#wasted my last firewood on one

[angrybatart]

No shit, Sherlock. I was actually looking to see if I had herbs when I mis-clicked.

#fanart #sketch #Darkest Dungeon #DD Antiquarian #DD Occultist #Josephine #Alhazred #Baby Shambler #based on a run today where I accifentally used firewood on a science/alchemy table #ON A LONG QUEST #I normally use Josie to make more treasure and supplies appear when examing or interacting with curios #and uhh OOPS #wasted my last firewood on one #somehow made it out in one piece #Alhazred's not mad #in fact he's impressed #but now they have a horrible abomination sitting on the table and no one willing to take responsibility #normally nothing happens if you use firewood on the science table #that thing is making creature sounds from The Thing #still figuring out lip rings

[reidintoit]

cruel summer - j.m.

pairing: jj maybank x reader

summary: thigh riding supremacy

warnings: smut, language

an: more than happy to provide a part two :’))

wc: 1.4k

You were desperate. Completely and utterly desperate. And that was putting it lightly.

For the past hour or so, you had been sitting around the bonfire with the rest of the group on your boyfriend’s lap. While this usually isn’t a problem, tonight, JJ wouldn’t stop moving. 

Each time his leg bounced up and down, you felt the stitching of your jean shorts brush against your core. At one point, you did your best to readjust but were immediately sliding back down as his leg continued to bounce relentlessly.

At first, you tried not to pay much attention to it, believing it was just JJ being restless. Which was probably true, but it quickly turned into something more. 

-

“Ow!” Sarah exclaimed, jumping up from her chair and smacking her leg. “Fuckin’ mosquitos, I’m going inside!” 

You hadn’t been paying attention to the conversation going on around you or the fact that it had gotten significantly darker out. 

“I second that. These fuckers suck.” Kiara agreed, getting up to follow Sarah’s lead back into the house. 

You glanced down at your legs, examining for any possible bites. You weren’t itchy, but even if you were, you weren’t confident that you’d have noticed. In fact, you had no clue what anyone had been talking about for the past hour.

“You guys coming?” John B asked, breaking the silence while throwing the last piece of firewood into the pit. 

You looked back at JJ, who shook his head in response to John B without breaking eye contact with you. 

As John B walked away, you started to get hot. Maybe it was the fire burning a bit higher or the fact JJ hadn’t stopped looking at you. Either way, you needed to get the hell out of dodge. 

“I should.. probably go inside too. Bugs, yeah?” You struggled to form a proper sentence as you stood up.  

“Y/N, wait.” JJ demanded, reaching out to grab your wrist, “Sit on me.”

“JJ, I have been sitting on you for the past-”

“No, I mean, take off your shorts and sit on me.. please?” He repeats himself.

You look down at JJ, who seemed to be completely serious about wanting this. 

“J.. what about the others? They’re right inside.” You pleaded. 

JJ glanced over at the Chateau, hearing nothing but Lizzo blasting from the speakers, then back at you. “I don’t believe they will hear a thing, darlin.” 

You bite your lower lip, taking one last glance around before slowly unbuttoning your shorts. You allow them to fall onto the ground, stepping out and slipping your fingers on the sides of your bathing suit bottoms.

It’s obvious JJ noticed how ruined your bottoms are after rubbing against him for the past hour. The once pastel pink bottoms have a very prominent dark spot.

Suddenly, you feel your boyfriend’s fingers grazing the dark spot between your legs, getting a feel for just how wet you’ve been. “God damn..who’s got you like this?”

Instead of answering, you place your hands on JJ’s shoulders, sitting down on his thigh, and damn near gasping at the sudden contact. 

JJ wastes no time slipping his fingers under your bottoms and pulling them to the side. “You’re soaked, baby,” he whispered, pushing his leg up into your bare pussy without warning and hearing a sharp moan escape your lips. 

“You’re gonna ride my thigh until you cum, think you can handle that?” All you could do was nod in response at this point, feeling his hands fall to your sides. 

“Words Y/N.” he demands.

“Yes, yes. Please.”

That was all JJ needed before gripping your sides and pulling your hips forward, encouraging you to move. You needed no further guidance, finding a pace that you knew was going to get you off quickly. 

“JJ..” you whined softly.

He looked so incredibly hot like this. Watching you unravel on top of him had him painfully hard. He didn’t care about himself at this moment, just wanting to witness you use him. 

“Such a slut, hm? Riding me out here..” he praised.

You whimpered in response, his words sending a flutter into your chest. The knot in your stomach tightened. You could feel your boyfriend’s intense stare as you fucked yourself on his thigh. You couldn’t focus on anything but how you felt. How slutty you felt at this moment. Sitting in your boyfriend's yard in your bathing suit top, grinding against his leg.

You rolled your hips against him, whining at the feeling of your clit against his thigh. Your pussy getting wetter and wetter with each roll of your hips. Your grip on JJ’s shirt tightened as you rocked against him, panting and incoherently mumbling. 

You didn’t notice as he tore his eyes away from your face and down at his thigh. It was glistening from your arousal. 

Your pace increased as you got closer, using your free hand to grip JJ’s arm. 

“J - I - Please..” you whimpered, struggling to remain coherent as your hips grinded into him. 

“Doing so well. Come for me, Y/N.”

You shake your head, “I- fuck, baby, baby,” not being able to finish that thought before waves of heat rush over you. 

You practically collapse, burying your face into JJ’s shoulder as you ride out your orgasm. There was less friction as your cum coated his thigh, making each roll of your hips messier and slippery. 

“JJ, JJ, mmph-“ You cry out as his leg suddenly bounces up into your clit. 

“What baby? What’s wrong?” JJ asks, grinning from ear to ear. He’s incredibly proud of making you fall apart without touching you. 

“Again… please?”

JJ leans back into his chair, hands making their way back to your thighs, gripping into your skin. You felt your face get hot as he continued to admire you. 

“You want to get yourself off on me again?” You nod in response, leaning toward pressing your lips against his. A desperate attempt to get what you want. “Once more. Then you can fuck me.”

JJ looks past you, noticing no change in the volume of music from earlier. Whatever fun the pogues we’re having inside didn’t come close to this. 

JJ’s grip on your thighs slowly moves up to your hips, “60 seconds,” he says as he leans forward to kiss you, “Go.” 

You waste no time going back to the pace from before, failing to break the kiss. Your cum on his thigh was the perfect substitute for lube. 

You feel JJ kiss you, taking in your bottom lip and gently biting as you whine into his mouth. Your eyes remain sewn shut as your head is up in the clouds. You weren’t going to last long again.

“15..” he reminded you. 

It took one last roll as JJ jumped his leg into you for you to cum. Your head rolled back as you came, crying out without a worry of getting caught out here. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck! JJ, fuck me.”

#jj maybank x reader #jj maybank #jj maybank smut #jj maybank imagine #jj maybank one shot #obx #obx x reader #obx imagine #outer banks x reader #outer banks smut #jj obx #jj maybank blurb

[casualhedonists]

into the mist, into the clouds

pairing: lucy gray x fem!reader

words: 3.5k

warnings: very few; fluff, angst, mystery and intrigue etc, post tbosas lucy gray

playlist for this fic • main masterlist

a/n: my first non-smut fic on here! title from carolina by taylor swift, which this fic is very much based on. this is one of my favorite things i've written in a very long time. enjoy 🤍

i do not give permission for my work to be reposted/translated anywhere, under any circumstances.

“You didn’t see me here.”

Whispered words fill the space between you. Your head rests in her lap, dress crisp and clean and smelling like you, like your home. She looks at you with a sense of urgency, one you’ve seen all too many times before.

“What? Lucy Gray, you’re not…”

She can’t be leaving again. She only just arrived. The morning had brought dew and her muddied boots on your porch for the first time in months. Your mother was gone for the day, it was almost like Lucy Gray had known. Her dress was covered in dirt and grass stains. You piled it into a hamper, washed it in the fresh water of the creek down the hill from your house, scrubbing away while she collected firewood.

“I am. Tomorrow. Dawn.”

“Let me come with you.”

“It’s not safe, my love. I can keep myself protected if I’m alone. I’m startin’ to get real good at it.”

You don’t ask if she’d come back. Neither of you ever know the answer to that.

“Will you do something for me, Lucy Gray?”

Your voice drops. The fire crackles, the pine cones you’d collected together popping as they burn. She likes the sound, she told you. It was safe, comforting. Homely. You’d wondered if she was really talking about the fire, or you, the girl who sat with her in its warmth.

“Anything. You know I will.”

“Would you leave before I wake up? I’m not sure I can say goodbye to you again.”

She smiles, soft and sad, and gazes at you like you’re a song, or something she wants to memorise.

“Of course I will. It’ll be like I never came back here at all.”

The glow of the flames dance across her face.

“I don’t want that.” You whisper. “I hate feeling like you’re slipping away from me.”

She lowers her head to yours, your foreheads touch. You hear the smile in her voice.

“I’m here now, aren’t I?”

You’ve learned not to waste your time in tears, when she’s going to leave. There are better ways to spend those last moments, eyes dry and focused on tracing the lines of her face, committing it to memory for the last time in who knows how long. You sit up, curling into her, pressing your lips to hers, her hair still damp and smelling like the bar of soap you’d lent her when you fixed her a bath, your pruned fingertips massaging her scalp as the water began to cool. You make it to bed, sleeping soundly with her arms around you.

True to her word, she leaves in the morning. Leaving no trace, no proof she was ever there in the first place. But you feel the warmth of the sheets next to you, and you know.

She finds you the next summer.

“Don’t move.”

You freeze, long grass up to your knees, long skirt swishing as you wade through the field, sun blaring down on you.

A pair of warm hands press softly over your eyes.

“You’re back.” You beam, spinning around, taking her head in your hands, eyes shut, just listening to her breathing. You press your lips to hers.

“I sure am.” When you break away to take her in, look at her sunkissed face, you’re not sure you’ve ever seen her smile wider. If you didn’t know better, you’d say she got more beautiful every time you saw her.

You lie sun-drunk in the shade of the tall grass, lazing against each other as you go over your birthday, the village gossip, and she listens. Always listening, drinking up your words like she’s parched.

You’ve learned not to ask Lucy Gray where she’s been hiding, you both know it’s safer the less gets said. But she presses on, ever gentle, asking you for details when you fill her in on your life.

You jump at a movement in the grass beside you, but she just laughs. Picks up the snake, humming as it wraps and twists itself around her hand.

“These ones won’t hurt you, darlin’. They’re docile, see? Wouldn’t harm a fly.”

She lifts the snake to you slowly.

“You’re sure?”

“Do you trust me?”

“Always.” You reply instantly, like you’ve waited your whole life to hear the question.

“Then hold out your hand.”

You reach out.

“Close your eyes.”

You do. After a second, you feel hers, pressing into your palm, and an oddly warm sensation, smooth.

“It feels… dry.”

You open your eyes. The snake twists and drapes between the two of you, loosely binding your hand with Lucy Gray’s, holding you together.

She laughs, bright and sweet, like music.

“Well, what were you expecting?”

“I don’t know.” You confess. “Maybe for it to be wet? Slippery?”

Her laughter chimes through the field, a low gust of winding carrying it away. You stay like that for a few more hours, until night begins to fall, and the summer wind carries her away, too.

A year passes. Then another half.

Your mother gets older; she gets sick. You venture outside the bounds in twelve, slipping under the rusted wire fence with a basket, collecting herbs you’d started to read about but couldn’t afford. You make tinctures, teas, you light incense and fill the house with sprigs of rosemary and thyme. It slows down the sickness that tore through her like wildfire. When she passes, it’s beautifully peaceful, like a candle being blown out. You carry her ashes to the lake and you spread them, lingering by the Covey’s cabin. Hoping.

She doesn’t come. You walk home, humming something you think you remember her singing years ago. You start to wonder if she was just something you dreamt up, an old folk song you sing to yourself each night before you fell asleep.

Spring rolls around, and your empty house gathers dust. Your way with herbs and remedies gets around, starting with a few bottles gifted to a neighbour with influenza. Her granddaughter comes to your doorstep with the empty vial and a bag of potatoes. You smile and thank her.

“Are you a witch?” She asks, barely ten years old and looking up at you with dark, mistrusting eyes. You laugh.

“I’m not too sure about that, hon. Did the herbs help?”

She nods, a frown etched along her features.

“Then perhaps I’m a good one.”

Before you know it, word gets around that you cured the old woman. You make a living collecting herbs, crushing them down, and people line up outside your door most days. You find a slice of peace in it, in the routine.

But winter is cruel, and the house turns cold. The house that was once the perfect size for you and your mother now feels like too much money and work to heat, and things start breaking, and leaking. You hear from your cousin in Seven, you’ve inherited a log cabin and a slice of land on the edge of some woods from a great-aunt you never met.

You weigh your options. You go to the lake and skim stones in the icy water, mulling it over.

To leave Twelve is everyone’s dream. But Lucy Gray. The gentle ghost who lingers over your shoulder. How will she find you, if she ever comes back? You can’t stay here waiting forever. One bad frost kills your crops, the chill sets into your bones, and you make up your mind. You pack up your herbs and bottles, your books and your clothes, the pinecone you keep beneath your pillow, the silver snake bracelet she gave you many years ago, and you leave. A simple, smudged note sits under the plant pot on the porch, your old hiding place for the spare house key where she’ll know to look:

I’m in the trees. Come find me.

District Seven has more trees than you’ve ever seen. Twelve is known for it’s forests and fields, but these woods are expansive, spanning over miles, trees lined up perfectly, the smell of freshly chopped wood filling your senses.

Every step you took made you wonder if Lucy Gray been here, if the birds in these trees had heard her saccharine voice.

Your herbs sell a lot better in Seven. It’s enough to buy new clothes, and the village is better kept. The people are kind, warm and friendly. You can finally afford to eat your fill. Your cabin at the edge of the woods stays warm and comfortable, the wood is plentiful, you chop your own from the land that’s now yours.

Sometimes when your head spins from the weight of the axe you see movement in the woods, and you wonder. Sometimes you peer inside, certain that it’s her. But she feels so far away from you now, that you can’t help but feel you’ve abandoned her.

You take walks through the forests; you whistle to the birds and listen for the ones who might sing back. You hear nothing. One day, in the town, you walk by a window display with an old, beat-up guitar. It looks well-loved, and something draws you to it. Faded gold paint around the sound hole, strings messy but you go inside and barter, and take it home with you.

You hum some of the old songs she used to sing, try to piece together chords on the strings that aren’t snapped. It sounds like a mess but you play anyway. It feels like a piece of her that you want to keep close to you. You’ve learned to become a collector of sorts.

You’re kept warm through winter, and spring fades into summer. You take the little fishing boat that came with the cabin out on the river, and hike through the forest. You take your guitar with you, and one day, finally, you hear it.

A mockingjay.

It sings your broken tune back to you, bouncing through the pines. A smooth voice cuts through the birdsong.

“Did you miss me?”

Lucy Gray.

Your head spins around. And there she is, smiling, and you fall into her arms.

“I was so scared. I thought you weren’t coming back.”

“I know. I’ll be honest, I didn’t think I would either.”

“But you’re here, you found me! My note, I didn’t know if…”

“The trees.” She grins. “District Seven. It made perfect sense, my love.”

“I can’t believe you’re here. Lucy Gray, you don’t know how happy I am to see you.”

“Oh, I think I do. If you think for a second you’re alone in that, you couldn’t be more wrong. Now,” she adds, nodding at the guitar, “what do we have here?”

You take her onto the river, safer in Seven than you’d ever been in Twelve. She watches as you grind up lavender, the smell filling up the cabin, fascinated as you explain the hobby that you’d turned into work. She fixes your guitar strings, teaches you some simple chords. You sit on the porch, playing while she sings.

“It suits you here, you know.”

“You think so?”

“I do.” She pauses. “I was so sorry to hear about your ma. She was a good woman. She was always kind to me. To everyone.”

“Thank you. I’m okay now, really. I like it here. It’s quiet, peaceful. I think that’s what she’d want for me.”

When she stares up at the sky, birds soaring up above, the rush of the wind through the trees, you can’t help but ask. This is all so perfect, and after so long you can’t bear the thought of her leaving again.

“Do you know how long…”

She smiles.

“Maybe a day or two? If that’s okay.”

You can’t hide your grin. You nod, and she glances up at you.

“Of course that’s okay. More than okay.”

Her fingers press over yours as she demonstrates a final chord. She sits behind you as you strum, grinning at her, head spinning around and she’s so close, it’s almost surreal.

“You did it!” She’s beautiful. Vivid like a daydream, all technicolor.

“That’s all of it?”

“That’s all of it. Just play those four over again and you’ve got yourself a song.”

Your fingers intertwine, hand slipping from the guitar.

“Thank you for teaching me.” You whisper with a smile.

“You’ll remember it, won’t you?” There’s a solemness to it.

You frown.

“Of course I will. I’ll practice all the time.”

“You promise?” Her voice is desperate.

You slide the guitar to the floor and take her hand in yours, clasping it to your chest. Eyes making a silent oath.

“I won’t forget, Lucy Gray. I promise you.”

She nods, corners of her mouth turning up into a smile. You sigh.  

“You know I’ve kept everything, don’t you? All of it. Everything I have that reminds me of you.”

“I saw the pinecone on the mantelpiece. Was that from-”

“The time we made the fire in 12? Yeah.”

She lights up.

“You’re such a romantic. I love it. You-”

Your lips press to hers, suddenly overcome with emotion. When you pull away, she sees the tears on your cheeks.

