro don’t have some tension going on.” You say, gingerly sipping your tea. Yep you still burned your tongue.

“Speaking of them… Alejandro and Rudolfo have been recovering from a failed raid.” Gaz says. So it begins.

“Makarov.” You say. Gaz nods, shoving a hand in his pocket sipping his own drink. Things were going to be flipped on their head and spun like a top. It would take some time getting used to. Thankfully the 141 was making the transition for you as easy as possible. The nights your father spent with them you were always a part of the conversation. One night there was a promise made to help take care of you if your father couldn’t.

“Ran into Alex at the shop, apparently he found a smaller piece of yours, with I think he said a pillow fight.” Gaz mentions trying to change the subject. You smirked at that knowing the piece he meant. You side eye Gaz who returns it, and you toast your cups. You take a sip and think for a moment.

“Has Soap said anything?” You ask Kyle. The two of you hadn’t really talked since the night you needed safety. Even then it had been brief and awkward.

“It’s how he is.” Gaz says. He’s taken notice of how you two have interacted and Soap talking about you less than he had. “It’s not that he hates you, I think he needs to talk to you. Simple as that.”

“So this is where you’ve been.” A voice came from below and behind them. They both turn to see a face they weren’t expecting.

“Rudolfo. Come on up mate.” Gaz says, offering the bruised man, a hand up. Rudolfo eases himself up through the railings and looks up at your work in progress. He gives a friendly smirk.

“Alejandro will like this for sure.” He says.

“Least I could do after everything. How is he?” You ask, looking up at Rudolfo.

“Nothing can kill Alejandro, except Alejandro.” Rudolfo says. “Unfortunately, nothing can get him to rest either. He’s worried about more drug shipments getting past us when we can be stopping them and destroying them.”

“Sounds like Alejandro.” Gaz says taking another sip of his drink. You stare at your work while taking a sip and think for a bit. The three of you all stand there in silence for a bit. You keep asking yourself, how would dad do it? He could break cases open, getting gangsters like Soap and Gaz to bring the hammers he needed for it. Now Makarov was in the picture too. Which meant needing to hide the hammers right after and hope he would bring glue to repair it.

“Could tell him.” You suggest looking at Gaz. It takes him a minute to realize who you’re referring to. Graves was an insider now. Graves also had to be removed from the case after Makarov returned. Gaz considers it and Rudolfo listens. They were informed about Graves and his involvement as well. It was risky, but if you couldn’t be your father, maybe Graves could step up in a way.

Kyle looks at Rudy. “You know when the next shipments are coming in?”

“We have guesses. So far they’ve been using fishing boats, so they don’t have to claim cargo.”

“They’d need a warrant to start searching.” Kyle adds.

“What if they got one?” You ask. “I mean… who’s to say it’s only one fishing company.”

“We don’t hit innocent.” Kyle points out. “But…you may be on to something.”

“If proof of illegal activity was brought forward to the company itself, investigations would have to start. If Graves is at the forefront…” Rudolfo trailed off.

“Where do we start?” You ask, trying to keep the smug look off your face. You may get to see them in full action.

“We first get Alejandro’s permission. Then we get more information from Laswell. After that we prep for the raid.” Kyle explains.

“I can arrange that. Will have to bring him to see this.” Rudolfo says, gesturing to the mural.

“Wait until it’s done.” You say smiling. “Thinking of adding something a little extra.”

You head back with Gaz to the hideout. He’s teasing you for all the paint you got on yourself.

“At least it’s not on the scarf.” You say stepping inside.

“At least it’s not still wet, you’d have to take your clothes off outside so you don’t track paint.” Kyle teases as you take off your boots. You notice Soap leaning on the fire escape outside. Kyle just gives you a nudge and no words. You take your boots off and carry them to the back door leading out to Soap. You put them back on to join him.

“May I join you?” You ask. He looks back and nods. You step outside and sits on the steps, rubbing yours hands together, trying to warm them.

It’s silent between you two again. There’s just the faint sound of wind and the usual traffic down below.

“Saw Rudolfo today.” You say, squirming on the step.

“How is he?” He asks looking over to you.

“He’s doing better. Still a little rough. Alejandro is getting restless about the shipments though.”

“You don need to worry bout that.” Soap says, facing back to the streets.

