#this was one of the few 'tattered and torn' looks i actually liked

[ciaoteamo]

Milk and Water (Pt. I)

pairings: doppelgänger!Milkman x fem!Reader

summary: One of the newest residents’ very first doppelgänger comes in, trying to sway you into to letting them in. Will you..?

pt.II

art credit (twt: loafuu_chii)

warning: 18+ content

“…what’s the story behind your um… ears(?)” You ask the doppelgänger before you. It was a clone of one of your favorite neighbors actually, her name was Maria.

A woman around your age that you became really close friends with over the few months of you working here.

“@&! !$?&” The doppelgänger let out a series of sounds.

“right, so give me one second” You press the bright red button next to the window and the steel blinds shut with a blaring alarm sound.

You call D.D.D. and they clean up their mess per usual. You once again, you were just thankful you didn’t have to work on that side of the glass.

You check your wrist watch, and happily sigh at the fact that you only had one more hour left to work.

“ mmm, someone’s eager to go home i see” A familiar voice speaks up.

“oh, Mr. Francis” You give the man a polite grin. He gave you a sly one in return. You knew it wasn’t him off the bat. Francis was usually shy towards you, making you want to tease him into blushing whenever you saw him.

Well, you suppose you could kill two birds with one stone. Flirt with the doppelgänger of your crush, and have some entertainment.

“how are you pretty girl” He asks, sliding an I.D. and sheet through the slot.

You examine the documents and identification and beam a smile up at him.

“the date on the I.D. is a little expired hun” You declare. He lets out a small chuckle and leans a little toward the glass.

“mmm, been busy with the milk business, love. must’ve slipped my mind to renew it” He replied. His eyes were low but he still held his sly grin. You leaned back in your chair, with a bored look on your face.

“you’re not like my Francis” You huff and tilt your head with a disappointed look.

His grin faltered and he stepped closer. His breathing had quickened a bit and he took off his hat. “who knows, i could be better” He suggests.

Now that his confidence had depleted a little, you were growing bored of him. You checked the time again and you had 45 minutes left.

“well i’ve gotta get you moving now. it was nice to see such a handsome face though, so thank you” You beam and reach for the button

“you don’t want to do this, trust me” He states with a warning tone. This wasn’t unusual, getting threats after realizing they’re doppelgängers, but being that this one was this aware… they must be evolving.

“and why would i trust you?” You ask out of curiosity.

“i mean look at me” He smirks, one arm leaned against the top of the window. His irises turned from their chocolate brown and into an empty pure white.

“hm” You nod and press the button.

“(Y/N)!” He roared with what you assume was his fist banging the glass.

You call D.D.D. and wait for them to clean their mess, again.

The steel blind begins to lift and you sit back in your seat, checking your watch again but noticed the new pink lighting that shone in.

You furrow your eyebrows and look up in horror as you see blood streaks on the window in thick, and dripping amounts. You jump out of your chair and put your back against the wall.

About 5 D.D.D. workers were piled up, bloody and battered in the corner of the room, and there the doppelgänger was.

Staring at you.

His eyes were low, his shirt was torn, revealing his pecs and the start of his abdomen. He was panting with his (surprisingly still) neat hair and an almost psychotic expression.

“oh no…” He starts with a laugh, still breathing heavily.

“what did you do..?” You cover your mouth with your hand.

“it’s what you did. you got me all riled up.”

He looks down for a brief moment and you swear you hear a zip. He holds his tie and the end of his tattered shirt in his mouth and looks up at you with knitted eyebrows.

His breath fogging up the window as he asks you. Looking like a poor starving puppy. “will you let me in now…? I need your help…” He slightly groaned.

“…what. the. fuck.”

#milkman #milkman x reader #francis mosses #francis mosses x reader #ciaoteamo #x reader #imagine #smut #fem dom reader #thats not my neighbor #milkman smut #milk the man

[angelsworks]

Goldilocks and the Four Bears

I haven’t written for the cod fandom yet so all the 141 might be terribly out of character. In fact I haven’t written for a while. I appreciate all the people that still read my work and continue to support me. I hope you’re all doing well :)

Poly!141 x reader

Masterlist -> Here (will be made later :))

Warnings: 18+, mature themes, descriptions of torture, injuries and mistreatment, etc

Summary: After escaping from your last mission that had gone terribly wrong, your stumble through the woods leads you to a log cabin.

It was snowing. Fucking snowing.

Any belief in a deity had been long since crushed after the last few months. Well you thought it had been months. Your captors (a small but deadly terrorist group) had failed to provide you with your own calendar and clock. Much like how they had failed to provide you with new clothes to replace your own, that had been ripped and torn and become tattered to the eye.

It was stolen clothes you now wore as you made your escape. Trudging slowly through the already six inch snow, your thoughts trailed to the fresh snow adding to the existing six inches. The size 12 pair of boots were rubbing at your heels with increasing vigour. Leading you to contemplate if bruised skin could blister or not. The guard you’d killed as part of your escape had been good for one thing. Or three things actually. The ill-fitting boots, a loose pair of combat trousers and long sleeved compression shirt.

As you made your way through the terrain you felt a cold chill steadily working it’s way up your trouser leg. Slowly, spreading across the flesh, affecting any skin that wasn’t in direct contact with the trouser material. It made you wish you’d waited for a guard more similar to your stature. While the compression shirt was better than nothing, it was still thin. The flimsy seeming material now doing little to ward off the cold.

Maybe the sudden awareness of the less than ideal weather conditions wasn’t down to your stolen clothes, but the sudden loss of adrenaline. How long had you been running now? Well trudging desperately through the snow, making your way further and further into the thick forrest and fauna.

It was hard to try and map where you’d been, what direction you’d walked in and where you’d come from. It was all white. Every tree looked the same. Every incline became and decline and you’d become disoriented.

Months of abuse, of torture, ofpain. All ignored for a few short hours as you willed your aching body forward. Through trees and snow and stone. Through anything that would put you at a greater distance from them, from Miasma.

They hadn’t transported you. At least you were mostly sure. When you blacked out, you woke in the same dingy cell, on the same dingy floor. Only covered in more bruises or cuts. So you hoped you were where this all started. In Slovenia.

You’d done solo missions before. It was easier that way. One man in, one man out. No one to turn on you or leak information. With Gunner in your ear, nothing ever went wrong. Until it did.

Your objective was to gather intel. To stay under the radar before formulating the next attack. While sneaking around you’d learned just how large their operation was. In turn you’d also learned just how large their base was.

The small outpost hid underground levels. That became clear after your covert operation was blown and you were dragged down to the very heart of the multi-storey building.

Each day (if that’s what you could call them) gave you no indication of the time of day or how much time had passed. They made sure of that. In fact it was the first time in months you’d seen the light of day.

The light that you noticed was now fading apparently, as you looked desperately up into the sky. Grey clouds had rolled in, covering the majority of the sky. The sun was still peaking out from the dense overcast that was rolling further forward. Soon the sky would be covered and the snow fall would quicken.

A few miles back you were struck that no one from Miasma had followed you. You’d expected armed guards to be shooting at you and angry dogs to be tearing at your ankles. Yet you’d had no chase.

Maybe they knew you would get nowhere in the climate. That you’d be weakened by the terrain and from the violence you’d endured. They were right of course. But you didn’t let it stop you.

Even now as you’d gone further, you still felt the burning desire to survive. Granted it dwindled under the ache of your body and the never ending valley of white before you. But you wanted to live. You wanted your revenge.

The final rays of the sun had been clouded and the snow started to pick up. At least your footprints would be covered under the fresh snow. Not that it mattered if all your footprints lead to was a frozen corpse.

Flexing your fingers, you found yourself wishing for gloves. Your toes were long past numb and every injury you’d endured felt like it was waking up. Old cuts that had turned to scars felt fresh, bruises that had yellowed felt like they’d returned to their starting purple colour. Your felt heavy. You felt dense. You felt tired.

Your desire to drive on had dwindled now. The once raging fire was now only a candle. A candle that was down to its wick. The wax around it long since melted and now it was to its edge. Trying to burn the glue that chained it in place. The image made you crave warmth even more.

Was this it?

All the work you’d put in over the years. From a child you had trained for a mission you didn’t fully understand. A mission that belonged to someone else, to Gunner. He’d turned you into a soldier, his perfect soldier.

Is this how his perfect soldier died?

No it wasn’t.