“I’m sorry. I… I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” You cry. “I really didn’t, and… I don’t want you to leave, I-”

Her wide eyes fill with apology.

“I know. I wish I didn’t have to leave, sugar. I’m sorry it took me so long this time. I wish I could tell you how much it hurts to be away. It feels like I never really rest, until I’m back with you. Does that make sense?”

You nod, blinking away your tears.

“Will you do something for me, my love?” She presses, soft hands brushing away your tears.

“Anything.”

“Until tomorrow, can we pretend I’m not leaving? Pretend like this is our normal. Like we’ve got all the time in the world.”

You close your eyes, then look at her again, just as quickly, not wanting to waste a precious second.

“All the time in the world.” You whisper back.

True to your word, you make the most of it. She leaves you the next morning. You say a proper goodbye this time, holding her like you’ll never let go. But you do.

Weeks stretch on and you can feel her slipping away again. The birds ease the pain, singing her pretty melodies back to you, like a worn-out record you’ve played on repeat. You throw the windows and doors open, filling the house with summer’s balmy air and the sound of her voice bouncing through the rooms as if she was still there. But soon enough, they forget her dulcet notes, and you’re alone with yourself again.

You track the time through seasons, like you always have. The summer draws to a bittersweet close, and you miss it before it’s fully gone.

You slip back into your routine. You take the boat out alone. The schoolchildren sneak up to your door at times, you hear them whispering. The witch rumours are back in full swing but you don’t mind them. You think it rather suits you. You open the door, much to their horror, and offer them some cookies. They come dutifully back for more on Saturdays, and you appreciate the bit of company.

You keep your promise, and it keeps her alive. You practice the chords she taught you, rough calluses starting to form on your fingers. You trace them at night when the world gets too quiet, and as winter closes in again it gets quieter still. The birds fly away to escape the cold, and you wonder if out there somewhere, she might see them. You find yourself praying the winter isn’t being too cruel to her, wherever she is.

One day, at the market, you’re sat at your stall selling chamomile and sage tea, and you hear her name, like a question in someone’s voice. They remember. They remember her. Your heart swells. You want to scream at the top of your lungs, it’s her. She is the girl you love.

She appears more and more in your dreams, some nights you’re restless, dreaming of her scared, running from something in a dark forest, sometimes you’re there by her side. Other times you wake with a start thinking she’s knocking at your door. You sprint outside into the darkness, barefoot on the damp grass, turning in circles before you catch your breath.

You could make yourself some valerian root tea as a remedy, but you don’t. You don’t mind her living on through your dreams. In fact, it’s quite the opposite.

You’re comforted by this haunting.

She finds you again. She always does.

“I saw the Covey a few months ago.” You tell her, the first night you spend together, lay in your bed, arms and legs a tangled mess, her hand in your hair.

Her eyes light up.

“Did you really? Close to here?”

You nod.

“They weren’t here for long. I’m not sure they recognised me, I was at the back of the room. It was pretty dark.”

Her eyes are wistful, filled with something you think you understand now.

“It all feels like so long ago, doesn’t it? I forget sometimes, just how long it’s been.” She looks to the floor. “And Maude Ivory – was she there? How’d she look?”

“She was.” You grin. “She looked happy. Healthy. She was smiling and dancing the whole night, like she always used to.”

You pause for a second, wondering if you should go back, mention that she, much like you, must still have an emptiness, a gap in her life even after all these years, but it’s like Lucy Gray reads your mind. Always one step ahead.

“That’s good.” She says decidedly. “It’s all I ever wanted for her. To be happy. Free. Thank you for telling me. I… I think about them a lot. About all of it. But I always hoped they’d move on without me.”

You’re quiet when you speak again.

“Lucy Gray, I don’t think anyone could ever move on from you.”

It lingers in the air. You speak up again.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Of course you can.”

“When I saw them that night, I stayed for the whole set, because… well, it’s silly,” you confess, “I couldn’t stop watching. I kept thinking that you’d show up. Like they’d just announce your name and they’d all cheer like they did in Twelve. Like you would get up there and sing, and see me in the crowd, and just… smile. Like you’d asked me to be there that night.”

It’s back again, that wistful look of hers.

“I sure wish I had been, sugar. But I think I’d rather be here with you than up on that stage, these days.”

Warmth fills your chest. “Yeah?”

She takes a breath.

“It’s important that people forget me. It’s safer this way. I don’t know what they’d do if they found me, but I know for certain I don’t plan to find out. Maybe one day… well, we’ll have to see. But for now, I could stay a little longer. Would that be okay? If I stayed until the week ends?”

Stay forever, you want to say. But you nod, holding her like she’s already gone.

When she leaves, it’s too soon. Always too soon. You stand in front of the cabin, wishing you could mold your hand around hers and never let go. You kiss her goodbye.

“You didn’t see me here.” She whispers against your lips.

“Not sure I know what you’re talking about.” You respond, and her lips turn into a half-smile.

“Now. Close your eyes.”

You press them shut, feeling her hands slip from yours. When you open them, she’s gone again.

As the years go by, you stop hearing the name Lucy Gray altogether. She starts to feel more like a folk tale; a messy, ink splashed cursive on old parchment. You yearn to speak of her, to keep her legacy alive, but you can’t. You don’t. You remember, though. The world could forget about Lucy Gray Baird, but your memory of her lived on like a still-beating heart, and in turn it kept her alive. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t keep you alive, too.

You make quite the name for yourself, your apothecary bringing in customers from across Seven, sometimes further. So much so, that sometimes you wonder if when she passes through Twelve or Seven, she hears about you and remembers, counting down the days until she gets to come home.

She still haunts your dreams, slipping away as soon as you wake up. But she’ll come back. No matter how many times she leaves. Wherever you go, she’ll find you. She could go anywhere in the world, but she’ll always come back home to you. And you’ll be waiting for her, even if the world curses her name, even if the Covey forgets her too. You understand now. She’s as much yours as you are hers. And when she comes home, it’ll always feel like she never left. And that’s enough for you. It was always enough.

You leave your porch light on.

taglist: (i'm just gonna tag people who showed interest in the excerpt/might like this!) @etfrin @darby-rowe @ohstardew @ohmeadows @sabrinasbd @ctrlovertheworld

#mimi writes! 🕊️ #tbosas #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #the hunger games #lucy gray baird #lucy gray x reader #lucy gray baird x reader #lucy gray x you #lucy gray baird x you #the hunger games x reader #tbosas x reader #thg tbosas #the hunger games fanfiction #x reader #x you #x you fluff #x you angst #reader insert #itmitc

[oonajaeadira]

Leave Off Your Wandering pt. 4: Winter

Fandom: The Last of Us (TV)/ Joel Miller

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Reader: Adult female. Old enough to have been an adult on Outbreak Day. Wyoming born and bred. Sheep farmer, easy-going but confident and self-sufficient. Likes to sing, not a great cook. Childhood friend of Maria. No other physical descriptors; no use of y/n.

Rating: Mature.

Warnings: Mentions of sex but nothing explicit. Canon-typical violence, bodily harm, death,  (blood, broken bones, knife wounds, shooting, blunt force) and PTSD.

Summary: Revenge comes calling and you work though it as a family.

A/N: Series set after season 1 and then diverges. Does not acknowledge the existence of further plot/seasons, although it does use some characters/elements from the second game.

I’m so sorry it’s taken this long to get to winter. This one was difficult for me to face writing for reasons that may be made clear. But it was very rewarding. <3

The air is thin and cold this morning, takes your breath and makes a show of it as you quickstep it down to the stables. The sun is just starting to make the frost sparkle and no doubt Goldie will be using up the rest of the firewood at the Roost today.

Good thing you have a Joel who’s ready to chop more.

Although he’s also a Joel that’s forgotten his tea, the “stuff with the things in it” that Willa gave him for the stiffness in his knees. With this cold he’s going to want it today on patrol and the last thing you think you can stand is the tug in your heart when he comes home complaining of the cold and the ache and you sitting warm and cozy with his thermos on the counter when you had the legs to trot it on out to him.

It’s a relief to round the corner and find the patrol party still at the stable gate, Tommy helping one of the teens with their rifle strap, and Joel waiting on horseback, weaving his gloved fingers together, packing them down at the valleys to get his hands all the way in.

He’d laid one of those hands on your cheek this morning. Gentle. First thing you saw when you opened your eyes. Like most mornings now. His thumb rounding the rim of your cheek so he could lean in and take a good long drink of a kiss.

He likes it that way…soft, slow. Likes to pull you in as close as he can, twist his forehead into your temple when he hits his peak, jaw clenched in agonized pleasure, kisses along your jawline when you find yours, his eyes half-lidded and watching you in a hazy awe. He’s quiet but thorough, completely  present like he can’t believe he’s got this little slice of warmth, sighs a hushed curse in your ear and calls you sweetheart in the same breath, and then sleeps like a baby the whole night through.

He doesn’t like to talk about the past much, but listening’s your specialty and it comes out in bits and pieces, stuck between the little he does say. You come to understand that he very rarely got to be very close with anyone while Sarah was growing up. There were the years when everything was a nightmare. Then there was Tess and she brought him out of that, thank goodness. But it took time. And there was also denial and survival and means to their ends. There might indeed have been strong love there. But you have the feeling he’s not had this–or anything like it–for a long, long time.

So if he wants it soft and slow, then who are you to deny him?

Maybe it shouldn’t be so surprising that it was him who pulled you in a little closer.

“What if you didn’t move in with Tommy and Maria this winter?” He’d lingered the morning after Christmas, leaning one shoulder against the frame of your bedroom door, savoring the show of you getting dressed for the day.

“And waste the fuel? Why? So we can cuddle up now and then without your brother down the hall? You keep me plenty warm, Joel Miller, but I’m not going to heat this whole house just for me and your more-than-casual visits. Everyone’s got a responsibility here to conserve in the winter. This is how I do my part. And besides,” you purred as he stepped in to button up your flannel for you, freeing up your fingers so they could run through his curls, “I know where you live and your bed’s good as mine.”

“You seem to like it there well enough.”

“I do.” His beard was growing in all but a patch on his jaw that was now your right to kiss.

“Well I was thinkin’ we just make it ours for the winter.”

His hands had circled your hips and his words had stopped your heart, but there was little for to say with his lips pressed against yours.

So mornings often started as they did today, waking to find Joel beside you, roused because you can feel him watching you with that little half smile that reveals the crack in his weary heart where the light shines through. Who needs spring to come with sunshine like that to turn to? Now there are family breakfasts with Ellie and cozy days knitting in the company of Maria and Riley and then warm nights with Joel on one of those pillowtopped mattresses that were all the rage before the outbreak…the ones that are great when you have a stiff back, but even better because the springs don’t squeak…

“Aw dammit,” Joel says when he sees you nearing the stables with the thermos, “Knew I forgot something.”

“Two somethings,” you say pointing to his bare head and passing your hat up to him in the saddle. “Your ears are already bright red. Here. Take my hat.”

“This’s Ellie’s.”

“Huh. Guess I just grabbed one on my way out. Oops. Be a man. Wear a pompom.”

He pulls it down over his ears and smiles. “Matches my scarf.”

You’d had a small batch of deep red wool you’d managed to squeak a hat and scarf out of and gifting the hat to Ellie around Christmas, but the scarf went to Joel. He may not want anyone to think of him as sentimental, but it was worth your while to make it easy on him by giving him something that was also practical. Even if he had his jacket zipped up all the way, it was always there, tucked around his neck; he may leave his ears to the elements but he never went anywhere without that scarf.

The line of horses start making their way toward the Jackson gates and you squeeze Joel’s shin before stepping out of the way, letting him and his horse follow the group. He simply lets a gloved finger glance your cheek as he passes by.

All the way out here on this side of the apocalypse and humans still have a million variations on saying “I love having you around and I’d like to keep it that way.”

________

“Ellie’s more than welcome around here if you and Joel don’t want to leave her home alone.”

Maria’s lightly bouncing a wet-faced and blubbering Riley on her lap, trying to tempt him with a frozen carrot for his teething. He has tommy’s curls and they sproing with every boing.

“Nah, she wants to come out. We’ll be dividing the ewes and driving part of the flock into the old town for the rest  of the overwinter and she wants to see how it's done. Should see it, if she thinks she’ll be entering the rotation at any point. Speaking of,” you grunt, leaning down to gather your knitting basket and gather your things, “I promised I’d meet her after school. She’s gotten into collecting cassette tapes and the commissary says she’s hit her quota on goods this week. Gonna give up a couple credits so she can discover the wonders of Joan Jett and the Beastie Boys.”

“That’s throwing gas on the fire. She pick those out herself?”

“Nope. My points, my choice. And I say that girl needs to fight for her right to party and put another dime in the jukebox, baby.”

Maria rolls her eyes, chuckles, goes light on the sarcasm. “You’re the coolest auntie.”

“Don’t I know it,” you laugh, tying up your boots.

“Joel’s gonna just love that.”

Leaning in to bop a quick kiss to Riley’s head, you give Maria a crazed grin. “So much.”

Ten minutes later, Ellie has her doubts, holding up a cassette at the commissary. “But there’s a dinosaur on this one! How can it not be great?”

“Listen, missy. I’m not saying Dinosaur Jr. doesn’t have a place in music history, but I’m telling you that you’re likely to be disappointed. Trust me. Just this once.”

Ellie makes a face but you glance past it, distracted by what you see through the window behind her. Following your focus, she turns to look too. “Who’re they?”

All of the patrol horses coming back in have two people on them–a member of the party, and a stranger. And all the strangers can’t be more than teenagers.

“Dunno, but it looks like you’re about to get some new classmates. I’ll sign these out. You go ahead and make a good first impression.”

“You’re just sending me out there because you know if they’re infected, I can’t catch it.”

“If they were infected, they wouldn’t be on those horses or inside those gates. I’m sending you out there because you have a way of reading people. Go.”

Something in that puts a gasp in her throat and a sparkle in her eye and her ponytail whips behind her as she goes, striving to live up to the compliment.

But really, you just want half a minute to take a good look at the kids without Ellie asking questions. They’re all scrawny and filthy. Backpacks. Been traveling and living rough for a while now. Where’d they come from? What’s their story? Not an adult among them. How have they survived? You’d swear something feels off, but that’s the world now. Can’t be too careful. Everything seems off all the time. 

Question is, off by how much?

You find Joel in the group; he’s the only one riding with a kid in front of him rather than hanging on behind. And once he gets down off the horse and reaches up to help his passenger down, you can see why.

She’s pregnant.

Shit. She’s what, fifteen? Sixteen?

Shit.

“There’s a house up near mine has good plumbing turned on.” Tommy’s speaking over his shoulder to the small group and leading his horse to the stable door as you come out of the commissary. “We’ll get you all washed up and fed. There’s at least two beds there and some other furniture fit to sleep on if it makes you comfortable to stay together. Give me a minute to put Lady away here and we’ll walk on up together. Joel? A word?”

Handing off the pregnant girl’s backpack to her, Joel takes the reins of his horse and follows his brother inside, leaving the newcomers to look around them and take in the town.

All but one. A girl with hair that’s neither light brown or dark blonde, somewhere in between. Your mother would have called it dirty dishwater blonde and you always thought that was rude. But your mother also would have said the girl had a hatchet of a face with a strong jaw like that. And it’s that girl whose head whips around the second she heard Joel’s name, quickly scanning the patrol to ascertain who belonged to it, and stands watching the stable door in thought long after the Miller brothers were gone.

Was Joel her father’s name? Her brother’s? Is it hers or close to hers? Is she a Jo or Joelle?

“Abby. Hey,” a boy calls and she turns. “Mel should get a bed and we can share. Manny and Nora can share too…if you’re okay with taking a couch.”

“Fine,” Abby says. Her eyes and mouth all unmoving lines.

“Hey. Welcome to Jackson. I’m Ellie.” Your starling jams her hands in her pockets as all the new eyes turn her way. “It looks like you’ve been wandering. Where you coming from?”

The boy who spoke before blinks and opens his mouth to say something, hesitates. You’d take him for the leader up until the moment Abby speaks for him.

“West of here. QZ. Seattle.”

“Oh. Cool,” says Ellie with a bounce to her nod. Easy. Instantly welcoming. “I came out of Boston.”

Seattle QZ. The same one your dead husband and his sister came from. Not a good place. Warring factions and nothing but oppression and disease, last you heard. Good that they got out. They’re gonna need to be de-loused. 

But Seattle’s also much harder than most zones to break free of. You’ve been told the Western Liberation Front makes FEDRA look like a bucket of clowns.

“Seattle?” Now it’s your turn to pull focus from the group. “We’ve had refugees from there before. You really get out of there in one group like this? With no grown ups?”

Abby rips her eyes away from Ellie. “It’s a long story,” she says, shutting the questioning down.

There’s a moment that hangs between you and that stinks faintly of threat, but is mostly just the smell of feral kids. Tension breaks as the men emerge from the stable.

“We all ready?” Tommy says, making his way down the road and waving a hand for them to follow. “New home’s this way.”

Ellie starts to fall in with the group and you pull her back in close, speak low. “Go with them if you want, but keep your distance.”

“What? Why?”

“These are your first refugees. You’ll learn that they sometimes bring things with ‘em.”

Her face screws into a question mark. “What things?”

“Fleas. Lice. Viruses. Just give ‘em some space for a while.”

After the quickest flash of disgust, Ellie’s tried and true compassion kicks in and she gives an understanding nod as she turns to go, tape cassettes clattering in her jacket pocket.