“I am worried about it, because it’s what I should be worried about.” You say.

“You don. You’re not a cop anymore.” Soap exclaims. It doesn’t sting as much as it once had.

“…cop or not this is my home now.”

“You have a hom-“ Soap starts but you interrupt him.

“No I don’t. This is my home now.” You say looking up, with him looking at you now. “This city is my home. It was my dad’s home too. If the cops aren’t gonna fight for it, then who else will? I’m not sitting on my ass waiting for an opportunity anymore. You gave me one, I’m not letting it go again.”

Soap looks at you for a while. “What opportunity?”

“When you let me tag on your turf.” You say.

Soap thinks for a minute, and then scoffs. “Stubborn as your old man.” He says.

“Nothing like my old man.” You respond.

“Not at all.” Soap says sarcastically. You smile.

“I really am sorry for lying. Throughout that whole time I was debating whether to even report anything or tell you what I was doing.” You say, rubbing your neck.

“Why didn ya?” He asks, turning and leaning back against the railing. You shrug.

“Felt more at home here.” You admit

“At home? What home?” He asks.

“With you and everyone you introduced me too. Barely known Ghost that long and I feel safer around him than by myself.” You say. Soap smirks at that. Safer around Ghost of all people? That’s a new one.

“I knew you might’ve been a cop. Just hoped ya weren’t.” Soap admits. “Let’s get inside. Gonna snow soon I bet.”

You both go back inside, feeling more relaxed around each other than before. Price steps in the front door just as you two step in from the back. He’d been popping in and out the past week or so never staying for long. This time he was grumbling something.

“Ye aight Price?” Johnny asks.

“My own deliveries are backed up for the bar.” He exclaims. “Graves came by as well to tell me, in person.”

You wonder if Graves did it to maintain cover or to ask Price how you were. You don’t voice it.

“Nikolai can handle it but it’s clear they’re trying to make money difficult. Farah came by, saying a few real estate companies were scoping her neighbourhood. A couple kids threw water balloons at them.”

“I like those kids.” You comment, imagining soaked suits and irritated scowls.

“Alex is on damage control there.” Price says, finally setting his jacket aside. He stepped into the kitchen, stretching and taking a beer from the fridge while you and Johnny join him. You sit up on the bar stool again.

“Makarov is stretching out. He wants more than just us, he wants everyone.” Price states. Johnny leans against the counter arms crossed, Kyle joining at the bar.

“Why now?” Johnny asks. “Could’ve struck b’fore.”

The question is weighty and is left in the air for some time. If your dad was keeping Makarov under control why did he leave?

“Because of me?” You suggest. Johnny, Kyle and Price both look at you. They consider it, but there’s not much to support your answer. “Maybe… he can manipulate the police easier because Graves knows me, and wants me safe. If Graves acts out, Makarov can put me in the crossfire but now I’m not so he thinks it’s easier for him to fuck with the system…maybe?” You try to reason.

“Not entirely out of question.” Kyle mutters.

“Something to consider.” Price says. “We can’t just go at it expecting to find something we don’t know is even there. For now we support where we’re needed, and test waters. Makarov having the police on his side is a problem, but the question is how hard he uses them.”

“Speaking of, we got a tip from Rudolfo. Alejandro may want our help on a drug raid.” Kyle adds. “We need to figure out where the shipments are coming from though. Maybe try to convince Graves to get a warrant.”

Both Johnny and Price went quiet at the mention of Graves again.

“I hate to play devil’s advocate and I know you don’t like it, but Phil is the only one we have directly on the force. We can lead him to where the problems are and book it when he gets close.” You say.

“They’re not wrong.” Kyle agrees.

“Something we will consider.” Price offers. “Right now, we need to focus on finding the exact shipments, and then deciding what to do. It’s Alejandro’s operation, we go through him first.”

Ghost came in and everyone turned to look at him. In his arms is a bundled up hoodie while he shivers in a long sleeved shirt on. You get up quickly, hurrying to take the bundle from him. By now you’d seen Simon with enough animals to know he puts great value in them. Sometimes over himself, hence the hoodie not on his back.

When you take the hoodie you bite your tongue trying not to awe at the tiny, furry, adorable, cute, wittle bundles of claws and teeth in your arms. You stare at them and look up with your eyes at Simon, who is brushing the remains of snow off himself.