So despite your blue fingers, numb toes and foggy mind, you push on. Just a little further, you tell yourself. Past these trees, past this stream, past more trees.

Your doubts evaporate when you come upon a clearing. You find a decent space boarded by snow dusted trees from all sides. They stand tall, seemingly acting as natural walls to protect those inside. The grass is covered in undisturbed snow. It’s thick and white and makes you smile.

None of it matter though because sitting in the middle of it all if your salvation.

A log cabin.

You consider the sight to be a mirage. Created from and low blood sugar, dehydration and desperation. But you trudge on, almost to a stumble speed, as you reach for the door handle.

It’s unlocked.

Despite any moral compass telling you that breaking and entering or trespassing is wrong, you ignore it. You’re hurt, aching and this is a last resort.

You close the thick wooden door behind you. Taking note of the copious locks it has. When you move inside the cabin you find that no one’s home. As quietly as you can on stiff legs, you sneak around the house. Trying to wake up the instincts you’d been trained on.

Enter a room, check your surroundings, check again. Don’t assume anywhere is empty. Threats could be hiding around any corner.

So for each room of the ground floor you do just that. Open door, check the rooms, move on. From your searching you’ve found a large living room, a kitchen, a dining room, a toilet some sort of office/drawing room. The decor gives you no clue as to who’s house you’ve invaded. There are no pictures of people, no personal possessions. It feels surreal. And wrong.

To start with you go back to the living room. Using the large fireplace, stockpile of logs and matches, you start a fire.

Again, better sense would tell you to avoid such an action. To avoid alerting anyone of your presence here. But you decide to put sense aside in a bid for survival. If you didn’t get warm soon you were sure you’d be frozen soon.

Next you go to the kitchen. You rifle through the cupboard in an attempt to find something edible. To your surprise you find the place to be well stocked. Even going as far as having fresh milk in the fridge. The sight confuses you. Send alarm bells ringing in your ears.

There are products in the fridge that are in date. Fresh products. Yet no one is home. It doesn’t make sense.

As you empty a can of soup into a pan you realise, it doesn’t need to. You’re happy to play stupid and see this as all some sort of blessing, some miracle.

While the soup cooks you fill a glass with clean, cold water. Relishing in the taste of something fresh. When you’ve downed the first glass you refill it again. This time with an intention to make it last longer.

After the first spoonful you find that you like vegetable soup very much. Almost burning your mouth as you devour it in a few minutes. Immediately it feels as though you’ve been recharged. The warmth from the fire has spread throughout the ground floor, your fingers have warmed around the bowl of soup and your body no longer feels related to a glacier.

The sky only darkens as you sit by the fire. Basking in the warmth and taking a moment to rest for the first time in months. You don’t imagine ever leaving your spot on the floor. But the promise of a bed upstairs has you moving your legs in that direction.

Before your ascent to the second floor, you strip your clothes and hang them on a drying rack you found to the side of the fire. Now left in the nude.

Upstairs you find multiple bedrooms. All almost identical, except for one at the end of the hall. You assume this is the Cabin’s master bedroom as it’s slightly larger than the others. Inside there’s a wardrobe full of clothes, a full length mirror, a TV, some sort of game station, and of course the larger than most bed.

In the mirror you catch sight of yourself. The cuts of course stand out first. From the slight turn you can muster in your neck, you can see large welts and thin cuts, bruises and scrapes, all littering the previously plain skin. From the front and behind, your legs look like a Jackson Pollock original piece.

Capturing various purple and blues surrounded by smaller splodges of green and brown. With the occasional black blob or two to really contrast the overall tone of the piece.

As a child you had a strange infatuation with your bruises. Likening them to a sticker or badge of achievement. They were easy to come by during training. A strange part of you liked the way they looked on your skin. They acted as a log book of the hits you’d taken, the falls you’d taken, any sort of impacts you’d had. They made you feel strong, maybe even proud too.

Staring into the mirror at your body again, it all seems worthless. You knew you were strong before. You didn’t need months as a prisoner to prove it.

You take a few steps forward to properly look at your face. Who stares back must be a stranger. You haven’t let your eyebrows be this out of shape since you were thirteen. You didn’t have that scar above under your chin before. Your eyes were always so bright and vivid. Not lifeless or hollow or so lost.

With newfound energy you take yourself to the nearest bathroom. That just so happens to be the en-suite in the bedroom. It doesn’t surprise you. Nothing about this abandoned, well stocked cabin does anymore.

Instead you shower in one of the nicest bathrooms you’ve been to in a long time.

At first the water has you freezing. Not due to the temperature but because of the fire it lights on your back. Every scrape, every cut, every burn now being cleaned. The cleanse sets your body alight. In a way you feel the heat is helping you to heal. Granted, all you have to show for it is a mixture of blood and grime, floating slowly down the drain. But it’s more than that.

It’s the last few months being scrubbed off your skin. Your wounds and ailments being shown that this is the end. They can heal in peace. You can heal in peace.

So you take your time. Using any products you can find; shampoos, conditioners, body wash, face wash. You’ve acquired a new razor, fresh from the packet. It’s amazing what a difference shaving your legs and various other places can do to your mood. You’ve always preferred removing the body hair. Afterwards the feeling of smooth legs under a thick duvet made all the work worth it.

The final step, bar drying yourself, was brushing tour yellowing and plaque ridden teeth. The minty taste in your mouth feels unfamiliar but it welcomed nonetheless. Wiping your tongue across the now almost pearly-whites you’re happy with how smooth they feel.

Now showered, shaved and dried, you make you way into the bedroom. Finding the wardrobe and drawers to be filled wit strictly masculine clothes. You pick out a pair of boxers and one of the large white t-shirts to sleep in. The shirt dwarfs you in size, looking more like a dress. Not one that you would wear outside though. Not with the black boxers showering through the material, or your hardened nipples making an appearance.

With your towel back in the bathroom and the lights off, you crawl into bed. Letting out the loudest sigh your sore throat could muster. Then quickly falling asleep on the linen.

It was snowing. In fact it was a fucking blizzard.

A barrage of white, dagger-like snowflakes pelted against the four men. The lack of light and the dense haze of the storm made it impossible to see where they were going. They were all thankful for the less than modern compass. Hidden away at the bottom of Jonny’s bag. When he acquired it was unknown. But the four were grateful nonetheless that the Scott had the dated equipment in is kit.

After their week long training they were ready to fall asleep on the nearest surface. The blizzard they now faced was an unexpected one. Nothing on Price’s radar Gad alerted them to such a storm.

They’d just finished their survival training in the mountains when the first snowflake formed. During the rest of their descent it had only worsened.

As the snow around them thickened they trudged on. Becoming more aware of the weight of their kit, ache of their muscles and chill in their bones. These men were tired, hungry and cold.

After more miles and more words of encouragement from Price, Gaz was sure they were close to the safe house now.

Laswell had been kind enough to let them use the safe house after a particularly gruelling training exercise. It would be the closest thing to a holiday the 141 would get this year. Before the worst of the storm it had the Scotsman joking that he would build a snowman outside. An idea quickly shot down by Ghost in the interest of remaining vigilant to an enemies surrounding the house.

While snowmen were out of the question, snowballs were not. Something Ghost found out, twice, in the back of the head. Turning to see an innocent looking Gaz and Soap.

“You’ll regret that when we’re back on base and you two are on shit duty” the balaclava wearing Brit grumbles.

Soap sighs dramatically, “Oh come on Lt. Dinnae be like that, it was only a joke”.

The threat prompts Kyle to add, “It was all Soaps idea, think he should get shit duties on his own.”

Soap gasps feigning offence, “You bleeding clipe, don’t come knocking on my door when you want someone to warm your bed tonight.”

The comment causes the younger man’s face to heat up and laughs to come from the others.

“That if we get there in this blizzard” the captain quips. Trying to keep morale, but refusing to ignore the sinking feeling that they’ve missed the safe house completely.

“How far now?” Gaz asks, determined not to start pestering like an insolent child. Yet equally determined to have a proper meal and get out of his cold clothes.

“Two klicks north, then we should be there.” Soap tells him, loud enough for the others to hear in the now whipping winds.

“It was two klicks north last time someone asked Soap, are you sure you’re reading that right lad?” Price finds himself asking. Despite his rank, his military expertise and all his training agains the elements, it doesn’t make him immune to the cold. Immune to looking forward to sitting by a fire with a cup of tea in his hands.