You keep watching her even as you speak to the owner of the hand snaking around your waist. “Where’d you find them?”

“Up at the old crossing. They were under attack.”

“Jesus.”

“Nope. Infected.”

“Been a while since we’ve seen any of those stumble through here.”

“Infected? Or the kids.”

Turning to him in exasperation you look him over. “Both. And the same goes for you as for Ellie, Foxy. Let’s take you home and wash that scarf and hat. Run a fine-toothed comb through that hair just to make sure.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” he says, stopping when he catches your zero-temperature glare. If it’s something else you love about Joel, he recognizes when something’s important to you and answers a lady with composure and respect. “Yes, ma’am.”

____

“You couldn’t have found her some Cash or Fleetwood Mac or something?”Joel grumbles into the fireplace as he places another log on the coal bed and moves the poker around like he’s doing something.

Ellie sits on a blanket near the fire, reading a comic book, headphones on, Joan Jett’s grinding guitar bleeding out into the otherwise quiet living room. With his face turned to the fire and Ellie facing away from you, she most likely can’t hear the conversation that’s happening around her if you keep your voices low.

“You’re just jealous that she asked me to pick something out instead of you,” you smile on the couch, picking up your feet and swinging them into his lap as he sits down beside you. “80’s rock is good for her spiky little soul.”

“80’s means trouble,” he counters, considering her as his hands absently squeeze and rub at your feet.

You go back to your book. Seemingly anyway. It’s easy to steal observing glances from where you are. The thoughtful concern he has for Ellie. You can see him looking over the wood in the hopper and calculating how many days of fuel he has before you all head out to the Roost. A twist of a lip tells you he’s realized he might be a day short and needs to chop more. His gaze drops to his lap as he lightly massages your feet–just running his hands along their contours, pressing a thumb in here and there to tenderize a muscle. The firelight loves him, plays at the edges of his curls, slides down his nose, kisses the purse of his lips.

You jump as he slides a tickling fingertip up the sole of one foot. “Hey!”

“What you get for staring.”

“I wasn’t staring at you, I was reading.”

“Must be pretty small print you don’t turn a page for five minutes.”

Taking off your readers and closing the book, you sit up and deposit them on the coffee table. From here it’s easy to scoot up to him and lean an elbow on the couch back. “What’s got you so thinky tonight, hmm? You look like you’ve got your worry pants on.” There’s a curl right behind his ear that’s so easy to twirl in your fingers and you indulge. You’ve found a little touch helps him open up.

“I can’t help thinking about those kids, thinkin’ they could just wander out in the world like that. If it weren’t for us hearing the runners….” He goes quiet a minute and you let him, his gaze haunting Ellie’s direction but living somewhere in the past. “They gotta be somebody’s kids. I can’t believe Seattle’s so bad they just let ‘em run wild…let ‘em run away from the best you got for ‘em.”

A faint guitar blares from Ellie’s headphones as she flips a page, purses her lips, absently nods along.

“Yeah, well teenagers rebel, Foxy. That’s what they do.”

“No,” he says, softly, resolutely, a tick of his jaw. “Not all of ‘em. Not if they’re loved. And fiercely. And I don’t know a love that isn’t fierce.”

It’s the look on his face that makes you believe him.

Love isn’t a word that Joel bandies about. It’s easy to see it work in him. The way he tells Ellie no when she wants to do something reckless but promises her something just as exciting, going to any length to make her smile. The way he holds Riley’s head in the crook of his arm, his other hand reflexively coming out in defense if anyone gets too near the baby’s soft spot. The way he shoves his brother with a laugh when Tommy picks on him or how he helps Maria to her feet when she’s been on the floor too long, even if she says she doesn’t need it.

The way he… with you he…

His hands work at your feet again. He understands the minute levels of his strength, knows how firm to go without bringing pain.

With you, it’s the way he rolls over and shows you his soft places, invites you in to be a part of it.

Not really what you’d call fierce. Does that mean he doesn’t–

“Is a cherry bomb like a little bomb or a big bomb?” Ellie asks, an earpad pulled away from her ear and spilling Cherie Currie’s stuttered chorus.

“It’s a little one. A firework. But it packs a big punch. It’ll take your fingers off. Hello, world, I’m your wild girl, I’m your ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch cherry bomb,” you sing, pushing your foot against Joel’s thigh with every beat. 

“Alright, that’s it,” he says, wrapping a big hand around your ankle to secure it. “Ellie, run on up and get my guitar. Lemme teach you a better song.”

In the minute it takes for her to come back, Joel foregoes softness for force, tickling relentlessly, almost ending up with a foot in his face with how much you squirm.

___

Church isn’t really your thing, never was. You have your own way of listening to the beauty of the earth that doesn’t mean sacrificing a morning sleeping in to listen to lessons you’ve already learned and hold true.

But today you’ve come to the after-brunch curious to welcome the new residents and managed to show up a little early. So you’re standing in the back of the mess hall with Maria and Riley, waiting for the final hymn to end, for the preacher to call an end to the service and a beginning to the meal.

Maria leans in and murmurs in your ear as the final chorus comes. “Tommy and the crew are working on one of those bigger houses with the vaulted ceilings in the new district so the church can have its own building.”

“They’re not gonna like having to walk over there.”

She shrugs, adjusts Riley’s teething toy and bounces him up a notch. “Might cause some of them to move over there. Thin out the density. Easier on the power grid. We do have five new residents.” 

You watch as one of the new boys–Owen–helps the pregnant Mel to her feet. “Soon to be six.”

Once the kitchen starts serving, Owen and Mel find their way over to your table, eager to meet Riley and ask Maria all kinds of questions about childbirth and your friend finds herself in a mentoring role she didn’t ask for. She’s not opposed to being helpful, just lets her judgment slide through on the whole babies having babies thing which completely flies over the kids’ heads.

They’re good enough kids, but something tastes a little sour when Owen tries to include you in the conversation.

“What about you? You and…is his name Joel? You gonna have any kids?”

It’s a rude question. He’s earned your side eye and he knows it, but smiles through it, playing innocent.

“Already got one. One’s enough,” you laugh, sly, chewing through some boiled oats and letting him know you’re gonna let that one slide.

“Oh, yeah, right. Ellie, right?” he asks, with a flick of his eyes to a table behind you. Turning, you find Abby at a table with some other residents and when you turn back it’s with a dry expression that tells him he’s worn out his turns at beating the bush and should be out with it.

“We just were wondering if she’d show us around,” Mel explains. “She’s the only one of the children here who will talk to us.”

You snort. “Don’t let Ellie hear you call her a child. She’s short for her age, but she’s not much younger than you. She likes people, but that won’t win you any points.”

“And don’t worry about the other kids,” Maria takes over, shooting you a look. “They’ll come around. A lot of them were born here and they don’t see a ton of new people.”

“Are they not coming to the brunch today?” Owen asks.

“Who?”

“Ellie and Joel.”

Shaking your head, you swallow your latest bite. “Joel and Tommy are off getting some work done in the new sector and Ellie would bite my face off if I woke her up before high noon on a weekend. But she knows where you’re staying. I’ll send her around to you once she’s up and acting like a whole human.”

You’re about to change the subject and ask them a few questions of your own but Riley starts fussing and Mel asks to hold him and the whole baby talk starts up again.

When you look over your shoulder, Abby is gone from the table. Left her dish for someone else to clean up.

There’s a thought creeps in that maybe Ellie can teach them all some manners. And then you remember the mouth on your starling and smile.

____

“And Owen showed me some of his drawings and they’re so amazing. He’s like a fucking Picasso or something. He says he’ll give me lessons if I can get Mr. Scowlface here to take him out hunting. Says he misses hunting deer with his dad. And Abby wants to go too. I told her how you taught me to use a shotgun and she seemed really interested to learn. She might want to join the patrols some day. But I told them not this week since we’re going out to the Meadow and they all had questions about that. Abby especially–” 

Ellie has a remarkable talent for chewing and talking at the same time. She catches a piece of apple that escapes her mouth, slurping it off the back of her hand where it landed, then downs the rest of the milk and wipes her mouth with the cuff of her sweater, leaving you to negate your silent praise of her manners from earlier in the week and giving you a break in the chatter to speak.

“Well, you’re a little young to be recruiting your own Roostlings, but if Abby or any of the others want to come out sometime and see what the fuss is about, they’re welcome. I’d rather them wait until spring though, or at least until we get the whole of the flock back from the deep winter holding grounds. Chickadee’s taking up the caboose on that.”

As you push the carafe of chicory coffee toward Joel and clear the breakfast plates, Ellie snatches the last hunk of bread you left on yours, shaking her head. “Abby’s afraid of heights. Didn’t even have time to tell her about the Roost being up on stilts. What’s a caboose?”

Joel scoffs. “Last car on a train.” He takes a long, loud drag of his coffee, pouring on the annoyance to get a glare out of the girl and succeeds. “Well, if she don’t like heights, she’s not going to enjoy learning patrol duty either, not with the watchtowers and the mountain trails. And don’t go promising services you can’t guarantee. I’m not a scout leader.”

“What’s a scout leader?”

“Someone with a lot more patience than me. Get.”

Taking up her backpack, Ellie makes her way to the front vestibule to pull on her gear.

“Don’t forget your hat and scarf!” You call to her, but smile at Joel as you perch your butt against the table and tuck a little curl behind his ear. He’ll ask you to cut it soon. And you’ll put it off for as long as possible.Tickles, he'll say. I know, you'll say.

“Thanks, Gramma Betty!” she calls back and pulls the door shut behind her as Joel lays a warm hand on your outer thigh.

“What’er you getting up to today?” he asks.

You shrug. “I’m in carding mode. Got a whole bag of washed fleece needs combing. I’d ask you what you’re up to, but I assume you and Tommy are gonna be tearing down some poor old house.”

There’s a moment where he squints, thiinking. His thumb tracing the outer seam of your jeans. 

“I want you to come with me. Got something to show you.”

“Really. Well I like the sound of that. I could use a little walk in the bitter cold with a mystery at the end of it. Gonna have to go pull on a heavier sweater though. Might need to take this one off first. You wanna come watch?”

There’s a knock at the front. Tommy. The door opening.

Joel only grins fondly and pats your thigh, sending you off, before pushing the chair back from the table and separating himself from his coffee mug. “I’ll catch the later show. ‘Specially if it calls for audience participation.”

Five minutes later, bundled and booted, the three of you head out toward the new section, Joel with his scarf tucked in tight and hat pulled down low, and Tommy with a set forced upon him because you’re quickly becoming the winter clothing police around here.

It’s not a long walk. Jackson was never more than a few miles wide and this is just the first expansion of the wall. You’ve wandered over during the construction crew’s activities enough to know the way without being led, but what you’re expecting is for Joel to lead you away from the furthest street, away from the beautiful A-frame house so neatly repaired along with its pretty neighbors and up the street with Tommy to the next clutch of houses they’ve been working on. 

But instead, Joel tells his brother he’ll be along in a minute, and Tommy smiles knowingly as he continues on, leaving the two of you in the walkway up to the pretty A-frame that’s so much like the Roost’s bigger sister.

“You know what today is?” Joel asks, hands in pockets, squinting up at the peaked roof.

“Friday?”

“Probably,��� he says, shifting focus to his boots. “I was thinking more holiday-wise.”

The air’s particularly crisp today, hitches in your lungs as you take each mental step and catch up with him.

February 14. Valentine’s.

As your mouth drops open, he jerks his chin at the house. “You like this one, right?”

“What…what are you….Joel?”

There’s a cringe that belies his confidence, maybe a tinge of regret. “I just figured we were gettin’ along so well, that maybe you’d… It was just an idea–”

He can’t even look you in the eye until you yank his hand awkwardly out of his pocket and wrap your gloved hand around his. He seems almost shocked to see your tears welling up–true, half from the cold–but he’s also relieved. Big breath in, big breath out. That must have been the hard part.

Words aren’t Joel’s way. This is how he tells you just how deep his feelings go. You know he’s had time to imagine with every window replaced, every floorboard leveled out, every load bearing wall reinforced,  just which family was going to get to live in this house and what kind of life they might make in it.

What kind of life you might make together here.

So you take his lead and say only what’s necessary, as steadily as you’re able. 

“Take me inside.”

His sheepish grin confirms that it was exactly what he’d hoped to hear.

The interior’s simple, but gorgeous. The dark wood gleams, and the whole back wall of the A frame is windowed. The triangle at the top replaced with a leaded stained glass in a sunrise of orange and rose that reflects the undertones in the timber inside and the pines out the window, the mosaic just high enough to catch the last rays that will come in over the mountains at the end of the day and turn the whole place into a dream. The open floorplan has the kitchen near the door, but over by the windows….

Joel gives the tour. The hand-laid stones in the fireplace. The built-in shelves for your books. This is the corner where your favorite chair can go, nearest the fire and where there’s good light for spinning. This rug was here, still good. He points out to the little shed in the back–a place for wool dying, he can hang pegs in there however you need them.

If he weren’t so occupied in explaining the wood he chose to finish the countertop, the way he followed the original dovetailing in the doorframe, the pattern he made with the reclaimed wood in the floorboards, he may have seen you admiring the most important part of the house…or, rather, the most important person in it.

There’s more. Two bedrooms, one off each side of the main part of the house, each with its own bathroom, the larger one with its own porch overlooking a little creek.

“The basement’s not quite done, but I figure I’ll just use that for my own. Felt you might not like the…vibe…”

Ah yes. The former owners. He took care of that too. 

He took care of everything.

“I love it, Joel.”

“Yeah?”

“If there was a stronger word, it would be yours, believe me.”

He only wraps his arms around you as you dive in to squeeze him.

“Good,” is all he says. Breathes in the scent of your hair. “That’s good.”

________

The ewes hate the leader ropes, but they follow, bleating now and then as you slowly guide them through the woods toward the Meadow’s north entrance. Joel’s got two behind his and Ellie’s horse, and you’ve got four behind yours, a small party, but the only ones that were ready to come on back out after the coldest weeks.

Goldie’s happy to lead them out to the rest of the flock while you and Joel go up and get situated, get warm, get ready for the week ahead. Ellie follows Goldie and Joel hangs his watch by the door. All’s quiet in the Roost.

Until Joel’s tongue clicks. “That beam is bowing,” he points up to one of the main rafter struts on the far side of the room. “Wood stove keeps this side warm and the snow melts off, but there’s no balcony on the other side. No way to rake the snow off the roof. Tommy should have known better.”

“Well it’s not like he’s had a lot of practice with big boy tree forts, I’m guessing,” you say, dumping a sack of potatoes near the cook pile and throwing the stack of fresh sheets onto the bed. “Does it need to come down?”

“Don’t think so. But come spring we’ll add on another balcony and do some reinforcement.”

As he runs his hand up the wall seam, you come up behind him, hugging him from the back with the sole purpose of distracting him, your way of letting him know he’s obsessing like an old man. It gives you the right angle to grab onto his open jacket and start pulling it off him. “Take this off and stay awhile.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Goldie takes her leave on your horse, guiding Joel and Ellie’s behind, glad to be going back to more warm water than she can heat on a stovetop, and Ellie helps to cart a few buckets of the colder variety up from the stream so you can all just stay in for the night.

Then it’s stew and cards, and Ellie kicking Joel’s ass at Scrabble, all of you bundled in wool sweaters and slippers handmade by you and Chickadee, the firelight glinting off the game tiles, highlighting the glee in the girl’s eyes, the resigned agony in Joel’s smile.

Almost a whole year now she’s been coming out here with you, and it’s wondrous how much she’s grown inside and out. You never felt lonely at the Roost, in fact, you had always very much enjoyed the solitude. Now you don’t think you could abide it. It’s only a home for a week at a time, but only when they come out here with you now.

It’s a nice night. Stars are out. Ellie’s still staring out at them as you and Joel fall asleep in the big bed.

_____

It’s the scent of woodsmoke that wakes you in the middle of the night, sitting you up straight in bed. Or so you think, except that the embers in the stove are low, so it can’t be that. 

No. It’s a voice outside.

“Burn in hell, Joel Miller!”

Is that…Ellie? What’s she doing outside? No. Not Ellie. No it’s–

“Abby?” Ellie says blearily from the bunk above you.

There’s someone in the room moving swiftly toward you from the windows, hulking, with a rifle–

Joel.

“Get up. Both of you. Get out. The place is on fire.” 

It doesn’t register.

“What? What fire? Joel? What’s happening–”

He shakes your shoulder, pulling you from the bed. “Get Ellie out. Now!”

There’s no other thought, just fumbling in the dark as Ellie jumps down beside you and dives for her jacket, shoving her feet into her boots without doing up the laces while you reach out one hand to catch hers for when it comes to you. The other gropes the near table for the walkie and thumbs the button.

“Meadowlark to patrol. Meadowlark to Goldfinch. We’re in trouble, there’s a fire and–”

The whole cabin sways. A gunshot from the balcony. Joel growling over his shoulder. “Get out! Now!”

“Joel–!”

“NOW!”

The ladder is still sliding down into place when you jump on it and ride it part of the way down, still waking up as Ellie’s boots come fast, almost kicking you in the face as she follows you down the rungs two at a time, moving through a plume of choking blackness only to come out below it to a roaring bonfire that’s eating through the Roost’s supports.

Oh god. The Roost…

is burning….

“JOELLLLLL!” you scream up as your stocking feet hit the ground hard, as you catch Ellie and pull her off the ladder and stumble backward, as something hits your head hard and causes you to let go, as separate sets of arms grab each of yours and drag you roughly backward, fast enough to keep your feet from catching up until you’re on your knees.