“Take em to your room, get a blanket.” He orders. No one else matters but these kittens, which you take to your bedroom without a word.

While you are getting a blanket and a small shoe box for them to stay in, Ghost gets a different hoodie to help him warm up. The mangy black cat, hops on to his shoulder while everyone else just watches.

“Congratulations?” Johnny asks Simon as you come back into the kitchen.

“Keep them from their shitty father.” Simon grumbles. As he leans against the counter the cat hops off his shoulder and on to the counter. “It’ll give the kid something to do when we’re out.”

“I thought I was coming with you guys.” You pipe up.

“We will think about it.” Price says, sounding a bit like a dad.

“I’m not a child.” You grumble.

“If you do come on the raid it won’t be like arresting someone, it’s shoot to kill and keep your eyes open the whole time. No one is walking with side arms, they have uzis and AKs. Some fire wild too.” Kyle reminds you.

“I’ve done a raid before.” You try convincing them.

“You’re stayin.” Johnny says with finality. It’s not out of anger or irritation. It’s meant as words of warning, that this was bigger than what you’d encountered and he didn’t want you in the line of fire. Literally. You drop your head with some swallowed disappointment. You want to help. But you don’t want them worrying about you.

“One condition?” You ask. Johnny shifts his posture to listen.

“Okay two conditions… first one is all four of you have to come back after that raid regardless of what happens, preferably with Alejandro and Rudolfo too.” You stare each one down. Not very intimidating but they’re lenient.

“What’s the second condition?” Ghost asks, their silence an agreement to your first condition. You look directly at Simon.

“I get to name at least one of them.”

Alex steps into his small home, hanging his keys on the hook. As he shuts the door, the kitchen light turns on down the hallway. Very carefully, Alex turns the lock on his door, pulling out his side arm. He stalks toward the kitchen until he hears a familiar voice.

“I needed bandages…”

Alex sighs and holsters his gun before going to a hall closet and getting a small first aid kit.

“If it’s worse than I think, I’ll drag you to hospital.” Alex warns and enters the kitchen, seeing Farah with a few scratches. She’d come to him with worse. Her clothes are still damp too. Alex has to hold a laugh picturing Farah throwing a water balloon at a bunch of realtors.

“You want anything to drink?” He offers setting the kit down. “Was gonna make myself some food and then sleep. Now I have company.”

Farah opens the kit and gets the cotton and alcohol.

“Happy to provide.” Farah says as she starts cleaning. Alex starts making a sandwich for Farah as well. Farah was a good person, defending her home and neighbourhood. Alex was still on the force but with the new chief commissioner he was tempted to resign. Take some security job to pay off bills. Graves had been asking him to stay on though. With the sketchy land deals going on by Milena Romanova, he wasn’t leaving anytime soon.

Alex sets a plate down in front of Farah and he sits by with a plate of his own.

“You didn’t have t-“

“I wanted to, now eat.” He says pushing the kit aside. Alex and Farah had an odd relationship. Farah would often drop in like this. Alex had made it a habit to do the same on her every so often.

“I need a favour.” Farah admits after a couple bites.

“Only one?” Alex teases. “Go on.”

“There’s an artist I want to hire.” Farah explains. Alex looks at Farah.

“Need a loan?” He asks.

“No. I need you to look the other way. A small peaceful protest to get the realtors to leave us alone.” Farah explains.

“You have an artist in mind?” Alex asks. Farah gives him a smile that gets covered by an another bite of sandwich.

“This is really good.” Farah says through a mouthful.

“Thanks.” Alex says chuckling.

Taglist: @yourlovely-moon @kaoyamamegami @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @sans-chara @1mommyrose4ever29 @talia-the-gemini @yuki2129 @whitetiger846 @graystorm444 @chibiduck @reaperxxxxzz @danielle143 @sobbingnshtting @cringeycookies @cryingpages @smitten-haematite-quartz

#john soap mactavish #cod au #task force 141 x reader #simon ghost riley #captain john price #kyle gaz garrick #gn reader #phillip graves #vladimir makarov #farah karim #alex keller #cod gangster au #gangster au #rudolfo parra #yep it’s a series now #again how is this still going #i love it

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