Laswell wasn’t one to be stingy with safe house stock. From previous safe houses he’d been to that she had set up, they’d been a home away from home. Proper bedrooms, running water, stocked shelves. Price found himself ready to welcome anything that had four walls, a roof and could shelter him and his men from the storm.

“Two klicks north Captain, I’m sure”. Jonny confirms.

Sure enough, through the dense curtain of blizzard, light emerges. A gentle glow against the black nights sky. The closer they get, the clearer the house becomes.

A log cabin.

A big one at that. The sight is inviting enough to bring a smile to the men’s faces.

“Laswell’s outdone herself this time, fuckin yaldy” soap practically exclaims. Pushing forward to the front of the pack, in an effort to get in first.

“Hold it Jonny,” Simons voice is quiet through the mask, but harsh enough that the others can hear.

Ghost points to the chimney, “someone’s here”.

Sure enough as the others look up, they too see the plumes of smoke, gently rising from the brick chimney.

“Another team captain?” Gaz finds himself asking, while reaching for the know hidden in his thigh holster.

Price finds himself doing the same, “No, we’re the only ones in the country.”

The tension in the air is thick, rivals the thick snow pelting down on them. The four of them stand motionless, a short distance from the front door. Covered head to toe in winter gear, a layer of the snowstorm attached to anything it can stick to.

“Right, there’s only one door. I’ll lead. We’ll secure the ground floor first. Stay silent, we do this quietly.” Price commands. The men nod, moving to grasp their various knives. Following their captain as he moves to the front of the cabin.

With an almost inaudible creek, Price turns the handle of the door. Pushing the oak forward, grateful that it seems to glide over the wooden floors. Allowing him and his men to breach the property without alerting its inhabitants.

Price enters the living room first, signalling for the others to spread out and search the rest of the floor. He does indeed find a crackling fire, yet no one man’s it. The warmth is welcomed, but for the time being he ignores any desire to sit near it and warm himself.

His attention moves to the drying rack set up beside the fire. Upon further inspection of the items he finds combat trousers, a compression t shirt and a pair of large boots, size 12 he gathers from the label on the tongue. The clothes are still damp to the touch, leading him to infer that the intruder arrived a short time ago.

The badge on the arm of the shirt catches his eye. He rips it off the Velcro and examines it up close. An unknown insignia, contractor perhaps? Some new found terrorist group? Price doesn’t know. It’s not one he’s come across before.

Simon searches the kitchen. The space is a decent size, dark too. He blends into the shadows as he checks the space for any sign of life. He finds a empty soup can on one of the worktops. Turning to the sink he notices a single glass and pan siting there.

Once finished in his search he creeps back to the living room. Finding his captain there, along with a stoic looking soap and serious looking Gaz.

Price raises his hand to Simon, showcasing the fabric insignia to him. With cold eyes Ghost runs over the stitchwork. Mind running through the possible groups it could be associated with.

“Any ideas?” Price asks in a hushed voice.

Ghosts silence is a loud enough answer for the group. No

“Whoever they are haven’t been here long. Their clothes are still damp. Large boots, size 12.” Price goes through the details he’s uncovered.

“Men’s?” Gaz asks.

“Most likely”.

“There’s a pan in the kitchen. They’ve had soup. Only one glass.” Ghost reels off.

“We don’t know who we’re dealing with, could be anyone. Stay vigilant. Be prepared for a fight. I’ll take the lead upstairs. Shout if you find anything.” Price commands.

The team follow him single file up the stairs. Weapons at the ready as the sneak up the steps. Footsteps light on the wooden floor.

Price takes the first door, Gaz the second, Ghost the third and Soap the last door at the end of the hallway.

While three of the 141 find their rooms to be empty, Soap stops in the doorway. After almost silently twisting the door handle and letting it slide open, he stands in silence. What he didn’t expect to find was a girl sleep in the master bed, a pretty girl to be exact.

The Scotsman finds himself lost for words. He expected to have to fight someone of his stature. Maybe larger. He expected to walk away with a bruise or two. He feels lost on what to do. Should he wake her? Should he leave her?

Meanwhile the others have gathered in the hallway. Sharing a concerned glance at their teammate.

“What is it soap?” Ghost asked quietly.

“It’s a lass. A bonnie lass at that.” He tells them. Wonder in his tone as he stares at the sleeping girl. Watching as her chest rises and falls at a steady rate. Completely unaware of the four men that have entered the house.

The men collectively frown, walking further to investigate themselves. Sure enough, after they pass the threshold of the master bedroom, they too stand frozen. A girl. Not a man, or group of men. A girl, sleeping in their bed, in their log cabin.

Completely unaware.

#angelsworks post #dark #cod mwii #cod mw2 #cod modern warfare #cod men #ghost cod #cod x reader #cod mw3 #soap cod #cod gaz #cod price #cod kyle gaz garrick #cod simon riley #cod john mactavish #cod john price #poly!141 x reader #poly!141 #dark!141

[baldursgate3tempobsessed]

Astarion teaching Tav embroidery/sewing. Preferably with him dragging them onto his lap for a close-up demonstration.

Why do I make everything so long? Do I have a problem? There is always so much introspective nonsense idk man. Anyway adorable idea actualized below!

Also mentions of sex but this is totally sfw. I went with the timeline of when your sleeping together but he hasn't quite admitted his feelings to himself, as a side!

~

Astarion had no idea how he became your camp's designated seamstress. How was it possible that a team of eight adults were all incapable of knowing the basics of such a fundamental skill?

Then again, Karlach seemed to be perfectly fine with wearing her clothes to tatters. Wyll was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Lae'zel, for some gods forsaken reason, was only capable of fixing up heavy armor. Gale seemed to prefer eating magical clothing items versus being able to salvage them and the rest were mediocre at best.

The look of confusion on Shadowheart's, who was the second most skilled by far, face when Astarion tried to explain a ladder stitch was enough for him to give up entirely. It was quicker to fix the tears then to explain simple concepts to simpletons.

Brats. All of you. With one who was significantly more brazen than the rest when it came to using Astarion as their personal tailor.

Tav, the lovely thorn in his side. Who could handle wielding a glaive with startingly accuracy, but somehow managed to consistently stab themselves every time they picked up a sewing needle. It was impressive, how useless someone who was otherwise extremely competent could be.

Impressive as it was frustrating. Because somehow you managed to destroy your clothes more often than anyone else. Always bashfully handing him over torn trousers and ripped shirts every other night. Anyone else he would have told to fuck off by now. Even the rest of the camp knew better than to test their luck with anything more than once a fortnight. But you lacked the very basic level of self-control.

It was his own fault for giving you special treatment in the first place. But sleeping together did warrant a few extra benefits. He got your protection and you got to experience the pleasure of being with him. Simple. Or it would have been if you didn't insist on making things complicated.

Because Astarion was starting to feel things. Things that he hadn't anticipated. Because your company was... oddly pleasant. You were an interesting little thing, he had to give you that. Well-read and talkative, but not boringly so. No, Astarion sometimes found himself losing track of time when he was with you. A simple question could easily turn into a two-hour conversation about the silliest things. It was... nice. New. And oh so different from what he was used to.

Cazador didn't even allow him or his brethren to speak in his home, let alone speak to each other unless it was strictly necessary. But here he was free to do whatever he pleased. And he was finding that included being near you, despite how differently you both saw the world.

He couldn't quite blame you for your delusional optimistic views. As a Tymora worshipper you were basically doomed from the start to believe inane concepts like good fortune, luck, and gods, the good that could be found in "anyone".

You were as sweet as you were aggravating and Astarion truly, honestly, had no idea how your insane trusting nature hadn't managed to get you killed yet. But then again he... kind of liked that about you. He liked that you trusted him. It made his life more convienet and... it was nice to be seen as a person worth confiding in. Instead of the blood-sucking monster he really was.

He... liked that. He liked you. A fact that he didn't enjoy thinking about. He didn't really know what to do with it, and the implications of where his feelings could lead were starting to become unsettling. So he pushed it out of his mind. It was an easy thing to do when doom was always looming in the background. He had plenty of things to think about that didn't include his fondness for you.

Like the inner-rage you caused when you managed to somehow rip the same shirt twice in one day.

"That's it," Astarion announced when you bashfully asked for his help yet again, "Come here. I'm teaching you how to sew."

"But you always get mad when you try," You whined. But despite the hesitancy you still obediently sat next to him as he got out the sewing kit, "Do you promise not to snap this time?"