There’s a crackle in the air– “Patrol to Meadowlark. What’s the trouble?” 

The walkie lies somewhere in the pine needles just out of reach and you’re screaming at it for help but all that comes out of your mouth is a string of names and no’s and helps. You’re able to yank your non-dominant arm free, pitching forward, clawing for the radio, until a flash of hard silver–a meteorite, exquisitely dense and smooth, malignant, swift, direct–cracks down on your forearm with a sickening thud, shattering the bone.

The world slides out of focus through a screen of sudden pain.

At first, you assume you’ve been shot in the arm. But then a figure steps around to your line of sight. Abby. With a golf club? What? Why? Where did she get that? The commissary? Why the fuck would they stock golf clubs? What the fuck is going on? 

And you watch as Abby picks up the walkie. Tosses it into the fire.

The hands are back upon you now, forcing you back to your knees, and a third set joins them, wrapping around your forehead and chin, pulling you back against a belly and you struggle.

Where’s Ellie.

You’re able to twist your head to one side despite being held. She’s there on the ground, face down, groaning, with Owen’s knee in her back.

“Ellie? Honey?”

One pair of hands holding you twists you hard, meaning to pull you further away from her without compliance from the other hands or consent from your muscle structure and there’s a sickening pop as your shoulder leaves its socket and then your scream drowns out everything even the roar of the fire.

“She keeps it in her pocket,” Abby says. Rooting into Ellie’s pocket, Owen finds the knife and pulls it out–the one she cherishes, imbued with the legend of her mother, given to her on the same day as her name, her life, and her orphanhood.

The day Ellie told you the story, you’d taken steel wool to the knife and cleaned it. Oiled the hinge. Shined it up good and pretty.

It flips open easily in Owen’s paw. It twirls swiftly around, and points downward, his fingers closing over the hilt, thumb curling over the butt of the handle to give it more leverage when he’s ready to bring it down.

The night is horribly black and lit along the edges in orange fire.

There’s a loud crack. Owen’s thigh explodes in a splatter of blood and he falls backward off Ellie, screaming. The hands around your head let go and Mel runs to him.

Joel stalks out of the plume of black smoke, cocking the rifle, pointing only long enough at Owen to confirm he’s down and then swinging the barrel around to Abby.

A stand off. No sound or movement but the whoosh of flames and a few ground-muffled cries from Owen, a few sniffles and shushes from Mel.

“Who the fuck are you,” Joel growls out over the steel barrel, his cheek quivering in barely hinged anger.

Abby stands, solid, unyielding, straight as the blonde braid hanging down her back, club wound up tight, ready for the pitch, a face full of lines and soot and destruction.

“The last survivors of the Firefly massacre. You didn’t think to check the rest of the compound? Like the whole team was just one-offs? Like none of them had family, you sick fuck? You fucking orphaned us. Left us to fend for ourselves. Go ahead and shoot, old man. Marlene always said you weren’t so good at keeping kids alive, actually surprised you got as far as you did. So go ahead. Not like we’ve got nothing to lose. We just came to return some favors and finish the job.”

It’s only in the moments later, before the dawn, when you’re laying on your back looking up at the stars, one arm laying broken and useless in the snow beside you, the other cradling a weeping Ellie Williams as tight as you can, that you’ll be able to slow the film of your memory and play out the next thirty seconds frame by frame.

The series of snaps and cracks as the support under the Roost gave way and the whole structure tumbled out and away from the scene, pulling several pines down with it, the crashing and burning the only sound you remember now.

Ellie trying to shuffle along the ground toward you and away from the fire.

Owen pulling himself up enough to raise the knife and bring it down into the meat of Ellie’s calf.

Owen’s body flying backward as a bullet ripped through his skull.

A wrench of your neck and the warm splash of blood from above you as another shot rang out, one person holding you falling away and back, gone, but still pulling you down with their dead body.

The roar of an angry Abby and the clank of a club shaft on a rifle barrel.

Another gunshot.

The sound of metal hitting flesh.

Thirty seconds. And now you can see the stars. Orion. The Milky Way.

Somehow you’re lying yards from the little patch of burning trees with Ellie cradled in your good arm. Someone dragged you here.

There are voices and flashlights. The patrol. Bear and Tommy. Goldie and Willa and Chickadee.

And Maria. Laying on the ground beside you, exhausted from the effort of dragging two humans out of the burning thatch of trees.

“Joel. Where’s Joel.” It hurts to speak. Breath comes fast and shallow.

Then he’s there with the others, a bruise blooming purple beneath his eye, saying only what scant words he needs to move past them and get to you. To Ellie. 

His hands are gentle, but his eyes are cold.

Two still, black pools reflecting fire.

_______

Perhaps unsurprisingly, you dream of Troy, his mangled face open and bleeding, laying in the hole next to Ash, mutilated, stopped at the moment of transformation into something more sinister, your ex-husband and his sister lost to you because they were headstrong, foolish, too devoted to each other….

Ash’s eyes open, what’s left of them anyway. “Abby’s afraid of heights. Didn’t even have time to tell her about the Roost being up on stilts. What’s a caboose?”

They didn’t know the Roost was elevated. They followed us out here and didn’t have a good plan. Is that it?

They don’t answer. They get up and climb out of the hole, turn their backs on your and walk into the forest. You call after them, desperate to have them back after all this time, begging them not to leave you.

But you’re calling after them wrong. You can’t seem to say Troy. You can’t say Ash.

You’re only calling out for Joel and Ellie.

_____

The next thing you know, you’re sitting up in the snow, leaning against Goldie, the girl patting at your cheek as you’re coming around. “Come on, come on back, baby.”

The sun’s up, but not high enough to breach the mountains circling the meadow. Everything’s still lit by the slowly dying flames.

The one two punch of Willa setting the bone and popping your shoulder back in must have sent you off. Looking down, you see you must have thrown up as well. 

“Holy shit,” you groan, “I’m sorry. Oh my god, holy shit that hurts.”

“I know, I know,” says Goldie, smoothing your hair and kissing your forehead. 

“Here,” says Willa, handing you some dark root. You forget what it’s called, you just know you gotta chew. “Don’t swallow,” she reminds you. “You ride with Goldie. She’ll keep you upright once that sets in.”

“I gotta get up,” you mumble, struggling to stand and inhaling sharply at the twinge of pain the movement brings to your bandaged and immobilized arm. Goldie’s able to help get you up, but seems hesitant to let you go. “Ain’t nothing wrong with my feet, lemme go. Where’s Ellie?”

But you don’t need to ask, she’s just behind you, laying on her back in the snow, one arm flung over her eyes, breathing heavy to manage the pain, leg bandaged and tourniqueted.

Good. Next priority. “Where’s Joel?”

Goldie points to the fire. It’s starting to die down, enough to make out the bodies of three teenagers consigned to the flames. Past them, the group of the regular patrol. Joel shaking his head at them, speaking. Jacket zipped up to the top, no scarf, no hat; probably got left behind in the Roost. Rifle over one shoulder. A backpack over the other.

But not his backpack. Why would he have someone else’s backpack? Why would he have one at all…

He’s…. No.

Pushing off Goldie, you immediately find out that walking is hard. Even if the pain’s just in one arm, everything’s connected, everything hurts; it’s disorienting. Your knees are bruised and even your soft sleep pants feel like sandpaper on them. Feet cold and wet, no boots…

Joel sees you struggling to get to him and walks away from the group and the fire, meeting you partway, catching your good arm as your fist falls hard on his shoulder and yanks, fingers digging in hard to his coat, doing your best to hold on tight, to keep him here, to convince him not to go.

“Don’t you dare, Joel Miller. What do you think you’re fucking doing???”

He says nothing, only lets you collapse onto his chest, to sob. There’s not even an arm to comfort you, he gives you nothing but the bare necessity, a wall to keep you standing, and you know nothing you say will make a difference. In essence, he’s already gone.

“Please. Joel. Don’t. Please don’t go.”

“Trail’s fresh. Best to get on before it snows and covers the tracks. One of them’s the pregnant girl. One of them’s bleedin’. They can’t get that far.”

“You don’t have to. Just come home.”

“They’ll just come back. Maybe not soon, but someday.”

He’s right. You know he’s right. Stepping back, it hurts to look at him. The Joel you love has been asked to step aside, the care and fondness he’s come to show you locked up somewhere secure, somewhere where it won’t get in the way. 

I warned you, this Joel seems to say, void of emotion, jaw set, brow even and low, hand on the strap of his rifle. You took me in knowing exactly what I am.

He’s right.

“I need you here, Joel. Ellie needs you here. Don’t you dare go…unless you can come back.”

“I need you here too. ‘S why I’m going.”

Nothing. No kiss goodbye, no waiting for approval, he just turns and walks. 

Maybe this is the last of it, just one last loose thread, then he can finally leave off wandering, finally shake off the killer and just come home, just be your Joel.

Convincing yourself of this is the only choice you’ve got.

________

You find yourself out on Maria’s back porch that night. Unable to sleep from the ache of the mending bone and the swell of your assaulted shoulder, it seemed like the best remedy was to find the toughest jerky in the kitchen, to sit on the porch in the cold and chew through the pain, and to lean back in one of the porch chairs with a soothing snowpack between it and your back.

The moonlight plays illusions like the canteen filmstrips–a summer image of Tommy and Joel teaching Ellie the mechanics of tackle football. The twinkle of the fireflies lending veritas to the picture…which in reality is only the twinkle of a dusting of new snow.

Not enough snow to make tracking impossible, but enough to make it difficult.

The back door opens and a blanket lands over your lap.

“Was gonna ask you if you wanted company, but then I decided, it’s my house and you don’t get a choice.”

Maria plops her own blanket in a nearby chair before disappearing and returning with two steaming mugs of tea as offering for the table between you. She takes her time covering you just so before wrapping herself up and joining you on the porch. “Suppose I should have asked if you want that cold pack changed before I get too comfortable,” she says, not really offering, but leaving the suggestion there between you if you need it.

It’s not necessary to talk for a while. She knows exactly what you’re thinking. Sees what you see.

“Did I wake you?”

“No. Riley did,” she lies. You’d heard her shift when you got up from the bed–her bed, well, hers and Tommy’s. But hers and yours for now.

“Thanks for taking care of us.”

“You say that like you’re not my family.”

“Well then, thanks for staying behind as if you are.” 

It’s hard to see her out of the corner of your eye, backed by dark shadows. But the moon plays little crescents on her face, the curve of her nose, her cheek, her chin. Her voice comes out velvet from the dark.

“I know you’re pissed at Joel for going, but he’s doing the right thing.”

Now you make the effort to turn, rotating more from the waist than the neck to save the injury from twinging, but it does anyway, mirroring your spike in irritation. “Really? You think so? Is that why you sent Tommy with him? After all that time you spent bemoaning the things Joel made Tommy do all those years ago–”

“This is different. This is about the greater good.”

“You know that’s what the villain always says, right?”

She presses her lips together, hating that you’re right. “Okay, so maybe not the greatest good for the morality of the remainder of the human race, but. For the good of Jackson.”

“Two grown men hunting down two teenage girls is the greater good.”

“They won’t be teens forever. They’ve both got reasons to come back for their revenge. And now they know where Jackson is. They get taken in by the wrong people, and then the wrong people will know where Jackson is too and when they come back they won’t be alone. They’ll know exactly how many and what kind of folk to bring.” She holds your gaze for a few seconds, steady and wise but also warning, her warmth only thinly veiling the matronly protectress behind it, like a Durga on her throne. “You know why we have patrols. You know what happens to people that get too close. Two more drops in the bucket is all.”

“Three. One of those little girls is pregnant.”

She has no answer to this. Rather, your dig brings no new argument to the table. It’s just words, just a fact on the wind. It doesn’t sway the needle one way or the other.

It’s exactly what you’d been thinking about, staring up at her bedroom ceiling. Then out here on the porch. It’s like she knew you needed to hear the justification out loud.

“They would have killed him, lady. And Ellie. And you. I’m surprised you don’t want them hunted down like dogs.”

You turn your attention to the back yard, the smallest hump of leaves under the big tree there not quite scattered to the wind, sparkling with snow cover. You can almost still hear Ellie’s high laughter as it sounded the day she experienced her first leaf pile.

“Oh, I want them run down,” you say. “I’m all for that, let ‘em eat lead. I just didn’t want…” It’s not really necessary to continue. Maria knows exactly what you want. She always does. That’s why she sent Tommy with him. To keep him tethered to humanity.

To the way Joel watched Ellie jump and disappear into a poof of leaves. The sun in his smile. At peace. At home. Free from the old violence. Reborn.

I just didn’t want Joel to be the one to do it.

______

Maria’s dinner table feels empty. Funny, you think, it was always the two of you. For a while there was four, what with Troy and Ash, but most of the time just the two. Then Tommy. Then Joel and Ellie. Now Riley…well, that is, if he’s still up during family dinner.

You’ve slept through most of the light of day and was hoping to talk to Ellie at dinner, but Maria’s been taking all her meals to the guest room for her. Mostly so she doesn’t have to walk down the stairs on her healing leg, but also because Ellie’s not been talking since that night.

And you can guess why. It has less to do with the injury and assault or the fire, and more about the truths she learned during them. 

Not much to do. The arm has to stay stable, strapped to your body. At least they fucked up the non-dominant one so you can still hold a fork, still brush your teeth. But knitting? Spinning? Helping Maria clear the dishes? Fat chance.

Not much to do but chew root, smoke wild weed, and sleep it off.

Maria reappears with a plate needs washing. “There’s a break in the clouds. I got three whole words out of her. This might be your chance.”

“Oh. Joy.” It’s getting to be less of an effort to stand now that you’ve got rest and food in you. The stairs are daunting only because of the conversation that waits at the top.

A knock on her door only grants you silence.

“I’m coming in, Starling girl. Best not be naked.”

No answer. You take that as the opposite of opposition. Tolerance.

She’s sitting on the bed, propped up by pillows behind her back and under her knee, her bandages freshly changed, no more blood pooling or free bleeding. She plays with the cuffs of her sweater, tugging at a loop in the knit, a book abandoned by her side as if she’d put it down when you knocked. A good sign. She doesn’t want to hide.

You crawl in beside her, awkwardly, one-handedly, a big showy sigh of relief when you finally land. “You know, if I was your mom, I’d probably start off with ‘what’cha reading there, kiddo?’ just to get you to say something, but I’m not your mom and I’m not here to make you talk if you don’t wanna–”

“Well I don’t.”

“Good. I didn’t come up here to hear you yap anyway.” You detect the tiniest twitch of her cheek, not quite a smile, perhaps a sneer…to scare away a smile. “Don’t talk, just listen.”

“I don’t wanna do that either.”

“Tough titties. I’m cashing in exchange for all the time I had to listen to you go on about Sally Fucking Ride.”

Now she does smile. Barely. Gives you the teenager face you wanna slap sometimes. “Tough titties? Really?”

“They didn’t have tough titties in the orphanage? Seems off-brand.” The smile fades. “Tell me how you’re healing. I’m not asking, I’m demanding.”

A big breath in. But the air doesn’t come rushing back with a dramatic sigh, just melts out of her with a single tear she doesn’t move to brush away.

So you do. “That bad, huh.”

“It fucking sucks. It fucking sucks so bad.”

“Heh, tell me about it. I miss the good old days of ibuprofen. Shit. I miss morphine. You’re young though, you’ll be up and running in a week or two. Me? I’m gonna be aching for–”

“He fucking lied through his teeth.”

Ah. There it is.

Now the colony of tears follows the first scout, pouring out over the plains of her cheeks until she covers her face with those cuffs she’s been picking at, relieved at being able to let it all out in front of someone who might understand, but probably scared as hell to let herself be this messed up in front of someone who might not. A gamble.

And a win. You’ve still got one good arm and you put it to good use, pulling her into your side. “Yeah, you’re right. He totally did. He’s a fucking asshole. Why the hell would he do that.”

“It wasn't time that did it,” she hiccups from under her woolen cuffs.

“I don’t know what that means, Starling” you say, unable to stop yourself from kissing the crown of her head.

She wipes her nose and comes up for air. “I mean I know why. But he fucking lied about everything. Straight to my face.”

“Well, you’ve got every right to demand an explanation and an apology when he comes back. Straight to his face.”

“If he comes back.”

You let that sit a moment between you. It’s her way of saying that she knows you’re mad at him too, that she heard the conversation you had with him when he left. It’s her way of poking at your own fears and getting you on her side.

“Those girls aren’t armed and the Miller boys have a lot more experience with being hunters than those kids do being prey. He’ll be back.”

“I hate him.”

“I know. But also. You don’t.”

“I had a… a purpose. A fucking purpose.”

“Well….I know you did, but…probably not so much as you think.” She looks up at you but you can’t meet her eye, she’s right to mourn, and you can’t deny her that. “Remember what I told you about my sister and her treatments?”

“The research hospital.”

“Yeah. Cancer’s been killing people on this earth far longer than cordyceps and they’d had millions of patients to test on. Still couldn’t crack it. How many people are immune like you? Because if it ain’t millions, you just become one part sample in a petri dish and another part dead body that maybe give some vague clues and then you’re all parts in the bin, end of story. I mean, I’ll be honest. I don’t blame him. You’re quite a keeper.”

Now her sigh is dramatic. “And then he fucking lied about it.”

“So you would feel good about it. Accomplished in your goal. Also so you wouldn’t hate him for caring about you more than you do.”

“Why didn’t he just say–?”

“Do you know that man to be good with words?”

This quiets her. Both of you. For a few minutes. She goes back to picking at her sleeves.

The sun’s set completely now and her little bedside lamp can’t even drown out the stars so bright on the other side of the window. Clear night. Cold out there.

After a moment you take your arm back, jostle her with your shoulder. “Hey. I’m going out to the Meadow tomorrow, check in with Willa, look over the damage. If I bring you back a piece of the Roost, you wanna do some carving or whittling or something? We’ll build a platform like the old one and it’s probably just gonna be a tent up there for a while like it used to be, but hopefully this spring or summer we’ll get a structure up there and we’ll need a cornerstone or a plaque or something signifying its importance. Since you’re on your ass all day with nothing better to do, and you’re the star recruit, I’d love for you to do it.”

Her lips twist, half smiling at the request, but then in regret. “I lost my knife.”

“The one from your mom?” She nods. “Well if you’ll do some carding for me while I’m out there, I promise to look for it, ask around, maybe one of the patrol picked it up, okay?”

“Okay. Oh. By the way…How are you healing?”

“I’ve been worse. But mostly I’ve been better. Thanks for asking. ‘S kind of you. But don’t you worry about me.”

“Okay. Um…I’m…sorry about telling them about the meadow and all.”

“Why? You’re a Roostling. It’s your story to tell.” Sliding off the bed you head for the door. “Oh hey. I meant to ask–” you nod at the book by her side. “What’cha reading?”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh…just porn.”

“Cool. G’night.”

“‘Night. Hey Meadowlark?”

You poke your head back in before the door closes completely. “Hm?”

“Thanks. For all that. But mostly for not calling me kiddo.”

You smile. Nod. Give her a warm wink. “Sure. I gotchu, kiddo.”

It’s worth the eyeroll you catch as you close the door.

________

The most sickening part of coming in through the north passage isn’t seeing the burn scar on the pine grove in the middle of the Meadow, isn’t missing the outline of the Roost through the trees, but rather the feeling that your home has been breached, that for a moment it wasn’t safe and now you’ll always wonder if it will be.

Riding across the north plain, you close your eyes and breathe, let the horse plod on without your guidance, he knows the way. Once spring comes and the valley fills with flowers and the music of the lambs calling for their ewes takes over from this cold silence that comfort will be renewed. 

But for now, there is no comfort on the Meadow in winter, not without a pretty little fireplace and a warm spot to watch the snow build up on the mountains.

You know what’s coming, but it turns your heart inside out all the same when you open your eyes.

Where once there was a cabin in the treetops is now a void leading downward to a pile of blackened rubble and debris. Off to the side under some lower trees is the old canvas tent with the vent hole and a friendly little trail of smoke rising from it. Willa always knew her way around a fire and didn’t mind keeping a low one going on the inside. You never were that confident, even with a fire-treated tarp.

She’s been at work out here, pulling useful things out of the rubble. The woodstove. The pulley jacks. A few timbers that are mostly unburned. 

But there’s a pile of other things too, useless items that shouldn’t be mixed back in with the earth: a burned walkie. Twisted silverware and blackened plates. The iron tools from the rafters. Shattered tile. Your charred and mangled boots.

All that’s left in the major wreckage is wood. And glass. And bones.

Three blackened skulls, three sets of eye sockets and three jaws gaping up at the sky as if they were caught in the moment of realizing their plans were going terribly awry. 

Stupid fucking kids. ….Just kids.

If someone asked you how you knew which one was Owen’s, you wouldn’t be able to say. You just know. The memory of him sinking that knife into Ellie’s leg…of hurting her…intent to kill… His skull breaks like a cracker when you put your weight on it.

Willa doesn’t say anything when she comes up along side to stare down at the bones with you. It's not the first time you've stood with her at the edge of a burned down home.

"I hate that it’s gonna take me a while to sift though all this,” you say.

“We’ve decided to skip your turn for a while. At least until there’s a new platform.”

You nod, resigned. You don’t love it, but it’s best. Trauma lingers longest of all hurt. 

“How’s the flock?”

“They’re over it.”

“Figures. Fluffy shits. Any chance you found a pocket knife out here?” You ask her.

She nods, reaches into a jacket pocket and there it is, like it’s been waiting to come back to its keeper, made itself shiny and easily found. It’s passed between you like a sacred object, holy, a relic saved and cared for, a thing infused with deep love and meaning. There’s an instant relief as your fingers curl around it, your shoulders relaxing and releasing a little of the pain.

“Thank you.”

“There was this too.” From the same pocket Willa pulls a disk of silver and glass, turning it over and placing it in your hand with the knife.

The watchband is burned away. But it’s otherwise unharmed.

Willa may be a stoic, but she knows enough to recognize a release through tears and to hold you while you cry.

Later that afternoon when you knock on Ellie’s door, you’ll hand her the knife and a piece of the old Roost to carve to consecrate the new one. And then you’ll give her the watch and ask her to be your hands, to help you with one more thing.

________

Two days later, you’re standing in Joel’s living room, never having been here when it’s so quiet, dark, and cold. With you and Ellie staying with Maria, there’s been nobody here to light a fire, to make the place live. You wouldn’t be here if Maria hadn’t made a side comment about maybe you and Ellie’d been in the same clothes for a day too many. Not that you thought you’d be with her that long.

She was right. It was nice to change into something clean–a soft fleece and some sleep pants. While the sword of Damocles kept things in check at Maria’s house, it did feel just this side of an extended girl’s night sleepover, might as well dress for it. Ellie had asked for something soft and comfy so you decided to go for it, an assortment of sweats and sweaters in the duffel at your feet.

What you’re eyeing at the moment is an empty hook on the wall by the fireplace.

You put your hand in your jacket pocket and pull out the watch.

Ellie did a beautiful job with it, took directions like a champ. Sitting together on her bed, listening to Joan Jett and Pat Benetar, you’d instructed her how to design the plaid stripes into the strap, how to knot and plait in patterns.

“Macrame. MACrame. Mac. Ra. Mayyyyyy,” Ellie’d chanted. “It’s a fun word to say. What’s it mean?”

“Fringe. Knotting. It’s just the name of the technique. I dunno. Probably something prettier in French.”

The strap clasps had been lost in the fire, so you’d had Ellie work him a new strap out of dyed and tightly-spun wool, something a little longer so he could tie it on. Most likely he’d come back here first, so you want to put it somewhere he’d see it, that way he could have it again without a lot of fuss but knowing at the same time you were thinking of him. So you slip the end loop over the hook, gently let it slip through your fingers and rest against the wall.

If he comes back…

The front door opens. Boots on the wood. The thump of a backpack.

By the time you’ve turned, he’s coming in through the front hall.

When he sees you standing here, he stops.

You never imagined this moment. You should have. It might have prepared you for the yellowing bruise on his face, the majority of his left pant leg browned with dried blood, his knuckles raw and just beginning to heal over.

You struggle with finding the right question. Find ‘em? They dead? Finish the job? No survivors?

I’d ask you what the hell you did, but I know and I don’t wanna hear you say it.

Instead all you can muster is a nod at the blood on his jeans.

His eyes slide to the staircase, already looking to move on, and he only answers with a short and shallow nod of his own before doing just that.

You find yourself sitting on the couch, staring at your hands, the duffel, the watch, back at your hands. Listening as he moves around upstairs, dropping boots, his belt buckle clapping to the floor. The shower running for a long, long time.

Sun’s going down. Getting colder.

The squeaks from the staircase are slow, softer than usual. He’s taking his time coming down. Doesn’t want to force himself back into a space so safe and quiet after pushing through one so big and mean.

He barely shifts the couch as he sits on the far side. Clean shirt. Clean jeans. A pair of socks you knit him.

“Where’s Ellie?” He sounds like he hasn’t spoken to anyone in days. You’d wager he hasn’t.

“With Maria. We’ve been staying there. I was just getting us some clothes. Didn’t think you’d be gone this long.”

“Neither did I. They had a head start. Younger. Faster. But you’re safe now. You’re both safe now.” He’s quiet long enough for the house to give a settling creak as the wind picks up outside. “How’s that arm?”

“Joel, you can’t keep us safe from the world. The world is what it is.”

“The fuck I can’t,” he whispers back, defiant, stubborn, with enough venom that he seems to scare himself and he breathes in deep, keeps it, holding back.

All you want is your Joel back. Even in all this mess. All you want is for him to lay down his fear and love you the right way. 

So instead of arguing, you get up and stand before him, give him the time it takes to understand you’re going to straddle his lap whether he helps you or not. He reaches for you on your way down, guides and supports you, allows you to rake through his wet curls before leaning in to take possession of his lips, to will him–by kissing through to his very soul–to come back to you.

He can’t help but respond, his whole body coming to life, and in the cold, twilit living room, you become a tangle of silhouettes as his hand pushes up under your sweater–somehow still keeping an aura of care around your ruined and wrapped arm–to squeeze almost painfully at your curves, rough and wanting, panting between devouring kisses as he paws beyond the waistband of your sleep pants, sucking at your neck when you throw your head back as he reaches what he was searching for….what you hoped he’d find…

There’s a tousle of repositioning and a clatter of belt and zipper. You’re both raw and rough and needy, and you both take advantage of the emptiness of the house to fill it with the sounds of desperation, of effort, the song of casting off of all inhibition, a duet of total and grateful release. 

But through it all, it’s the way he holds onto you that tells you how much he wanted to get back to you, how close he intends to hold you and never let you go, a desperation that tells you exactly where his faults lay…

…that it was necessary–and always will be–to eliminate any chance of someone taking you from his world by force.

It’s not so much possession as a fierce and burning need to be possessed. A need to belong, concentrated down to its basest form.

“I’m sorry,” he says as he softly kisses your temple, spooning you in the afterglow that burns bright in the darkening room.

“For what? You didn’t hurt me.”

“Rushed it a little. Tend to act before thinkin’ sometimes.”

You’re not completely sure what he means by that. At first you think he’s talking about the rough sex, but you get his meaning. Stalking off after Abby and Mel so impulsively. For being impulsive in general.

For acting out of trauma.

Or love.

“I’m not the one you need to apologize to for that, Joel.”

You can tell the moment he understands when his forehead gently meets your shoulder. “Shit.”

It’s probably the best time to break it to him, while he’s still a little softheaded and euphoric. “She’s ready to listen. But I won’t promise it’ll be easy. It might just be you and me here for a while.”

Once his breathing evens out, he shifts, still holding onto you, but just coming back down, settling back in.

“What’s that?” He mutters, just on this side of falling asleep, lazily pointing at the watch on the hook by the fireplace.

“Your Valentine’s Day present. From both of us. Sorry it’s late.”

________

Taking some shifts off from the Meadow rotation affords you time to start slowly moving things over to the new A-frame, Maria helping you to load up a skid now and then and unload it, walking beside you as you lead the horse that tows it.

After a week or two, Ellie’s up and walking–well, limping, but healing–and starting to talk to Joel at dinner again. She’s on the verge of actually gracing his bad jokes with a smile or even a laugh, but she’s making him work hard for it. Good for her.

You haven’t asked either of them how the talk went. Don’t know if you ever will. That’s between them, the less you interfere, the better.

But you know that things are on the mend when you find Ellie playing Joel’s guitar–learning some Johnny Cash song you know he loves.

And you have a feeling that spring is on the way when you drop off another load at the new house and find a new frame on the wall–a handmade, custom carpentry display shadowbox.

With a watch hanging inside.

_______

PREVIOUS: AUTUMN

NEXT: SPRING AGAIN (coming soon)

MASTERLIST

SERIES MASTERLIST

#leave off your wandering #tlou fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x meadowlark #joel miller x mature reader

[iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia]

How do you think the M6 would react to a lying MC? Whether it’s to them or some one else is up to you or how extreme the lie is. Thank you, Arcana Headcannon Jesus <3

The Arcana HCs: M6 and the lies MC tries to tell them

~ oh boy, i did not expect being called Arcana Headcannon Jesus to hit my religious trauma like that, that was a vibe check lol

considering how in the stories MC tends to omit the truth at worst and be painfully blunt at best, i'm going to write them as a terrible liar just as a personal design choice. and also because it makes me laugh. thanks for the prompt, anon, i hope it makes you smile! - brainrot ~

Julian

You can totally read his handwriting

You love it when he writes you love letters, they warm your heart, but truthfully you can only make out maybe a quarter of the words on the page

But you can't tell him that because you don't want him to feel like all that beautiful poetry went to waste

At least you think it was poetry

You're running some errands, does he need anything?

Ah, a list of obscure medical devices. Which may or may not be available. And he wrote it down for you, how sweet!

You're so busy trying to decipher the ink blotches that you don't notice his smirk

He totally believes you can read his writing, and all the words on the paper are totally not made up medical jargon

He never says anything because he lives for the moment he can bend over your shoulder and murmur the words he wrote into your quickly reddening ear

Asra

You don't mind the questionable objects they bring into the shop without warning at all

Nope, not the bidet-shaped flamethrower

Or the screeching rattle he replaced the shop's front door bell with that makes every incoming customer jump

Or their favorite painting containing colors that the human eye was not intended to see, prominently hung on your kitchen wall

Or the jar of kool-aid pickled garlic, which he still can't open even though it's been slowly emitting a toxic stench for the last month, and which he refuses to part with because he hasn't been able to try it yet

They love you, but they love pranking you too, and seeing your reactions makes them giggle

He would never cause you any harm though

Which is why their collection of poison spitting cacti stays in a pocket realm, next to the void that wouldn't stop teaching the stove salamander explosive curse words

Nadia

You know royal etiquette like it's second nature

You know all the titles there are, you never get things like pontifex and praetor and procurator mixed up

The table place settings make total sense, who wouldn't use a slightly different type of fork to eat every kind of dish?

And nothing entertains you more than petty politics, nothing at all

In fact, you don't even find Nadia's highly accomplished family remotely intimidating

They're perfectly normal people, just like you, and you are just like them, every move is graceful and your clothes are always pristine

Nadia adores your spirited approach and will happily move purposefully slowly at the dinner table so you know which fork to grab and how to eat the complicated dishes that get served

According to her, you know what you're doing better than anyone else does

Muriel

You can reach and lift anything he can, no problem

You just need a little more time, but you'll get it

You can get the fallen tree split up for firewood and carted into storage, no biggie

Okay so the sun is setting now and you started before lunch and it never takes him longer than half an hour, but you took a lot of breaks okay

But if he wants to spend time with you that badly, he can help a little

Now you just need to lift those bowls down to eat, you've got this, you're a good climber

You never develop any suspicions around why daily necessities always end up on the top shelves, or why Muriel is so open to you helping with outside chores

He likes being needed

The face you make when you're frustrated is adorable

And he loves that you will never admit it

Portia

Please, you can absolutely keep up with her energy levels

Walking to the palace to get a shopping list

And trekking down into the city and through the floating market, the center marketplace, and the south end market to get everything

All to climb back up countless stairs with all your purchases

And walk through all the hallways to give everything to the multitude of requesters

And then back to the cottage for the evening

So you can cook the big evening meal and sweep and mop the floors and spend a few hours weeding the garden

And then all the way back out to the Rowdy Raven for a night of drinking and dancing

And then all the way back home so you can go to bed

She never pressures you to join her, but she always invites you

Hey, she likes spending time with you and you're cute when you're flushed

Lucio

You believe all his tall tales, they're so realistic

Dove to the depths of the ocean and defeated a giant minnow? Totally

Took out a thousand trained killers with one swipe of his mighty gauntlet? Mmmhm

Climbed to the top of the highest mountain to pluck some stars from the sky, which is how he got these diamonds? Of course

He can go days without eating or drinking and never crave sustenance? That tracks, he doesn't have a gluttonous bone in his body

He knows he can be narcissistic sometimes, but he's not *that* delusional

But he likes seeing your little smile as you indulge his fantasies, because you do it out of love and not mockery

And maybe he likes pretending just for a minute that what he's saying is true

#ask arcana brainrot #the arcana headcanons #the arcana hc #the arcana #asra the arcana #julian the arcana #nadia the arcana #muriel the arcana #portia the arcana #lucio the arcana #the arcana shitpost #the arcana game #asra alnazar #julian devorak #nadia satrinava #muriel of the kokhuri #portia devorak #lucio morgasson

[blurscolours]

The Devil And The Deep Blue Sea | Part Seven

Masterlist

Summary: An attack on Arthur’s imprisoned brother Orm leaves him with no choice but to rely upon you, a friend made due to unfortunate circumstances nearly a decade ago, to provide safe haven while he restores peace to Atlantis. Suddenly tasked with sheltering a sullen former king results in a very different summer vacation than you had originally envisioned, but changes both of your lives forever.

Warnings: Feats of Atlantean Strength, Discussion of Orm's Injuries, Almost-kiss, Dog

Word Count: 1317

As you opened the curtains the next morning you were surprised to find the dock empty. There was no evidence of water on the dock, or freshly caught fish. You stepped out of your room and looked into his…empty…Frowning, you headed to the back deck and heard a rustling in the trees.

“Fuck, not again” You muttered, taking a step backward toward the cabin then stopped and blinked your eyes several times. You doubted your sight as Orm stepped out of the woods with, essentially, an entire tree propped up on his right shoulder. You started openly, undeniably impressed.

“Good morning” He called to you, somewhat smugly, and continued toward the wood pile out of your line of sight. You stepped inside and went over to the other door, shocked to find he’d collected five fallen trees while you’d been sleeping. You slid into your shoes and walked over to him.