"That depends," Astarion said with a roll of the eyes, "Do you intend on not maiming yourself with a sewing needle?"

Astarion smirked at the way that made a blush crawl up your neck, "That was one time!"

"Actually darling it was closer to seven," Astarion corrected as he snatched the shirt from your hands, "Now pay attention. Look at where the tear starts. Notice how it's on the seam?"

You nodded along as Astarion explained the basics to you. He could tell that you were trying your damndest to pay attention, but when it was your turn to hold the needle your hands couldn't stop shaking. Astarion frowned as he tried to watch you work, his view obfuscated by the angle and the flow of your hair.

Well that wouldn't do.

Before he could think better of it he was hauling you into his lap, ignoring your surprised squeak as he situated you just right.

That was better. At least now he could see what you were doing. It was a sloppy stich, sloppy enough for him to undo it before putting the needle back in your hand.

"Now do it again," Astarion ordered, "Let me see what your doing wrong."

Astarion watched as you tried again, frowning when he realized your shaking was even worse than before. In fact, you seemed more nervous than ever, your face red as you kept your eyes down.

It made Astarion torn between watching your hands and looking at your face. You really were adorable, getting all worked up from simply being in his lap, all while trying to stay dutifully undistracted. He could almost hear your heart racing, obvious through the tension coursing through you.

Silly little thing, acting all shy like he hadn't already literally been inside of you. But at least you were doing better, your stitching straighter than Astarion had ever seen it. Maybe he'd have to make the lap-sitting mandatory from now on, for the good of your learning.

"See," Astarion said softly, his breath tickling your ear as he leaned in closer, "You're perfectly capable of learning this."

"So it looks good?" You asked, taking a chance to glance at him. Astarion hadn't realized just how close the two of you really were. He had never... seen you like this before. So closely. Even when you slept together, he had been a bit distracted by other parts of your body. He never noticed just how many light freckles were hiding across the bridge of your nose, how your eyes looked almost golden in candlelight. You smelled nice too, sweet. Like you had been rolling around in a field of lilies. Considering your personality, Astarion had to wonder if that's exactly what you did.

It would take almost nothing to press your lips together. Barely a turn on the head.

"Astarion, are you listening?"

The sound of his voice snapped him out of his revelry. He straightened, clearing his throat as he looked over your work again, embarrassed in a way that he couldn't quite describe.

Maybe you weren't the only one being affected after all.

"It looks better," Astarion said honestly, "But still needs work. You'll almost certainly be needing more lessons."

Preferably like this. Astarion wasn't quite ready to let you go yet, not when you felt so pleasantly warm in his lap. But luckily enough for him, you didn't seem quite so keen to leave.

Astarion tightened his hold on you laughing at the way it made you gasp, "But that's enough for today. I think you've earned a reward. Don't you?"

"I-yes?" You said back, your eyes flitting from Astarion's mouth and back, "Please?"

You really were too precious. How could he possibly say no to that?

Astarion grinned as he tilted your chin up, finally pressing your lips together. It was an odd feeling, kissing someone when he couldn't stop smiling, but he supposed you just had that effect on him.

Maybe being the camp seamstress wasn't so bad after all.

#astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #baldur's gate 3 #asks #cutsey #this was a very cute idea

[chronically-ghosted]

go west, to the southern plains, go west to breathe (lover, share your road - part i) series masterlist | AO3 Link | prologue | part ii

chapter rating: T

word count: ~21K

chapter summary: at the end of the line, you make a business proposition to Joel Miller. He brings you and Ellie home to the last sanctuary left in this world in exchange for your skills. What you find there and what you find out about Joel Miller is not what you expect.

chapter warnings/tags: depictions of going hungry and poverty, sexual harassment, period accurate sexism, depictions of a sick child, reader depicted as skinny but due to lack of food not her natural body type (and this will change), allusions to domestic abuse, hurt/comfort, pining, the beginnings of a praise kink, let the idiots in love begin

a/n: shout out to the ever incredible @jennaispun for beta-ing the prologue and this first part!

“After a long walk in hell, I found you. You made hell feel like home, you made the flames feel warm. It’s true, you haven’t saved me but you were the closest thing to heaven.” — Maram Rimawi

part i:

Beneath the soot-gray fingertips of your gloves, the dust of the high plains sits coarse and heavy on the tattered, yellowing strip of paper. You hold it down flat as a brutish wind snakes up the empty dirt road through the center of Dalhart, grabbing hold of the brown dust that clings to everything — and tugs. Underneath your pale blue dress, with the hemline torn and the collar in need of stitching, your heart pounds as you read the small, almost guilty, advert:

Help wanted. Can pay.

Contact Joel Miller.

The promise of actual money should have had every able-bodied American scrambling to answer the advert, but by its place near the bottom of the announcement board outside of the country store, buried beneath slashed prices for milk and eggs and headlines out of Washington – it seems certain to be relegated into obscurity. 

For all you know, this could be months, even years, old. Miller, whoever he was, could be long dead, or gone with the rest of the exodus to California. Or he could have gone the way of your “Uncle” Robert – a huckster, discovered too late; one of many who prey upon the desperation that sticks to the country like the acrid smell of smoke. Your hand shakes as you pluck the yellow card from the wooden plank. There is no contact number, no address. Another trick? Dust stings the corners of your eyes when you pinch them close, your breathing quickening, your pulse sharp in the sleeve of your ratty glove. 

Oh, God, what are you going to do? What if this is nothing, just like Robert’s promise? What if there’s nothing here for you? What if –

A small hand on your forearm centers your spiraling thoughts. From beneath a faded blue baseball cap, two brown eyes peer up at you, firm and reassuring. 

“You okay?” She keeps her voice low, just like you asked.

“Yeah, El–Ellie, I’m fine.” You squeeze her too-thin hand, your stomach toiling with guilt and its own emptiness. “Just figuring out what to do next.” 

“Is finding and murdering this asshole Robert still off the table?”

You frown, your niece’s quick temper more from your dead sister than you. “It is. Now, I’m going inside to ask about this advert. Maybe this Miller still has a job or two open.”

Ellie’s eyes fall to the slip of paper in your hand, her aggressive scowl tightening into something that too closely resembles fear. She knows what’s at stake just as much as you do and you hate that that knowledge ages her youthful face. 

“You stay close and don’t let anyone get a good look at you, okay?” 

Ellie nods, already familiar with the routine, and scoops up your luggage case, her tattered satchel hanging off her other shoulder. She had been wearing pants long before reaching Dalhart, but it soothed you to think the eyes of cruel men passed right over her, their interest rarely in young boys. 

A bell above the door tinkles when you open it, but by the dull, muted sound, it most likely has a few dents. Behind you, the afternoon heat follows you in, the sunlight illuminating the floating dust mites in the air. The door whines as it closes, brightening the inside of the store, where the mites settle back into the silver layer that sits over cans of tomatoes and peaches, linens, boxes of gum and cigarettes. Nearly everything sits untouched and unmoved, old dust settling between cracks and grooves, patrons not having enough money to buy something and the owner not having enough to change out stock. Struck still, frozen in a single, long exhale. The slow, creaking death of the economic system has reached Dalhart too. You shudder, suddenly cold as if in a mausoleum. 

The further away from Boston the train took you, the further back in time you felt. Here, you are reminded of the old general stores of cowboys and pioneers. But maybe, that is exactly where you are: out of time.

A man in long white sleeves, coiffed hair, and perfectly round glasses, looks up from the wilted newspaper spread out over the counter. 

“Can I help you?” His accent hails from the east, North Carolina most likely. However, his manners are not reflective of that famous southern hospitality. He looks at you like you’re a bad dream and it unsteadies you.

“Y-yes. I, uh, I’m hoping that you know a-a Miller. Joel Miller? I have his advert and I’m, um, I’m looking for work.” 

The man’s thin eyebrow jumps mockingly. Aren’t we all, sister? But eventually, he shakes his head.

“Look, I don’t know what you’re doing all the way out here, but this ain’t no place for a young lady out on her own, job or no job. Where’s your husband?”

“Dead.” Your voice doesn’t waver, but then again, why would it? 

The clerk’s eyes soften, if only slightly. “I see. But I’m sorry to say, there is no job here for you.”

Your mouth instantly dries out. “What do you mean? Where’s Mr. Miller?”