“This is incredible. Are you…is your arm ok though?” You looked to it, concerned about the strain on the steri-strips.

“I am not even using that arm do not worry.” He nodded.

Oh of course, he was just hauling trees one handed. You shook your head in awe.

“Well, I guess we need to break down the trees before they can be chopped into firewood.” You mused. “There are a few options – chainsaw or hacksaw…” You looked to him. “I am assuming you would prefer the option that does not use fossil fuels?”

“You are correct, that is absolutely my preference.”

“Ok then.” You grabbed the sawhorses from beside the shed, thankfully there were multiple sets that could accommodate the length he was working you. Next, you grabbed the three hacksaws of varying sizes. “If you lift one up, I’ll put the supports under it?”

He nodded and moved to the middle of one of the trees, lifting it smoothly. You can see it did cost him some effort, but it was still an incredible feat. You wasted no time propping the sawhorses at intervals under the tree and he carefully settled the weight of it into them. You held out the hacksaws for him to inspect.

“I am thinking you will want the one with larger teeth?”

He took it from you and tested it out on the trunk of the tree. It was once again a display of his strength as he was able to make a sizable cut into the wood.

“This will do quite nicely.” He commented before returning to cutting. You felt awkward just standing there, gawking at him, so you headed back inside to make breakfast.

As the pair of you finished eating, you asked him to collect his clothes into the laundry basket so you could wash them. While he headed back to continue his project, you did a load of laundry. Once it was finished, you brought the basket out to the clothesline to dry in the sun. Well, not all of it. The underwear you put in the dryer, not wanting to display it in the yard.

Of the five trees he’d collected, only two remained intact. The rest lay in pieces on the ground. When you’d finished clipping the clothes to the line, you headed over to tidy the logs into a pile to keep the path clear and make it easier for him to break down the last two. You really should have worn gloves, you reflected, as you felt a sliver pierce the skin of your palm.

“Damn.” You muttered to yourself, angling your palm in the sunlight to try and figure out where the track was to push it back out. Your curse summoned him to your side, and he took your hand in his.

“How has your kind managed to dominate the surface with skin as weak as paper.” He muttered in a mixture of affection and annoyance.

You laughed a little and shrugged.

“Violence and utter lack of respect for nature?” You offered. “Aha!” You exclaimed as you found the splinter’s track and, using the thumbnail of your other hand, you pushed it back out of your skin.

His fingers brushed the offending piece of wood off your palm, and he nodded.

“I find no fault with your argument.” He replied.

You grinned and shook your head affectionately.

“I’ll go grab a pair of gloves and be right back.”

Returning from the shed, your hands protected by a pair of work gloves, you continued stacking the logs. Once the trees were broken down, you put the sawhorses away together, and he returned to the axe, breaking the logs down into firewood. The two of you worked rather well together as he quartered the logs and you stacked them in the woodshed. The day past quickly, even though it was turning into a hot one, and you were able to ignore the growing boat traffic on the lake, signalling yet another Friday wave of weekenders. You took a break for lunch and a swim midafternoon, but both seemed more than happy to spend the rest of the day working.

By the time the sun started sliding behind the treetops, the pile of logs had been reduced by half. The law was covered in sawdust and wood chips, but you could not help but feel a great sense of accomplishment. The family was going to be very impressed with your contribution to the winter fuel. You turned to grab some more firewood from beside the chopping block, but the wood chips beneath your feet shifted and you stumbled awkwardly, catching yourself on the nearest thing…which happened to be Orm.

Reflexively, he wrapped an arm around your hips and steadied you against him.

“Sorry!” You exclaimed and moved to step back, but he was still holding you to his side. You looked up to him to find he was already looking down at you. You blushed as you realized how close you were, his eyes peering into yours. You saw them flick down to your mouth before looking back to your eyes. Your breath became shaky as you unconsciously licked your lips. He began to close the distance between you until something warm and soft slammed into both your legs.

He froze as he heard someone calling from down the path and took a hurried step back to put a respectable distance between the two of you. You were not able to contain the look of disappointment as it flowed across your face, but the enthusiastic licks of the intruder on your legs caught your attention. You crouched down to scritch the neighbour’s dog behind the ears as it sat on the ground, panting happily as you at last give it attention.

Orm eyed the creature skeptically but looked over as your neighbour finally came into view on the path

“There you are you rascal.” They said to the dog, who romped over to them happily. “Sorry about him, he’s just happy to be here.”

You laughed and shook your head.

“No worries. Just a heads-up, though, we ran into quite a large bear on the other side of the tracks the other day.”

Your neighbour thanked you for the warning before dragging the enthusiastic ball of fur back to their yard.

“I’m going to clean up these woodchips.” You murmured and fetched a rake and a garbage bag. You raked the chips out of the grass into piles before putting them in the bag. They would be useful as either kindling or to fill in muddy patches on the path.

Your meal that night was once again leftovers, as you don’t have the energy to make anything new. You also insisted on changing his bandage before bed and couldn’t help but marvel at how quickly the wounds had closed. You wrapped them up again, so he didn’t disturb the healing in his sleep, before bidding him goodnight.

Sleep came again quickly after such a physical day.

Read Part Eight

Masterlist

#orm x reader #orm marius x reader #orm imagine #orm fic #orm marius imagine #orm marius fic #ocean master x reader

[zeno-obsessed]

Hey, can I request some Shin-ah friendship fluff? He's my favorite character!

This is such an old question... but I'm in the mood to write *cracks fingers*

Yun chewed on the inside of his lip as he concentrated on peeling the apple in his hands. The peel glided off expertly into the little squirrel's waiting hands. Ao was always there to pick up whatever he had dropped or any leftovers. Nothing really went to waste. He had a book propped up on the little stone he had found as an impromptu stand. He was reading a new medical book they had managed to by for him in the last town.

He registered Yona and Hak training in the background. Zeno was laying on his bedroll watching them train together. Yun had asked Kija to go get firewood and Shin-Ah was hovering.

"What do you need, Shin-Ah," Yun asked as another slice of apple skin fell off into the eternal void of Ao's mouth.

"Can you teach me," Shin-Ah sat down next to him. "To what," that broke his attention from his multitasking.

"Teach me to read," Shin-Ah said.

Yun blinked a couple of times. Then closed the book and nodded, "What letters do you know?"

"None," Shin-Ah said. "Then let's start at the beginning," Yun said with no hesitation. He grabbed his notepad and handed Shin-Ah a small brush. Yun grabbed his jar of ink and took the cork out with his teeth, spitting it back into his bag for him to complain about finding later.

Yun started with how to hold the brush, "The stylus will go in your hand and you will use your pointer finger, middle finger, and thumb to hold it."

Shin-Ah nodded and was able to replicate the hold that Yun had showed him. Yun walked him through the correct way to dip the ink and wrote four letters at the top of the page, "Can you copy these?"

Shin-Ah nodded. The blue dragon studied the way Yun moved his hand with the brush strokes, focusing on moving his hand the exact same way and eerily almost had Yun's handwriting down by the end of the line of characters.

"Okay, to read you do need to know what sound each of the characters say," Yun pointed to the first letter and had Shin-Ah repeat after him, working so he could know what they were without needing a hint.

"Good job," Yun smiled.

"Yes! Greta job Shin-Ah," Yona cheered for him. The princess and thunder beast had wandered over for a snack. Yun sighed and said, "Let me get lunch started."

"Zeno can help you while the lad finishes the food," Zeno offered.

"Me too," Jae-ha hummed, walking over and sitting down to help, "Although, my handwriting isn't the best."

"Neither is Zeno's," He said, "It was once pretty nice, but Zeno's fallen out of practice with it. Lost the patience to take the time to make it nice, plus the shape of the letters change so much." "The shape..." Shin-Ah asked.

"Yeah the shapes of characters will change and Zeno uses an old version of it or they will make up completely new ones," Zeno complained.

Yun blinked, "Really? You'll have to show me sometime how words have changed."

Zeno smiled, "Zeno can't guarantee he'll remember."

"That's okay," Shin-Ah smiled, going back to practicing the sounds and letters.

#akatsuki no yona #zeno #yona of the dawn #akayona #yona #shinah #fluff

[basicsofislam]

ISLAM 101: AN INTRODUCTION TO HADITH: Part 15

Sila ar-Rahm (Observing Ties of Kinship): Part 2

The rights of parents over their children can be categorized as follows:

a) Rights Pertaining to the Body

If need be, we should carry our parents on our backs. Upon seeing a man with a burden on his back during his circumambulation of the Ka’ba, Hasan al-Basri asked him why he performed this worship with a burden upon his back. The man replied,

“This is not a burden but is my father. I brought him here from Damascus and circumambulated the Ka’ba seven times with him. He taught me my religion and belief. He raised me with an Islamic morality; his rights upon me are great.”

Hasan al-Basri responded,

“If you were to carry him on your back until the Last Day, your labor would go to waste in the event of your breaking his heart only once. Similarly, if you please him even once, it would be equivalent to this much labor.”

All the favors and spiritual degrees that Uways al-Qarani attained are due to his kindness to his mother. Anas ibn Malik relates:

“During the time of Allah’s Messenger, there was a young man by the name of Alqama. He was very pious, spending his time in prayer and fasting. He then fell very ill and, at the subsequent approach of death, became speechless. Being informed of this situation, the Messenger of Allah sent Ali and Ammar ibn Yasir to him. Despite their prompting Alqama to recite the Declaration of Faith, he was unable to do so. When Bilal al-Habashi informed the Prophet of the young man’s predicament, Allah’s Messenger asked, ‘Are either of his parents alive?’

‘O Messenger of Allah, his mother is alive, but she is very aged,’ he was told.

The Prophet then wished to speak with her. When she arrived, he asked her about her son, and she replied:

‘O Messenger of Allah, Alqama is very pious. He is always engaged in worship, but I am displeased with him, as he holds the approval of his wife above mine.’

Allah’s Messenger said,

‘Your displeasure has prevented Alqama’s tongue from pronouncing the Declaration of Faith. Forgive him, so that he may speak.’

When she refused, Allah’s Messenger turned to Bilal and said,

‘Bilal, call for my Companions to go out and gather firewood.’

Upon hearing this, she asked,

‘Messenger of Allah, what do you plan to do with this? Will my child be burnt in the fire? How am I to bear this?’

Allah’s Messenger said,

‘The flames of the Fire are more severe and long-lasting. If you want Allah to forgive him, be reconciled to him. His prayer, fasting, and spending in charity are of no benefit to Alqama so long as you are displeased with him.’

When the elderly woman heard these words, she exclaimed,

‘I call upon Allah and His angels and the Muslims who are present to be my witness that I have forgiven Alqama.’

She then went to her son and heard his voice. He pronounced the Declaration of Faith with ease and passed away that same day. After his burial, Allah’s Messenger addressed his Companions saying,

‘The curse of Allah and the angels is upon the man who favors his wife over his mother.’”

b) Rights Pertaining to the Tongue

We must not even say “Ugh” to our parents.

Not raising one’s voice when speaking with them.

Refraining from excessive speech or exceeding the bounds of propriety while in their presence.

Not favoring one’s wife over them.

Not calling them by their names or interrupting them as they speak.

Avoiding the use of directives such as “Do” or “Don’t”, instead of asking politely.

Obtaining their blessing.

c) Rights Pertaining to the Heart

Having mercy on them, being compassionate towards them. It is stated in a hadith: “Those who show no mercy will be shown no mercy.” (Sahih Muslim)

Love. One must make one’s parents feel loved at all times. Another hadith states: “Kissing the feet of one’s mother is like kissing the threshold of the doorway to Paradise.” (Shir’a)

Sharing their happiness. One must echo their joy when they are pleased with something.

Sharing their sorrow or pain. If they are upset with something, one must strive to convey one’s care and concern.

Being pleased with them. One must seek to attain pleasure in every possible way.

d) Rights Pertaining to Wealth and Property

Preferring one’s parents to oneself in dress and eating and drinking.

Visiting them if they are at a distance: “Whoever believes in Allah and the Last Day, let them maintain the bonds of kinship.” (Sahih al- Bukhari)

Eating together.

Inquiring after their needs and wants and fulfilling these.

Cleaning their homes, undertaking any maintenance required such as painting or other repairs.

Helping them financially. They may be in need of monetary support but may be unable to express this.

Spending freely on them. It is declared in the Qur’an: “Whatever you spend of your wealth is for (your) parents and the near relatives, and (needy) orphans, the destitute, and the wayfarer” (al-Baqarah 2:215). To a person who asked on whom he was to spend, Allah’s Messenger said, “Start with your own self and spend it on yourself, and if anything is left, it should be spent on your family, and if anything is left (after meeting the needs of the family) it should be spent on relatives, and if anything is left from the family, it should be spent like this, like this.” And he was saying: “In front of you, on your right and on your left.”

Inviting them over to share in a meal. This is something that they desire but perhaps cannot articulate.

Being preoccupied with their medical treatment when they fall ill and purchasing their medication. One must strive to care for them themselves instead of hiring a carer to attend to them.

#Allah #god #islam #quran #muslim #revert #revert islam #convert #convert islam #converthelp #reverthelp #revert help #revert help team #help #islam help #salah #dua #prayer #pray #reminder #religion #mohammad #muslimah #hijab #new muslim #new revert #new convert #how to convert to islam #convert to islam #welcome to islam

[inafieldofdaisies]

Last Line (accept it would never be just one line) Tag | Tagged by @clicheantagonist ty <3

At this point I'm not even trying to stick to the one line rule, ain't no fun that way. :D You're getting more Mercy x Jacob breadcrumbs. (also look at their ship banner &lt;;3)

A part of her hoped [Jacob] would just up and leave, disobeying Joseph's orders or not. Done with her own dinner, she took a seat in an armchair next to the couch, and to her dismay, he returned, carrying a couple of pieces of firewood inside. He kneeled down in front of the fireplace, mumbling, "So, have you changed your mind about me teaching you how to start a fire, yet?" "No." "Why?" "Because." Because your friendliness is forced. Because you're only being nice after getting scolded by Joseph and being offered some cryptic revelation about me. Because I'd rather keep my distance for so many reasons. He shook his head at her nonanswer, patting the empty space on the carpet next to him, "Come on, Mercedes." "No, thank you." "You'd certainly regret declining that lesson in the winter months… if you even make it that long in the Whitetails, that is.", he said, not bothering to mask the jab. "You're the expert, right? So do it yourself." "You owe me for destroying my poster. Humor me, and I will overlook the transgression." She shook her head, "I did no such thing, I told you already. I'm staring to wonder if there ever was one in your office or you're making it up so you have something to hold over my head." His eyes narrowed, "You're lying. We both know there was one." "Am not."

"Come over, already. We can argue the whole night or get the cabin warmed up." Mercedes got up with a sigh, shuffling over to him before she knelt down, and grumbled, "I still don't understand why you insist on it." He ignored her words, slipping into explaining the basics she knew by heart, "First, you check the damper if you don't want all the smoke coming into the house." She nodded along with enthusiasm, urging him to continue, "Two pieces of firewood.", he picked them up from the floor and placed them on the grate of the fireplace before crumpling some newspaper, "Tinder. Then kindling on top. Some more firewood. And then…" Jacob reached inside his shirt's pocket, taking out a matchbox and passing it over to her, "…you light it." His fingers brushed against hers, and she tried to ignore his intense stare as she removed a match and struck it, wasting no time in starting the fire. His 'lesson' being officially over meant he would finally leave her in peace. Or one can only hope.

Tagging @poisonedtruth @direwombat @madparadoxum @nightbloodbix @josephslittledeputy @josephseedismyfather @g0dspeeed @detectivelokis @aceghosts @euryalex @adelaidedrubman @thesingularityseries @cassietrn @vampireninjabunnies-blog @theelderhazelnut @clonesupport @voidika @schoute @v0idbuggy @socially-awkward-skeleton @trench-rot and anyone else that would like to share a little something. <3

#look at Mercedes straight up gaslighting Jacob about the poster...👏👏👏 #tense fire starting something something; parallels to our characters; symbolism etc etc #tagged <3 #ship: the deceiver and the wolf #oc: mercedes “mercy” sibley #last line tag #last line wip #wip snippet #wip stuff #ocs #wip: in hope of tomorrow #fc5 ocs #ship dynamics #character dialogue #original characters #jacob seed x oc #oc character #far cry 5 oc #wip #snippets #dialogue snippet #character moodboard #character edit #moodboard #myedits

[rionas-path]

Chapter 14

A Funeral Fit for a Tsar

CXXXIV. The chirping of the daybreak’s voices stirred her from her sleep. She stretched her arms. Then cracked her joints; then leaped off from her bed. Step followed step unto the cobbled porch. Her mind: cast on, thread, Weaving the forthcoming day’s events. One couldn’t help but weep At the laborious yet vital task ahead of her. It had now been a quarter-moon since the event insecure And still no trace of the goddess. To Ríona this silent sweep Was a sensation unknown. No; solitude was the phrase sweet.

CXXXV. Indeed, the girl revelled in it, and always found more work That had to be completed. At last, her stay’s main task was to give The Tsar a sepulchre; his rites, to wistfully relive The last night of his life before his spirit did embark Towards the eternal pastures and Our Lady Raven’s side. Befitting of a kin-in-kind, this ritual time did bide. Though not quite sure of his tribal root, she did see a clan mark That belonged to Rhuykë-folk and would perform the work of their hierarch.

CXXXVI. With a whirling of her digits, she harnessed the flow’s vastness Which streamed about this valley betwixt the Guardians and the lake Of Frozen Plains, gathering twigs, sticks and firewood to make A grand pyre. Without a heartbeat wasted, she would progress Down to the ground floor, as the timber swelled, amassed, accrued Afore the keep. Stepping outside, the lake sang its pure etude, Greeting her with the early morning song of great faithfulness. Thus, she collected the empty vessel and began the process.

CXXXVII. In the absence of prying eyes, she expressed her command On the flow so openly that each task seemed effortless. Flicking her wrist yet again, she flipped a boulder measureless In weight, setting it flat, then laying down the vessel grand Upon it. She stripped his body of its mortal garments And cleaned off the divine blood without magick’s assistance, As tradition dictated: the vessel clean without a crimson strand. Repulsion must not invade her mind, this task she need withstand.

CXXXVIII. Meticulously, she cleansed the Tsar’s brittle, bark-like skin. His hollow hallowed eyes shone brightly even in his passing, Putting to full display his long lost youth and the amassing Of the rings in form of wrinkles, marking what his life has been. The corruptive scarring imbued by flow, long had ceased to glow, Leaving his gaunt, haggard body in the state of peace bestowed. Finished with the cleansing, she kneeled down before her kind’s kin, Commencing the burial: this long awaited rite to begin.

CXXXIX. She touched down with her left hand, digging her fingers into the soil, Then held it within her palm, blowing on it with a message For the other side: “Dear ones! I come before thee to ask for passage Of my kin-in-kind. I, Kaitríonne Eleanoir, give his turmoil An end, grant passage to this heroic vessel, once beloved! I beseech the Tribe Mothers and the shepherding godhead!” She stood as still as possible, awaiting the flow’s recoil, And slowly spirits wandered near, paying homage to her toil.

CXL. In the grasp of uncertainty, she stumbled through her words: “I… give to thee the Tsar, the demigod of Rhüyke-folk, The hero of the Dark Days! As such, his triumphs I evoke: He saved mortaldom from the Wicrow, from the dreaded birds! I beg thee, Tribe Mothers, though he is not of Mockwiran blood, Grant him the passage to the Endless Pastures, the holy mud, For I don’t know where those who held him dear and true – his herds, His flock reside!” With those remarks, she wished for just rewards.

CXLI. A lithe clap began to echo through the valley, resonating. Remembering her teachings, she knew she could not turn away, Open her eyes; make any errant twitch despite the sway Of wicked compulsion, which kept beckoning, beckoning. A graceful, innocent and meagre, yet somewhat brazen voice Reverberated within her mind: “A wealthy choice Of words… for a madman, such as he? Hailing and venerating! ‘Tis a venturous approach; stupid, yet so fascinating!”

CXLII. “To ask for such a charitable yet unspeakable thing, While not adorned in colours of a shaman… amusing!” The voice belonged to a little girl, yet there was no confusing, Ríona knew full well the lass was the acting regent-king: Sky Pervuia – the most powerful living divine. To her luck, the goddess’ mind was distinct, often genuine, A refusal to toy with people-folk, rarely communicating With mortals; rather taking the dying souls under her wing.

CXLIII. Thus, spirits of one’s forebearers sought for the Grim Margrave On behalf of the deceased; through the words of the shaman, And yet despite such staunch truths, this rite disturbed the regimen Of the goddess, calling forth her ever silent, curious rave. Nevertheless, where she sensed honest respect from the heart, She approached the entity equally, willing to start With dialogue peacefully, and now before her stood a brave And daring soul, which did not want to be a destiny’s slave.

#riona's path #fantasy #dark fantasy #poetry #epic poetry #poem #epic poem #literature #writing

[oumaheroes]

The Way You Shake and Shiver

Day 7 of Whumptober.

Shaking hands/ Seizures/ Silent panic attack

My own Whumptober rules can be found here, if you’re unsure what’s going on

Characters: England, France/ FrUK

Day 1, Day 2, Day 3, Day 4, Day 5, Day 6

Context: Set a few months after Day 5

---------

'Here,' France passed him a mug of dark mulled wine, hot and tangy with the smell of oranges. He waited until England took it and could hold it steady before letting go, crouching in front of him and folding his long fingers over England's chilled hands to stop them from shaking.

'Thank you.'

'You're welcome.'

'You don’t have to do this.'

'Consider it payment for lodgings.'

They settled into silence. Eventually, France deemed his hands warm enough and stood, pressing a hard kiss to his temple, ‘Are you hungry?’

‘No.’

‘Think you can handle soup?’

‘Probably not.’

‘Bread?’

‘I’m not hungry, Francis.’

France sighed, ‘Suit yourself.’

He left England alone, hunched naked under blankets in a chair by the fire. For France to be here was pure luck, whether good or bad England hadn’t yet decided. But because he was here there was a stack of logs for firewood and butter and cheese in the larder and that tipped things into the positive. England might not be hungry now but tomorrow when his stomach had settled and the taste of salt was gone from his tongue he would be.

As it was, he still felt half drowned.

France reemerged from the kitchen after a time, his hands covered in flour. England had dismissed his staff before setting off for the Americas; God only knew what the state of the place was.

He’d dragged himself up from the coast where he’d washed up as a bloated lump of flesh somewhere in Sussex. As soon as he could move he’d headed for London, mind too foggy to think of anything else other than that nameless instinct to join the greatest gathering of his people, and he’d shambled along the roads like the roaming dead. Today his skin was still pockmarked and sallow, bitten by fish and the last priority for his body to repair. He’s lucky he wasn’t arrested, although perhaps he’d looked too pitiful. His clothes were too far gone to even consider keeping.

His hands were still shaking. The mug was too full and the wine occassionally sloshed up to the sides to dribble onto his fingers. His stomach clenched at the thought of drinking it.

‘This is why I don’t sail if I can help it,’ he said, brushing his hands together to clean them and nudging a stray strand of hair behind his ear with the back of one hand, ‘Especially not that far from home.’

England didn’t reply.

‘Too much room for error. And then this-’ he gestured to England, ‘is the worst of outcomes. Down there until the tides let you go, again and again and again.’

England turned back to the fire.

France came around behind him and rubbed the top of his arms through the blanket, ‘You’re still so cold.’

‘It’s normal.’

‘Doesn’t mean that it’s good.’ He ran his hands through England’s hair, strands of it falling away easily, ‘At least you were due for a hair cut.’

‘I’m going for the natural approach.’

‘Rotten and decayed does look good on you.’

England huffed.

‘Here, give this to me.’ France took the mug of wine from England’s unresisting hands and placed it on the floor beside the fire, ‘You’re too clumsy to waste good wine. I’ve put a loaf on; you’re going to eat it.’

‘Francis-’

‘A few bites. Restart your digestive system.’ He pulled the blankets higher up around England’s neck and pressed the back of his hand to his cheek, ‘Otherwise I’ll be reported for harbouring a corpse and I’d rather not deal with what you have the gall to call law makers.’

Day 8

Full Masterlist

#aph england #aph france #hws england #hws france #fruk #hws #aph #hetalia #whumptober #whumptalia #heroes writes #whump is hard friends #i need the opportunity to make things soft #whumptober 2022

[saintlygames]

Dust to Dust

Before I was set to descend to Bedlam, I met my uncle. He was the last priest of Bedlam and most recently turned Markayuq.

He stood on the dais of the monastery, petrified. He likely wouldn’t wake for a few more decades. He had a low brow and an expression of frozen concentration, as though he’d been pondering something interesting before he finished the transformation.

I’d never had a problem looking at the Markayuq. They were sacred and worshipped here. I cared for them as part of my service; waxing the leather robes, keeping their stone skin clean of dust, and making offerings. I couldn’t look at him though. It was the future’s fingernails scratching down the back of my neck.

When the two guards brought me down to the forest, my ears ached from the altitude change. My eyes adjusted to the dark below in the shade of the canopy. When I moved, I was taken aback when the air around me glowed. I waved my hand through it, leaving a golden afterimage that stayed until the wind swept it away.

‘Pollen,’ one guard explained. It was the first time either of them had spoken to me on the way down.

The walk to the village was a long one. By the time it got dark, I was shivering and had a hard time picking my way through the mangled roots of the forest floor. I tripped several times, and the guards were kind enough to pick me up.

It took two hours to reach the stacks, and seeing it made me uneasy. The buildings were visibly old and ramshackle, patched hastily in ways that were sure not to last. After growing up in pristine monasteries above the mountains, this place felt like it was made from splinters.

The paths of the village were lit with lamps whose light resembled the pollen from the forest. Inside the case, instead of a metal burner for fuel, there was a mechanism that spun to keep the pollen churning.

Walking canes and chairs outfitted with wide wooden wheels were leaned against the little houses. There were no stairs anywhere, only shallow ramps.

A line of salt was drawn on the ground. If I turned my head both ways I couldn’t see where it ended in either direction. At least three Markayuq had gathered at the salt, facing the village with their backs to the forest. I stepped over, careful not to disturb the grains. When I turned around to see if the guards would follow, they stayed well behind the line.

In the darkness, they were statues. ‘We were told to take you only this far.’

The steeple of the church was the tallest point in the village. The cross topping the tower loomed over me and I felt a roll of unease. I wasn’t Catholic the way the villagers were — they truly believed and I only practiced for the role, but if there was a God like they there was, I hadn’t heard from him yet.

The garden and the graveyard were overgrown and made shadowy limbs in the dark. Pulling my arms close, I took care not to touch them as I watched the guards retreat silently back into the treeline. I stood there until my fingers were numb from the cold before turning back to the church.

Inside, the air was stale. I groped around in the dark for something to start a fire or a lamp, knocking my hip painfully into a table corner as I went. My uncle had left ample firewood behind, and I tossed too much of it into the hearth without thinking that it was a waste. As the fire grew, I found one of those pollen lamps and fumbled with it for a minute before turning a key that made the metal parts churn the pollen to life.

With light to see, I wandered through the halls of the church. On one long stretch of walls by the first row of pews, there were fifteen portraits of Jesus carrying his cross to Calvary. I only managed to study four of them before the phantom ache in my shoulders forced me to move on.

There was a kitchen and a dining table in the same room as the hearth and past that, there was a chapel turned into a makeshift spare bedroom with two cots on either side of the room. I climbed up to the belfry and found only a bed and an empty shelf. I put my things on the mattress, stole the musty blanket, and clutched it around my shoulders. The bell was enormous, three times my size and swayed eerily above my head when a draft blew up from the church.

When a branch banged against the stained glass window I jumped and turned the lamp brighter, but all it did was lengthen the shadows of the room. Back home, I used to keep a lamp burning all night until I fell asleep because I hated the dark. I slept in the same room as my mother even when I started to be told that I was getting too old for it, but she never minded.

She was still there, probably in that room right now. I wondered if she would still keep a lamp on for me. I tucked my knees to my chest and cried into them, feeling swallowed by shadows and stricken by the fear of being alone for the first time.

Beyond the church, a house on the stacks turned the lights down. I watched the brightness in their window fade to dark until I couldn’t see the shape of the village against the mountains. All those people down there were mine to look after now.

I was twelve years old, all on my own and the only one of my kind. When I looked out the window the Markayuq guarding the salt line stared back at me, both lifeless and not. 

read the rest on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47615128

#the bedlam stacks #raphael #raphael thebedlamstacks #merrick tremayne #fanfic #sorry this was a sad one

[meggtheegg]

To love a beast ? 👀

!!!! Okay So, this is basically a Beauty and the Beast AU, as the title implies, with Sam as Belle and Bucky as the Beast. It hits a lot of the same beats as the Disney movie, but with a few important changes to keep it more closely aligned with the events of the MCU. This one is still in its early chapters, and I haven't actually gotten to them meeting, yet, so here's some snippets with both of their POVs:

Snippet #1:

If not for the untamed chill of the coastal autumn breeze, Sam Wilson may have been fooled into believing that it was still summer. After a long week of stormy weather, the sun burned bright in a cloudless sky, as though the entire universe had opened up around the small, secluded village he called home. Children ran about in the grass, playing silly little made-up games with whatever newest toys the local wood carver had come up with, while parents tended to their daily tasks, running into market, gossiping with the neighbors, and living their dreary little lives, seemingly unaware that the world could have anything to offer, outside of what they already knew.  On this day, Sam was out on the family fishing boat, which had long outlasted expectation but was quickly approaching disrepair. In recent years, more sophisticated watercraft had found their way into the harbor, and each season had brought with it a smaller and smaller catch. He’d sworn to his sister, though, that he would fix the old girl, and after days stuck inside, he was determined to put in whatever work he could, now, before the river froze over and she started to look more like a stack of firewood than a legacy. “If nothing else, no one can say you aren't dedicated.” The sound of a familiar voice pulled Sam’s attention away from his work. At the end of the dock, a man smiled, his face wrinkled with age and his tired, blue eyes filled with a lifetime of untold stories.  Sam snickered and rolled his eyes. Steve Rogers was the kind of person who always seemed to have something to say, and sometimes, those things even made sense. That wasn’t what the rest of the village could see, of course. Small minds only had room for so much, and the old man’s stories of better times long past felt less believable, with each unremarkable new day. “Should I be worried about whatever else they’re saying?" “Only if you like to waste your energy.” Steve stepped onto the boat with a little too much ease, for someone of his age. “Need any help?”

Snippet #2:

He couldn’t remember much of anything, anymore. Even his name sat, hovering, just outside his mind's reach. At least, the name he used to go by. A prince has many names, he'd learned, but only one of them was ever really his. So, of course, that had been the first of them to fade away. No one who remained in the castle had used it, since the spell took hold. Many refused to acknowledge him, at all. To those who did, he was simply Your Highness, My Lord, Sir… Occasionally, he was James, but the name never sat right on their tongues, or his, in those few bitter moments when he’d find it in himself to speak. In the early days, he’d tried to remain something close to human, in spite of himself. Checked in on the others, followed some semblance of a routine, walked with his head held high and spoke like the man he used to be. But the last seventy years had dragged on for so long, each day blending unchangingly into the next, with no sign of an end, the clocks unmoving, the sun never rising. Every agonizing moment had stripped away his will to keep fighting, and his humanity had gone, with it.  Perhaps he’d never been human, at all. The creature that stared back from each unavoidable reflection was certainly no man, so what was the point of wasting energy pretending to be something he was not? The very idea of it had become a fantasy, his true face, true mind, true life, buried only in his books and the dreams that taunted him, at night.

send me an ask with the title that most intrigues you, and i will post a little snippet or talk about it

#sambucky #bucky barnes #sam wilson #wip game

[queenofbaws]

Queenie!!! The prompt list were so good that I think I will "spam" you with different prompt!! If I'm allowed,of course!xD

The first two are from the Bed Sharing Scenarios:

we have to sleep on the forest ground, so everything can be the bed, but we still sleep close, because we feel too exposed

Nick&Abi

Or

we're snowed in and there is not a lot of space and heat

Chris&Ashley

Have a nice day~!♡

definitely more than six sentence sat(or)sunday!!!

The plan had looked super, super good on paper: Take a walk through the scenic (if icy) woodlands, hope that the cold would sober Josh up, and then head back to the lodge, no harm no foul. Foolproof!

Just not…just not Joshproof.

Ashley stood in front of the guest cabin’s front window, her palms going numb with cold as she held them on the sill. The very last ray of the sun sank below the trees as she watched, her front teeth gnawing her lower lip raw. “It’s way too dark,” she sighed, hanging her head. Slowly but surely, a perfect darkness began to sweep its way through the Pines’s many…pines, the shadows lengthening until they bled into one another, covering the world around them with a thick blanket of night. “We’d never make it back to the lodge in this…”

“I mean…to be fair, I sorta told you this would happen.” Frowning at the matches in his hand, Chris muttered a few additional words under his breath and kept trying to light the damn fire. The movies made it look so easy, but when your firewood had been sitting out in the snow for God-knew-how-long and your book of matches was from the mid-to-late 60’s, there just wasn’t anything easy about it.

“You’re not helping, oh my gosh.”

“I-I’m pretty sure getting this started is helping, Ash. I—aha!” Finally, the match caught. He cupped his other hand around the flame as he brought it to the grate of the fireplace, only pulling away once he’d reached the stack of logs. It poked disinterestedly at the wood for a few seconds, that dumb flame, crawling closer and closer to his fingers…before an itsy-bitsy bit took, the fireplace beginning to fill with thin wisps of smoke. It was better than it’d been ten minutes ago, he’d give himself that. “Truly, I am a modern Prometheus.”

If nothing else, that got Ashley to turn. She folded her arms across her chest, helpless to fight the smile playing on her lips as she cupped her elbows in her hands. “Uh huh,” she laughed, “That’s definitely what I’d call you…”

He held a single finger up to her, an admonishing pointer, keeping his eyes on the grate until the first flame flickered there. “Aw yeah! Check it!”

“I’m checking it.”

“Let there be light!”

Ashley joined him in front of the fireplace, half-squatting to get a better look. The flame in question was maybe—and oh, what emphasis there was on that word, maybe—the size of her thumb nail. Still, Chris was awfully proud of himself, so she quietly sighed through her nose before giving a polite golf clap.

“Thank you, thank you.” He feigned bowing as he stood from the (unbelievably cold) floor, jogging his weight from one leg to the other once his focus faltered enough for him to remember it was, in fact, fucking freezing in the cabin. “Know what I think?” he asked, blowing into his hands to warm them up for the time being. “I think we should go wake Josh up and make him watch this shit until it’s nice and toasty. That can be his job.”