“He’s a mean ol’ sunuvbitch, livin' God knows where. Comes in twice a month for supplies and he’s back out into the prairie.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t see why that’s a problem –,”

“He ain’t fit for civilized life, ma’am.” The clerk drops his nose, eying you seriously over the rim of his black glasses. “Whatever he’s offering, you don’t want no part of it.” 

“I think we’ll be the judges of that.” Beside you, Ellie drops your suitcase and it loudly clatters to the ground. “Thanks for the tip though.” 

The clerk’s eyes widen – this is terrible behavior even for a boy – his mouth unfurling to give a nasty tongue-lashing, when you interject, your voice thick with pleading.

“I would just like to meet the man. Please, sir.” The clerk, like most men without scruples, can barely resist the sound of a woman begging. Those uncanny blue eyes find you again. “Has he come in recently?”

You can feel Ellie’s wicked sneer behind you, the clerk’s gaze switching between the unlikely pair in his shop. Finally, he shrugs. Who gives a fuck if one more woman goes missing?

“He’s due for a resupply.”

“How soon?” Your palm sweats under your gloves.

He narrows his eyes, evidently annoyed that a woman would reject his warnings. “Soon. We have a parlor in the back if you’d like to wait for him. But you have to buy something,” he adds vehemently. 

You nod, unsteady on shaking knees as you walk towards the door in the back of the store. 

“Thank you, sir. You have been so kind. We very much appreciate it.” 

Any chance that the clerk finds you sincere is lost when Ellie wraps her knuckles on the counter as she passes.

“Buh-bye, dude.” 

The parlor is small, dark, damp, and smells faintly of kerosene and leather. A woman, most likely the wife of the clerk you just annoyed, glares from behind a counter as you and Ellie walk in. 

“Lunch.” Not a question.

Ellie looks up at you, eyes wide, fearful. You hadn’t let her see what is left in your purse, but she knows it’s low.

With your stomach in knots, you wouldn’t be able to eat anyway. You pluck out a dollar, bringing your total down to three dollars, and giving it to your niece.

“Order whatever you want.”

The beating heart of the blazing Texas sun edges downward across the open sky, falling, until it drops completely behind the harrowingly flat horizon. Purple erupts in its wake, the last pump of blood of a dying muscle, and nearly instantly, the temperature drops. You watch the explosive coronary of the sky from a table at the back of the parlor, your own pulse doubling the later it gets. You squeeze your hand between your thighs to keep your fingers from drumming uneasily on the table. But for once, Ellie doesn’t pick up on your nerves. 

A dollar went farther out here and, as a result, Ellie is allowed her first big meal in months. Twice now, she’s nearly forgone the silverware to shove food directly into her mouth with her fingers, had it not been for your glares to remind her to slow down.

“This is slow,” she grumbles as she licks her bowl of mashed potatoes clean. Of course, half of what she ordered sits waiting for you, but you know she needs this meal more than you do – even if your rumbling stomach disagrees. You’d already had lunch at the train station; one more missed meal won’t kill you and less for you means more for Ellie.

Suddenly becoming a parent to a very opinionated fourteen-year-old girl was not something you had anticipated, and most times you figured you were doing it all wrong. The least you could do is give her everything you could.

“You think he’ll show?” 

You tear your eyes away from the parlor door, blinking back into your body out of your cloud of thoughts. Ellie’s little hands grip the bowl, a white smear sitting on her bottom lip, her eyes dark as they watch you. 

You grin as her pink tongue swipes up to lick her mouth clean. How easy you forget she’s only fourteen, with her loud mouth and provoking eyes. “Eat your food, Ellie.” 

The words have barely left your mouth when the door to the parlor bursts open. Two men, clearly drunk and smelling of it, stumble in. This is the part where you wish you too could believably dress up like a man. Your pulse thrums in your neck like a heightened prey animal. 

One pushes the other’s shoulder, smirking, and grunting something. His friend, also in a cowboy hat but half his size, nods and makes an unsteady line for one of the tables, while the other does his best to get to the bar. 

The man at the table has light green eyes, overly thick eyebrows, and a flat mouth, loose with drink. He flops into a wooden chair and you watch as the Texas Rangers badge on his chest flashes in the firelight behind him. Your stomach tightens. 

He stretches out, feet crossed over his ankles, limp hands crossed over his denim jacket, hollering at his friend and the woman working, who looks equally displeased to see them as she did you and Ellie. 

Smirking, his eyes slide from the wooden bar top, over the back wall, and right onto you.

You watch as his gaze blurs for a moment, a film of beastial hunger smothering the color of his eyes. You can feel your pulse in your ankles now.

“Well, now, what do we have here?” The lilt in his voice calls out two unspoken words: fresh meat. Distressingly steady, he climbs to his feet, his hat tilted obnoxiously on his forehead. “Where did you come from, you pretty little thing?” 

He saunters over, his thumbs stuck in his belt, the gun at his side snug in its holster. The grin on his face is hideous. You’d smack it off if you weren’t suddenly overcome by a debilitating fear. A look like that on a man is never, ever a good thing.

“Whatcha got there, Lee?” his buddy calls out from the bar, beard drenched in beer foam. 

“I dunno quite yet, Knapp,” he says over his shoulder, his livid green eyes never leaving your face. He nearly folds in half to press his spider-like hands on the surface of your table, coming inches from your face. His breath smells like corn whiskey and cheap tobacco. “Guess I’ll have to find out. What’s your name, pretty thing?” 

“Or she could not tell you her name and instead, you could fuck off.” Ellie’s scowl wrenches her mouth open, her knuckles white around her spoon. There’s a part of you that fully acknowledges and accepts that if given the signal, she’d scoop the fucker’s eyes out with the silverware right here. “We’re eating here, or are you too busy smelling like a fucking whiskey barrel to notice?”

As with most adults when Ellie decides to show her teeth, Lee stares stunned before the self-righteous anger sets in. Your heart stops for a moment when you think he’s going for his holster, but instead, he uses the flat of his hand to swat her hat off her head.

“Shut up, you little fucker, where’d you learn your fucking ma–,”

Ellie’s long hair tumbles down her shoulders, the baseball cap on the floor behind her. 

Lee is stunned into silence once again. The parlor goes deathly silent.

It’s Knapp who sets off the explosive spark again. “Holy fuck, you’re a little girl.”

Ellie snatches up her hat, cheeks flaming red, but Lee’s hand grabs her wrist. 

“A kinda cute one at that,” Lee sneers. He twists her arm and she yelps. Knapp at the bar laughs, his paunch shaking as beer sloshes over the side of his glass. The woman is cleaning something with a rag, turned away from the scene, her shoulders hunched to her ears. You’re on your feet, your hand on her purse. “What are you thinking, hm? Dressing this sweet little girl up like a boy?”

The trigger clicks and Lee and everyone else in the parlor freezes. The edge of your lash line is wet, fear rolling through you like fog on the bay. Your hand is steady, miraculously, but your voice isn’t.

“L-l-let–,” your voice cracks and you try again. You only have one gun drawn on Lee and you pray to whatever god is listening that Knapp doesn’t remember his. “Let her go.” 

This small pistol is your last line of defense against those who would take everything from you. You couldn’t keep your sister safe, your husband didn’t want to be saved, but you’d die before you’d let anyone come within an inch of Ellie. You pawned off your wedding ring long before you ever considered selling this weight in your hand. You couldn’t physically win a fight but you’d be damned if you weren’t going to take someone out with you.

There’s more than one reason you never let Ellie look into your purse. You won’t make eye contact with her now.

Lee’s eyes harden into black flints in his head. “Yeah? You’re shaking like a leaf. You ain’t gonna do shit about it.”

He twists harder, forcing Ellie to her knees, his mouth smearing into a sickening sneer, Ellie’s cries loud – “get off me, you fucker!”

All you have to do is miss. Once. 

Your arm shifts right and you fire. You meant to hit the floor, but instead the leg of a chair at a nearby table shatters, wood and smoke sparking into the air. Lee and Ellie jump, their struggle broken, but Ellie’s quicker, smarter. Hunched to avoid debris, they are nearly eye to eye and Ellie doesn’t hesitate; she jerks her head back and then launches her forehead forward – square into his flat nose.

The crunch is sickening and it turns your already empty stomach. Lee shrieks, releasing Ellie, his hands flying to his misshapen nose to staunch the river of blood pouring from his nostrils. 

“You bitch!” he whines, voice wet and gummy as blood trickles down his throat, eyes watering. You hear a roar of anger as Knapp stands, no longer finding any of this funny.