“He is pretty good at fanning flames, so to speak…” Ashley joked, throwing a look over Chris’s shoulder towards the darkened half of the guest cabin. For a moment, she actually thought about it, jostling Josh awake and making him deal with the cold same as them. This was his fault, when you thought about it, them being stuck in the middle of the woods in the first place. If he hadn’t gotten so wasted back at the party…ugh, but she couldn’t. That wouldn’t’ve been fair. It’d been luck alone that’d gotten them all the way there in the first place, and the fact he was snoring away in the back bedroom meant he at least wasn’t puking everywhere, so…

Luckily, she and Chris didn’t share a wavelength so much as curate a whole shared mental radio station, so she didn’t need to say a word of it.

“We should probably just let him sleep it off, huh?” Chris asked, his glasses fogging with his breath.

“We should probably just let him sleep it off, yeah,” she nodded, shaking her own hands out. “Speaking of sleeping, though…what the heck are we supposed to do?”

He opened his mouth. He shut it.

He hadn’t thought about that.

Chris took his turn glancing towards the other half of the cabin, but he knew what he’d see if he poked his head into the bedroom; Josh was a starfish sleeper, spreading out until he took up every inch of whatever bed you put him in. Some people might’ve found that impressive. Right now, it was just sort of…typical.

“Uh.”

Ashley snorted a laugh. “Yeah. My thoughts exactly.” If there was any benefit of how frigging cold she was, it had to be the way it was keeping her from blushing. No question. Since their ‘foolproof’ plan had involved them heading back to the lodge before dark hit, there’d been no reason to stop and think about the logistics of the guest cabin: how small it was, how little space there was, how there was only one bed…that Josh was currently in. She dropped her head into her hands, rubbing tiredly at her face. The hike, too, they’d underestimated. None of them were what you’d call ‘outdoor people,’ much less ‘athletic’ or even ‘physically capable.’ She could’ve fallen asleep standing up just then.

The two of them stood there for a while. It was impossible to say how long ‘a while’ was, in that particular instance – outside, it was already as black as it was going to get – but by the time either of them found the will to point out the obvious, the itty-bitty fire had started crackling, having grown enough to cast the faintest light on the rug spread over the wooden floor.

“I mean,” Ashley said, trying (and failing miserably) to sound casual. “I guess all we got’s the couch, right? I don’t know about you, but like…I don’t…think the floor is going to…work.” As though to drive that point home, she dragged the toe of her boot across the rug, and a mountain of dust came with it.

“It is prime real-estate in terms of, y’know, fire-warmth,” agreed Chris, who, for the life of him, just could not stop anxiously clearing his throat. At least he could blame that much on the dust if he had to. “It’s gonna be, uh, sort of a…”

“Squeeze?”

“Yeah, a…yeah.”

“Hmm.”

They thought that one over for a moment. Then two moments. Many, many moments. The fire grew.

When she couldn’t see her breath in the air any longer, Ashley forced herself to move, knowing if she didn’t, well…they might actually fall asleep standing up. “I think there are some extra blankets in the back. I can…?”

“Oh, yeah. Sure, good idea. I’ll…lock…up. Yeah, I’ll lock up.”

“Oh, good.”

“Yeah, don’t want any bears showing up in the middle of the night, y’know.”

Something about it broke the spell that’d come over her, and Ashley rolled her eyes, jokingly nudging him with her elbow as she passed him. “Don’t even put that into the universe, oh my God, Chris!”

“What? I’m just saying! The way our luck is? It’d be a bear and a missionary. A…a mission-bear-y.”

“Ugh.”

“Try to convert us to salmon-vation.”

“Literally can’t hear you anymore,” she said, her voice going distant as she dipped into the back hall.

He latched the door and pulled the shutters on the windows just in case, doing his level best to tamp down some of the butterflies in his stomach as he circled back to the fireplace and poked at it with one of the nondescript tools kept beside it. A knot in one of the logs popped, sending a small cascade of red-orange sparks through the air, momentarily brightening the cabin.

Even though he knew good and well that it didn’t, he turned and attempted to determine whether the couch pulled out into a bed. When he was faced with the reality of the situation, that it was, in fact, just a couch, those butterflies in his guts gave escape another go.

“We’re, uh, definitely going to have to squeeze,” he said as Ashley came back, a couple of blankets hugged to her chest. “Which…I guess we established that already, but…”

“Oh. Yeah, I mean…I figured.”

“Yeah.”

“But I mean…uh. It…is pretty cold, so…”

“So…?”

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes again, knowing there was no way he wouldn’t see her doing it, and so instead just pushed one of the blankets into his arms and plunked herself down on the couch, jacket and boots and all. “So, doofus, staying close is probably, I dunno, the best plan? So we don’t freeze to death?”

“Oh.” And it was then that Chris found himself glad for the cold too, realizing what Ashley had long before him: It meant his face couldn’t go cherry-red, even though it desperately wanted to. He took the blanket from her, inspecting it carefully as she made herself comfortable on the couch. “Wait, are you insulting the warming capabilities of my fire? I know it’s not a roaring blaze or anything, but—”

“Like I said,” she cut him off, patting the spot on the couch beside her in a bid to appear more at ease with the whole thing than she actually was. “At least this way we probably won’t freeze to death.”

“Wow.”

“Probably.”

“Wowww.” Still, he sat beside her, carefully unfolding the blanket to cover as much of himself as he could. “You’re the expert, so maybe I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure when people in fanfiction have to huddle together for warmth, Ash—”

“Oh my God.”

“—neither party goes and openly insults the other’s ability to create fire. I-i-it just seems counterproductive to the huddling, know what I mean? No one wants to huddle with a—”

Acting before she could think herself out of it, Ashley hugged her blanket tightly around her, and set her head on Chris’s shoulder, pulling her legs up onto the couch with her so she could ball up against his side. She felt him go rigid beside her…and then relax just as quickly, one of his arms tentatively moving around the back of her shoulders to wrap his blanket around her as well as her own.

“It’s a fine fire, Chris,” she said after a moment, warming just enough that, yup, uh huh, there it was, she felt her cheeks begin to prickle. The fading smell of his cologne wasn’t exactly helping that. “You’re a real Cro-Magnon.”

“See? That’s all I wanted. Was that really so hard?” He set his head against hers after another moment, hoping against hope all the layers he was wearing kept her from noticing the way his heart was racing. “Now we can huddle for warmth. Just like in the fanfictions.”

Ashley sighed, but chose not to say anything to that. She closed her eyes, nestled closer against Chris’s side…and accepted that she probably wouldn’t be falling asleep anytime soon. Not with her heart going like it was.

Never once did it occur to either of them that perhaps Josh had had a plan that night too. A foolproof one, at that.

And since they were nothing if not fools, Ashley and Chris, well…it never occurred to them that they’d fallen right into it, either.

Not until they woke up the next morning tangled up in each other, the fire burnt to embers in the grate.

#torahime #six sentence weekend #queenie writes supermassive #chrashley #heheheheheheheh you know i cant RESIST a huddling for warmth fic ;)c heheheheheh #i hope your weekends off to a great start!!!!!

[herospledge]

💐

OPEN | MUSES & MOTHERS. Send 💐 for my muse’s mother to talk about their child.

"You want me to what?? Go on a tangent about Aluhk? Doesn't that seem like a waste of both our time?"

Suset had been chopping firewood, and seemed none too happy about the request from this inquisitive stranger. The woman turns her glaring eyes from them to the wood, hefting it up and over her shoulder. For a long moment it seems as if she doesn't intend to say anything else, until abruptly she mutters below her breath; "The Gods only know why you're pestering me about this…"

"He was work with no reward. They say you're supposed to feel something for your children when they're born. Every woman I've ever known fawns about it. 'Oh it's the purest love you'll ever know' 'you'll understand when you hold them in your arms for the first time' 'your whole life changes'. That last part was the only one that rang true for me. It was miserable. If I could go back I'd never have had him at all."

Crack! The axe comes down heavy on a log, and Suset pushes it off to the side with the axe. Moving to place another down as she continues.

"Aluhk's always been so fucking needy. His father tried toughening him up, but I can't say for certain if that was even worth the effort. That man's an idiot to begin with - but he was the one home with the kid, not me. I don't think it solved that flaw, but now that he's an adult it's hardly our problem anymore."

The woman stops briefly, wiping sweat from her face. Several logs sit off to the side now.

"The whole knight thing has been good for him. I assume as much at least. He doesn't visit. Sends us half his earnings once a month. Seems to me as if he's become quite the figurehead. So long as he doesn't do anything to embarrass us I don't care all that much what he gets up to."

#🔖herospledge ┊ answers #ask #answered #ask to tag #this hurt me to write tbh #dutifulsilence

[justmanic03]

Amethyst - Chapter Eight

(A/N: Any Legend of Zelda fans out there?)

Route 3 was a large, wooded area. The scent of fresh air and pine trees was welcomed into my nostrils. I looked down to my side. Stalagus, Lily, Manganese and Magneton were all equally appreciative of the fresh forest air. "Do you guys want to choose where we set up camp for the night?" I asked. My Pokémon's faces lit up instantly and they all sang their signature happy sounds. "Okay then Stalagus, you lead the way!" The happy Glaceon let out a whine before he began galloping across the wooded area. The rest of us followed him until he stopped at a small pond. The tranquility of the place was immeasurable. The pond was lit up by several fireflies, which Magnezone appeared very interested in. Manganese immediately began digging a hole. "Don't do that! You'll flick dirt up in our faces!" The Dugtrio hummed in apology before settling down. "Now, who's going to help me set up this tent?"

***

It took a good half hour, but I had finally set up my tent. Magnezone and Gladlily had brought me some firewood, and I had unpacked all of the ingredients I needed to make some sandwiches. As I did so, my Pokemon were very relaxed. Stalagus and Lily were engaged in an intense game of football, and Magnezone was fast asleep while Manganese was digging various holes here and there, popping up in my face when I least expected him to. "Oh hi there, are you having fun, Manga?" I giggled. The Dugtrio squeaked in response. One of his heads began tapping on my hand, as if he wanted me to follow him. "Okay then, lead the way!" I laughed at my Dugtrio's adorable antics and began to follow him towards the small pond with the fireflies. They illuminated one of the most beautiful sites I'd ever seen.

I gasped in awe of the magnificent creature that sat in the water before me. The creature's shape was reminiscent of a giant snake with a coiled body.

So the Loch Ness Monster does exist after all... I thought to myself.

A few moments later, the Pokemon noticed my presence. Its bright fuschia antenna stood up vertically, and its eyes widened. The blue-and-pink ends of its tail began moving faster, as it prepared itself for attack.

"Gladlily! You're strong against water Pokemon! Go for it!" I threw her Pokeball out into the lake, and she landed on one of the nearby lily pads. The Pokemon, who I quickly realised was Milotic, glared down at Gladlily, towering over her. She didn't seem to be too intimidated though. "Leaf Blade!" This was easily enough to knock Milotic's HP down to half, but if I attacked again, she would faint.

Milotic used muddy water!

It wasn't very effective against Gladlily. I decided i would try to catch her now with her HP at 50%. I started by throwing an ordinary Pokeball at her, however, she broke free easily. I followed that up with a Great Ball, which vibrated three times, but then she broke out at the last minute.

Milotic used Aqua Jet!

Gladlily's HP was now cut to around 30%. I felt partially guilty, that I was throwing her into battle just so I could catch another Pokemon, but I knew I needed at least one good water type if I would have any chance at beating the Fire Gym. Fortunately, my Ultra Ball was successful in capturing Milotic. I decided to name her Zelda, as the beautiful pond reminded me of the Great Fairy Fountain. I wasted no time in healing up Gladlily, before introducing Zelda to the rest of my team. It was a beautiful, relaxing experience. I thought to myself that the cherry on top of this serene tranquility would be to have the mysterious harpist from the cavern playing the Great Fairy Fountain tune.

****

I wasted no time in setting off early to Ridgeburn the next morning. It was a much smaller city than Acuada, however, the unmistakable architecture of the Fire Gym immediately caught my eye. It was just as big and grand as the other gyms inside, but instead of a water fountain, it had a lava fountain... There were a couple of stray Growlithes chasing each other around and around the fountain, and it appeared as though every other person in the gym had bright red hair.

"Hi, I'm Y/N, I'm here to take on the Fire Gym." The receptionist nodded. "You need to complete the gym mission first. I'll get a trainer to come and escort you." Suddenly, we were interrupted by none other than Jordan, the trainer I met back in the Water Gym.

"Hey Y/N, how's the badge collecting going?" He asked.

"Yeah, not bad at all. I'm ready to claim my third badge."

Jordan's eyes widened upon hearing this. "Wow, you're seriously so confident! That's amazing! Most people who come to this particular gym are terrified of Austen. He's notorious for his power."

Jordan led me down a similar hallway as the other two gyms had, before entering a rather small - but very, very hot - stadium. There were fire lanterns hanging from the ceiling, there were tiki torches lining the walls, and a large rectangular block in the centre, with roaring flames engulfed in glass. It was quite the spectacle. Jordan reached out his hand, and pulled a lever. The floor began to vibrate, and my legs shook as the platform was slowly projected upwards, revealing a very tall, muscular man in his mid-to-late fifties with very unusual hair and piercing orange eyes. The roots of his shoulder-length hair were bright red, then faded to orange around the middle, and finally, yellow at the ends, clearly mimicking flames themselves. However, perhaps most alarmingly of all, he was actually juggling with three batons that were on fire, rather successfully too.

"Boy oh boy, it's hot in here!" He hissed. His orange eyes locked with mine. "And it's about to get even hotter, baby!"

"Oh please don't, I can hardly breathe in here as it is!" Jordan complained, as he and I were already drenched in sweat.

"You might wanna vacate the room for this one then, son. Me and this fine young challenger are gonna set this place ablaze!"

Jordan nodded, and quickly ran out of the door. The flame-haired guy's head then turned back to me. "Forgive me for not being as on fire as I was in my younger days, but the name's Austen. Gym leader,"

He somehow managed to free his right hand to take mine, and his remaining hand continued to juggle the three flaming batons!

How was this even real...

"Y/N," I cautiously shook his hand. As expected, it was HOT. "So... what's the gym mission?"

Austen broke out into a toothy grin as he eased his right hand back into juggling. "Exactly what I'm doing right now!"

My heart skipped a beat. "N-no! Surely you're not serious!"

Austen cackled. "Haha! Youth are no fun these days! Don't worry yourself, young man/lady! It's a lot easier than it looks!"

"Isn't it dangerous though?" I queried.

"Oh no, if you lose your balance, the flame automatically switches off. It's one of those auto-switch thingies. It was designed by Champion Kossi himself. No danger at all." Austen shook his head. He spoke about this juggling exercise as if it was the most casual, everyday thing in the world. Yet to me, it was pure insanity.

He ushered me to follow him, and I wound up on top of the flaming hot stage. I felt my spine shiver once I realised there was only a sheet of glass keeping me from the roaring flames below. "Okay, so here's how this works. I'm going to chuck you these things one at a time, then once you've got the hang of it, I'm gonna toss in another until you're juggling all three. Got it?"

I nodded, yet I was still extremely apprehensive. Austen then sprinted off the stage over to a huge stereo and flicked a button. Bombastic, electronic dance music began blaring. This only served to extrapolate the vibrations in the floor. "Alright! Alright! Move your body to the beat!" Austen began to dance whilst juggling. This was getting crazier by the second...

I began twisting my arms in sync with the beat, before manoeuvring my body and my feet along with it. "Hop! Two! Three! Four! Don't let this baton hit the floor!" Austen threw the first flaming baton into the air, and I awkwardly caught it, before I began twisting it and throwing it up in the air, catching it with my other hand, then repeating.

"Alright! Keep up the rhythm! Five, six, seven, eight! Catch this one, and don't be late!" I almost missed the second baton hurtling towards my face, yet I stuck my hand out just in time. I began awkwardly juggling the two, whilst simultaneously shifting my body to the best of the EDM tune. I did lose my pace a few times, yet just as Austen said, the flames automatically disappeared every time my hand slipped.

"Are you ready for the third one?!" He yelled over the music.

"NO!" I shouted in response.

Austen grinned. "Haha, this is such a sick beat! Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, careful not to burn yourself!"

As soon as I caught the third baton, my arms began moving frantically. "Yes! Yes! You've got it down to a T!" Austen began clapping his hands to the beat. "Now keep it going! You're almost there!"

I kept this up for a good solid minute, until eventually, my body entered autopilot mode. I was doing it without even thinking about it! I couldn't help the smile that plastered all over my face. I was so proud of myself! Austen seemed to pick up on this, and he continued dancing around energetically until the music stopped. He then broke out into a round of applause. "WOOHOO! Now that's what I call CLASS! Gym mission well-and-truly PASSED!"

I set the fiery batons down on the floor, and flopped down besides them. "Can I at least take a moment to breathe first? It's super hot in here."

"Yeah but don't take too long. Lack of kinetic energy means lack of heat. When you're ready, grab your Pokeballs and we'll get Show Number Two on the road!"

I decided to take this opportunity to switch my team. Stalagus and Lily were pretty much helpless against fire types, so I sent them to my boxes, and decided to switch in a Drednar and Clodsire. If Austen was as tough as everyone said he was, I was set to be in for a bumpy ride.

I got to my feet and dusted myself off. "Come at me with everything you've got, Austen." I demanded, holding my Great Ball out in front of me.

Austen smirked in response before pulling out a Premier Ball. "Get ready to get roasted and toasted, kid."

You are challenged by Gym Leader Austen!

#pokemon au