“Get behind me, Ellie.” You snap, eyes on Knapp as he lumbers forward. She hesitates, looking like she’d like nothing more than to kick Lee up the balls, but obeys the closer Knapp comes. She slots behind you, eyes sharp on the squealing man on the floor. 

“She broke my fucking nose, man,” he cries, face already purpling. 

“Yeah, and don’t you forget it, you fucker!” She snarls over your shoulder. One hand holds your elbow, and the other brandishes her mother’s knife that had been at the bottom of her satchel seconds ago. Fuck. 

Ellie Williams is not, and never has been, nor will be, one to deescalate a situation. Knapp responds in kind. His drunk fingers fumble with his holster, his face contorted with rage.

“Shootin’ at an officer of the law – you’re gonna hang for this, you thieving little c–,”

“Knapp.”

A fifth voice – low, deep, a mammalian bark that grinds the chaos of the room to a halt. The large man stalls, his engine snagged by the rough grain of that voice. On the floor, Lee lets out one quiet whimper as he cracks open a pulsating black eye.

In the glow of the firelight, you watch as beads of sweat swell on Knapp’s big forehead beneath his wide-brimmed hat. His wide eyes flash between you and the man who just walked in.

“M-Miller, the fuck you want?” 

Your heart seizes in your chest. Miller. 

Joel Miller. 

You never thought your saving grace would come in the shape of a hulking, dark-eyed man. 

A well-worn handkerchief around his neck, crusted over with dust, his broad shoulders stretch a denim work shirt, the unbuttoned collar loose and just as dirty. Worked-over hands, dry and brown as the earth, curl into fists at his side. Tight jaw, flared nose, eyes black, his presence expands in the cramped room, a leviathan cresting dark waves to command the roaring void. 

“Back off, both of you.” 

Knapp sneers, desperately tugging at some misguided sense of bravery, with sweat running hot and fast and smelly down the sides of his rubbery face. “Y-yeah, or what?” 

“You fuckin’ know what.”

Knapp visibly swallows and lowers his pistol, hands trembling. Lee whines from the floor, his eyes open as wide as the swelling will allow, abject terror on his face as he stares up at Miller. Neither of them move.

A guard dog satisfied by the corralled sheep, Joel’s heavy gaze roves from the two men, across the room, to you.

His expression doesn’t change. 

The weight shifts across the stiff planes of his shoulders, and he turns, leaving as quickly as he appeared. Beneath his thick boots, the wooden floor creaks and it rouses you. Your mouth is so dry you can feel the skin of your lips split apart. 

“Mr. Miller, w-wait.”

He doesn’t. 

With a single glance to the men still frozen in terror, you follow him through the now-dark and empty store. The cold desert air cracks hard against your overheated cheeks when you burst through the door, into the black night. The moonlight illuminates the threads of silver hair in his beard that the dark parlor hid. His fingers work slowly, unhurriedly, as he tightens the leather buckle beneath the wide girth of his off-white horse. It lifts its head as you stumble out onto the dusty road, its round eyes watching you with more interest than its rider. White ears twitch forward, a snort from the long snout, and Joel rubs the soft place between two giant nostrils without looking up. 

“J-Joel – Mr. Miller, please, I need your help.” 

“Already got it.” His shoulders flex and roll as he loads up another loose sack onto the rump of the horse, then tightens the securing belt. It snorts again and shifts on its hooves, its long tail flicking back and forth. 

You shake your head, swallowing the hot rush of embarrassment. The wind licks at your ankles and you fight back a shiver, bringing a hand to your shoulder to warm the goosebumps. “No, sorry, I mean – I’m here to help you. I saw your advertisement and I was wondering if the position was still open.”

The buckle quiets. The dirt at his feet crunches as he faces you. 

There are no trees in Dalhart, Texas. There are barely any clouds, no coverage. Overhead, the few buildings not yet folded up in the wake of the financial collapse throw shadows over his angular face, but you can still feel the trace of his gaze over you. A curious search, the investigation of scent. 

Then he shakes his head.

“No.” 

Your entire chest tightens. “Has the position been filled?”

“No.”

“Then why–,”

“I don’t need you.” He lifts up the third and final sack and you feel your hope being carried away with it. “Need a farm hand. You’re not the type.”

“N-n-no, I’ve worked on a farm. I-I’ve only planted seeds but I’m a quick learner and I–,”

“No.” 

“Sir – please, I’ll do anything–,”

“Then go home.” He unties the reins from the wooden post and clicks to the horse. Its big eyes watch you as he turns them for the road. “There’s nothing here for you.” 

You absolutely will not cry in front of this gruff stranger. Panic icing down your spine, you follow him on weak knees. In the wake leftover from the wheat boom, Dalhart is quiet as soon as the sun goes down. Empty of people, of light, of any sort of guiding hand, you try to appeal to the last human you’ve found at the end of the world.

“Mr. Miller, there must be something you need. I’m a hard worker, smart, you won’t have to train me at all. Please. I’ve been a housekeeper, a seamstress – a nurse. I —,”

The horse huffs when Joel pulls tight on the reins. 

In the moonlight, all of his hair looks gray. Your heart plunges in your throat. You can feel your stomach trying to digest your spine.

“Done any work with kids?” He asks, after a moment. 

His brisk question is not what you expected. You can barely hear him over the pounding in your heart. 

“Y-yes. I’ve treated children before. A-and I was a teacher, briefly. I’m very good with children, actually.”

The scarred hand at his side tightens, flexes open and closed, the tips of his thumb and forefinger twitching over the other. Over his shoulder, you think his head tilts a centimeter towards you.

“You know what? Fuck this.” 

Out of the shadows of the county store, Ellie tears down the steps, her face pink and her hair stuffed back up her ball cap. She loops her small hands around your forearm and tugs, her eyes like chips of bark, glaring hatefully at the man in the middle of the street. Faint dust churns beneath her faded sneakers. 

“She’s fucking begging you and you don’t give a fuck, you old shithead!” She tugs again. In the flash of the moonlight, a glassy film has settled over her eyes. “C’mon, we don’t need him. We – don’t need – him.” 

“Ellie, please!” You grab her by the shoulders, a soft hand in a swirling tempest, and she settles, her mouth twisted up in anger and embarrassment. She hates that you have to beg anyone. “Please.” Shielding her from him, you squeeze her shoulders. “I know, Ellie. I know. But I have to keep you safe.”

Ellie finally turns that hot glare at you, eyes damp. Petulant when terrified, your sister was the exact same way. 

Fuck, Anna, it should have been me.

“She yours?”

Joel rests his weight on his left knee, fingers loose around the reins. He’s lowered the mask around his mouth. You snap your head up, your voice thankfully steady. “She’s my niece. She . . . I’m responsible for her.” 

Below your palms, Ellie stiffens. 

Fifteen feet from you, Joel nods, the muscle in his jaw tight. The horse huffs and he glares at it like it just yelled at him too.  

“I’m not in the habit of pickin’ up strays,” he says as if that means a lot. 

Hope springs in your chest and it snags the air in your lungs. “We’re not. I-I mean, we’ll work hard. Please, give us just one chance.”

“And you expect me to take on the both of you.” It isn’t a question, but his eyebrow arcs all the same. “That’s two mouths I gotta feed, ‘steada one.” 

“She can have mine.” In the silence, you think you can hear the faint choir of crickets. You remember the tarantulas and centipedes that lived inside the walls of your husband’s prairie dugout, and your stomach twists. “Ellie can have whatever you give us.” 

She makes a brief cry of protest, but you squeeze her shoulders. The sharp flair of his nostrils smooths and the corners of his eyes pinches, tilting his eyebrows up. He’s still glowering, but somehow, his expression has suddenly opened, just a crack. 

And then he nods. 

“Stay here a night. I’ll be back in the morning with the wagon.” 

And that’s it. You have a job. 

You’re so elated it takes a minute for his words to sink in. He turns back down the road, the horse's hooves clipping on the dry ground. You follow after him, hand outstretched.

“Oh, no, w-we can walk, it’s no trouble. Let me just get our things and–,”

“Too far to walk. And there’s things out in the dark more dangerous than those fuckin’ rangers.” He nods to the country store, eerily quiet. It sits, ugly, like a brown old frog. “There’s a hotel just up the road. It’s not much, but it’ll do for one night.”

“But, sir, we really can’t stay. I don’t – there’s no –,”

You stumble to a stop when those merciless dark eyes root you to the ground. The leather reins squeak when he tightens his fist around them. Again, you are under the impression of a dog sniffing out your scent for any deception, any treason. He takes you in, all of you in – your ratty gloves, your torn hemline, your tattered collar – and by some miracle, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, the groove above his nose softens. 

Wordlessly, he reaches into his back pocket and takes out five dollars from a brown leather wallet. He offers it to you between two fingers. 

Take it, his eyes command. 

You do, with a shaking hand. You hate charity, you hate that you’re at his mercy –

But Ellie has a bed for the night. Inside, warm. Where, hours ago, she didn’t. You smother your pride and nod, gaze at the scar on his cheek that you only now notice at an arm’s length away. 

“One night,” he says. “For you and the kid.”

You nod again because that’s all you really can do, his pity clutched in your fist and held against your heart. 

Ellie scowls as he swings up onto the horse and readjusts his mask. 

“What a guy,” she murmurs to you, her eyes still narrowed. Joel clicks his teeth, and the horse trots off into the dark, a lone man riding out into the featureless night.

Evidently still feeling slighted, Ellie sticks her tongue out at the denim back.

“Better keep that tongue in your mouth, kid,” he hollers before digging his heels into the horse’s flanks. “Liable to be chopped off like a copperhead.”

Ellie’s mouth snaps shut.

The money Joel gave you is more than enough to cover a room and another plate of food. You even spurge your own money on some small candy for Ellie, determined to give Joel back every cent left over and then some, once you’ve proven you can earn your keep.

For you and the kid.

You shake your head, lost in your own thoughts, the gnawing hunger in your belly satiated, as you pull back the covers to the twin bed. The metal frame squeaks as you climb in, your night dress thin and ragged as the rest of your clothes. 

“C’mon, Ellie, time for bed.” When she doesn’t move, you stop rearranging the pillows and look at her. In her own white nightie (because she’d outgrown all her other pajamas), she sits in front of the roaring fire, her chin on her knees, and her arms wrapped around her shins. 

She’s quiet - either a good sign, or a terrible one. 

“Ellie, sweetie, we’ve gotta get some sleep. It’s gonna be a long day tomorrow.” 

You watch as her narrow back expands and falls in one slow breath, her skin bright in the firelight.

She nods mutely and climbs into the space beside you. She rolls onto her side, away from you, her hands tucked up under her head, her knees curled up beneath her. 

This is where Anna would know what to say. How to soothe this girl with so much awareness in a world that is raw to even those willfully ignorant. You can’t bullshit Ellie the way you can some kids. She knows too much. Seen too much. 

You settle down next to her in the shadow of her shoulder. Your fingers hover, locked between the yawning gap of touching her and not touching her, when she finally speaks.

“Is this really going to work?” Her voice is quiet, soft, dust-covered and buried. “Is Joel really gonna . . . are we safe?”

You cannot bullshit Ellie Williams.

“I don’t know. I’d like to think so. I know you don’t like him, but I think we can trust him.”

She’s quiet again, only this time because there’s something she doesn’t want to say. 

“Not like Uncle Robert – or Robert, if that’s even his real name. I’d never met the man in person, but I wanted – so badly – to believe . . .” You swallow, your own shame boiling your skin. “I think we’re safe with Joel Miller.”

The god’s honest truth. 

She hears it in your voice.

Ellie tips back to look you in the eyes. She’s lost so much weight recently. “Yeah?”

You tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear, the ghost of your thumb across her cheek. She allows the show of affection. “Yeah, El. I do.” 

You want to say: you can trust me. I’ll always take care of you.

But you know it would only come out hollow.

Neither of you would think it was honest. 

She pulls away from your grasp, her eyes almost golden in the firelight. She nods and stares at the burning wood. 

“Okay.”

“So . . . is your car, like, broken or something?”

You elbow Ellie and she sits up from hanging over the edge of the wagon. She frowns at you – what? – and you both glance at Joel at the front of the wagon. If the question annoys him any more than he perpetually already is, he doesn’t show it. 

“Don’t have one.” He says to the back of the horse. The wagon rocks and sways over the clods of dust and stone in the road. “Never did.”

“Uh, why?”

“Cars break down in the dust storms. Short out. They end up being more trouble than they’re worth.” 

Again, that half-centimeter turn, his tone implying what his eyes can’t, faced away from you. Ellie narrows her eyes at the back of his head. She wrenches her mouth open, fire in her eyes, but she catches you glaring, and her mouth snaps shut. Pouting, she chucks a lone pebble off the back of the wagon. 

The sky is strikingly blue, bright as a livewire, the air warm and crackling with the early summer heat. Away from Dalhart, away from the collection of dust on every surface, dripping through every crack, you find the clarity and distance of the southern plains to be . . . unexpected. So careless and abrasive one minute, but then, in moments like these, it became hard to believe that nature could ever be so cruel as to make the earth rise up and swallow it all whole. 

You swing your legs off the wooden edge, the sunshine warm on your knees. It’s no use trying to hide how badly your socks need darning, so you lean back and stretch your legs as far as you can, your face tilted towards the sky, the still air peaceful. This morning, you’d put on your yellow plaid dress, torn cotton lace around the sleeves that stop at your elbows. You tucked your hair up and pinned your straw hat to your head. It was a reflex, to present your most beautiful self to a man, even one you barely knew. By the way Ellie had rolled her eyes, she felt no such compulsion. 

Demure, your mother always told you, you’re not very pretty, you’re not very bright, the least you can be is demure. 

The wagon shudders, clicks, over the empty road and you open your eyes. Ellie is turned away from you, eyes out to the fields on either side of you. You don’t understand what she’s looking at, until you realize that’s exactly it: there is nothing to look at. On the other side of those loopy barbed-wire fences through cock-eyed posts, there are miles and miles of nothing but churned-over dirt. A lazy wind spins over a patch of emptiness, tossing clods and sand into the air, an aimless sadness as tangible as the dust itself. Phone lines stand, corroded and chipped, along the side of the road like tangible manifestations of a deadly infection. 

“There’s no crops here either.” Ellie says, voicing loudly what you only thought. You can’t see her face but she sounds as stunned as you are. “What happened?”

You watch over her shoulder, eyes level with the earth bleached of all material, all life. With the drought, your husband’s field shriveled up in months, the cracked ground peeling away from the sodhouse in some places. You still have nightmares about waking up with grit between your teeth, choking and coughing up bloody chunks of mud.

This is desolation on an epidemic scale. 

“Ask different people ‘n they’ll tell you different things.” Joel says in his slow drawl, the crackle of the earth soft beneath the wooden wheels. “No one really knows. But nothing like this happened when the buffalo grass was here, ‘steada wheat.”

“Wait, you were here before Dalhart?” Ellie twists on the wagon, leaning over the lip where Joel sits and drives the horse. 

“My family was. Here before anything. My grandpa befriended the Comanche Indians and –,”

“You got to hang out with Indians?” Ellie nearly hurls herself over the edge of the wagon to try and look him in the eye. “What are they like – did they teach you how to shoot a bow and arrow – can they really ride horses like that –,”

“Ellie!” You want to grab her by her collar and yank her back into the wagon. “Not so many questions.”

The noise Joel makes is somewhere between a grunt and the word no.

“It’s fine –, “ he looks down at Ellie, still curled around the back of the seat, her eyes wide with a giant smile on her face. His ever present scowl doesn’t seem any deeper, nor does it deter her. Joel turns away again and in the sunlight, his hair is gooey, caramel brown. You stare at the dirt road while listening, the back of your neck hot. “They’re good people. Didn’t deserve what happened to them – to any of ‘em. But they taught my grandpa and grandma how to take just what they need, nothing more. But then everybody needed grain, offered money for cheap, easy labor. They poured in here, into the prairie, and in years, it became this. Folks blame the drought, but it’s more’n that.”

Ellie’s inordinately quiet. She knows exactly what your husband did to you, to your family, and now, maybe to the entire land. 

“‘Next year’ people, they claim,” Joel continues, his voice deepening with anger, “‘next year’, things’ll be better. ‘Next year’ the rains’ll come. ‘Next year’ the wheat’ll return.” He shakes his head, boots creaking against the toeboard. “Anyone who thinks that is lyin’ to themselves. Anyone’s who’s been here, seen what’s here, for us it’s been –,”

“The end of the world.” 

The silence that follows your words stretches long, an anchor dropped off the end of the wagon and rattling around the wheels. You swing your legs, fingers curling around a tear in your hemline. It wasn’t the first time you’d heard those words to describe the state of things. That’s what your husband called it and you believed him. 

Evidently, Joel agrees. His wide shoulders taught, the denim blue faded beneath the boundless sky, he nods.

“Griiim,” Ellie mutters as she curls up and drops her chin on her knees. 

You’ve been watching a single cloud chase the sun from the floor of the wagon when Ellie, silent for all of about fifteen minutes, lifts her head from her hands draped over the edge. Her eyes go wide, her ears pink from the sun, and says:

“Whoa.”

The horse huffs as you sit up, a soft wind snagging the loose hairs on the back of your neck, and your mouth drops. 

Grass. 

Fields of it. 

The air is fresh, warm, and filled with the scent of living, breathing earth. Tipped with lush purple seeds shaped like paintbrushes, a sea of stalks bend and ripple in the cooling breeze, undulating like waves on solid ground. The wind is soft here, teasing, rolling through the tall grass, carrying the scent of growth and green in the air. You’re suddenly aware of how dry your mouth is, cracked and padded with dust. 

“We left it be.” Joel offers simply, voice too gruff to surely be filled with pride. “It’s endured and survived, and so have we.”

Further back, you can see where the line of his property ends – a harsh division of paradise and purgatory – and marked to the north by a dip in the ground and even over the crunch of the wheels over the ground, you hear it: water. 

A river. An oasis in a wasteland. 

Ahead of the white tufts of hair on the horse, the road curves, disappearing into the sea of grass, but letting your graze drift up, you see an a-frame home, white like a lighthouse at the edge of a storm. The instant the home comes into view, Joel clicks his tongue, urging the horse faster – eager. 

He leads the horse up through the road, through the grass, and on the other side, by the river, two cows chew up the green, oblivious. Beyond them, tucked behind the house is a barn. Low to the ground but wide, hunched like a fighter with a heavy center of gravity, it looks ready to endure and survive. As this entire secret world had. 

Joel tugs the horse to a stop, the wagon rattles as it slows, by the wide porch of the a-frame. It sits also low to the ground, wider with a dark roof, held together with something black and smeared. You’re so distracted by the unique qualities of this house in the middle of paradise that you miss it when the door creaks open until you’re staring down the barrel of a shotgun.

“Who are you?” The voice behind the gun is deep, even if the barrels shake slightly. In the dark of the doorframe, you can’t quite see their face, only their short stature. 

You see Ellie’s hand twitch towards her knife, which she now carries in her sock since the night of the county store. 

However, Joel is less concerned. In fact, the boulders of his shoulders loosen, ease to simple muscle and blood. He makes a noise that on anyone else, it might be considered a laugh, a chuckle, but he isn’t even capable of smiling –

He slings down from the seat and pats the horse.

“Easy there, Annie Oakley, it’s just me.” 

The shadow in the doorway stiffens.

“Dad?”

The shotgun lowered, the shadow staggers into the light. Brown eyes, just like his, scrunched against the blinding sunlight, a girl with the most beautiful head of curls blinks at Joel, her thin hand held up to shield her face. 

“Hey there, baby girl.”

In a single leap, she jumps down from the porch but all too quickly, the smile slips from Joel’s face.

“Hang on, not too fast–,”

She stumbles towards him as best as the metal braces around her knees, down to her ankles, will allow, defiant and smiling, despite the beads of sweat that have swelled over her forehead. Joel surges forward, faster than you thought possible, and reaches for her, nearly on one knee. 

“Slow down, please, Sarah.”

“Dad, I’m fine,” she huffs before tossing her arms around his neck. “I’m fine. Just – missed you, is all.” 

You can’t see his face, but he straightens up still holding her. With one hand he flattens those curls to her cheek, and kisses the other. 

“Enough to forget all the things I taught you about gun safety? You just tossed that thing aside,” he scolds fondly. She rolls her eyes as he sets her down. 

“Okay, but if you didn’t know it was me, you would’a been totally scared, right?” 

She watches as he chuckles, a deep, warm sound, but her own smile flatlines when she spies Ellie climbing down from the wagon. You ease off the edge, your lower half sore from the ride. 

The girl, Sarah, narrows her eyes. 

“Who are you?” She positions her body slightly in front of Joel’s. “And why are you dressed like a boy?” 

Joel’s soft scolding – “Sarah” – is lost beneath Ellie’s scoff. She adjusts her satchel. 

“Why are you dressed like Raggedy Ann?” 

Her father’s massive hands clench down on her shoulders, Sarah’s scowl evident that she’s about half a second away from launching herself at Ellie, leg braces be damned. 

“Now, let’s slow down here.” Joel’s deep baritone is light, but just as firm as his grip. If you knew him better, you’d think he is about to laugh, the lines around his eyes thick, while his mouth stays flat. “We got off on the wrong foot. Sarah, this is Ellie and her aunt. They’re going to be staying with us for a while to help out with your schooling.”

Those curls go flying, her frown now pinched in worry. Another girl caught between a child and adult – for the sake of their single parent, you notice, your chest tight. 

“I thought you needed a farm hand. You were going to teach me.” 

“You know you already read better than I do.” 

“Dad–,”

“Miss here is also a nurse.” 

“Oh. Oh.” She glances down at the metal braces as if she’d forgotten they were there. The skin on her knees is chaffed, rubbed pink. “She can . . . help me?”

Twin pairs of brown eyes settle on you, one hesitantly curious, the other aggressively determined. 

You can, right?

Ellie’s staring at the braces, her gaze distant, heavy. She’d seen this before, but everything back then moved too fast. Back then, there was no time for braces.

Braces only help a small percentage of polio patients. The lucky ones.  

You nod, your heart hammering under your chest bone. “Yes – yes, sir. I think with Ms. Kenny’s therapy, we might be able to alleviate some pain.” 

Those eyes, exactly like and so unlike her father’s, widen.

“Really?”

You introduce yourself with your first name, pressing the crease in your glove between your nail and your thumb with your other hand.

“I’d like to try, Sarah.”

You suddenly understand that Sarah is Joel Miller’s most guarded secret, out here in paradise, paradise as the most beautiful prison in the world. He continues to stare at you from under thick eyebrows after Sarah moves away from him. Ellie, caught off-guard by her forward movement, takes a significant step back.

“I, um, got some marbles out back,” Sarah starts, thumbing over her shoulder, and every other word sounding like an apology. “If you wanna play.”

Ellie jerks forward, her eyes round with excitement, but stops. She looks at you.

“Can I?” 

Soft when eager, just like her mother. So unlike you. You nod.

“Stay close, okay?” 

You and Joel watch as Ellie and Sarah toddle around to the back of the house, Ellie quietly narrating every thought she has as she keeps pace with Sarah.

Those look actually really cool, you know?

Yeah?

Totally. Have you read Amazing Stories? You look like you could be part of the Space Family Robinson.

Who are they?

Oh, you’ve never read those!? Okay, so they’re a family who live in space and they go on these awesome adventures together to different planets and . . .

The farther they go, the faster Joel turns back to stone. His gaze lingers just a hint longer before those dark eyes pin you to the ground. 

“You said you can clean? Cook?” 

You nod quickly. “Yes, sir.” Guard dog Joel. Stocky pitbull, teeth long and wet Joel.

He tilts his chin towards the house.

“Kitchen’s in the back. I gotta clean up the wagon and the horse, then gonna tend the field. I’ll be back in a few hours, but Sarah knows where to find me if y’need somethin'.”

You nod again, but he misses it, turning away to unbuckle the horse. You slide your trunk and Ellie’s satchel off the end of the wagon and head into the shadow of the house.

The white clapdoor snaps shut behind you, followed by the softer snik of the screen clicking into its frame. Slipping the bobby pins out of your hair to release your hat, you take in the Miller home.

The air is cool. Dust motes float in the sunlight streaming in from the second floor over a staircase with wooden wainscoting leading away from the open front room. With a brief glance up, you can see the faded white walls of the upper hallway, some not-yet-seen window drawing in bolts of morning light that pierce the air in bullet holes. It’s quiet and it smells warm, like lace kept in the back of a drawer near a wall that faces the heat outside. 

A blue two-seater couch faces a squat fireplace, with a Queen Anne table sandwiched between the two. Behind you, a large grandfather clock ticks and waits, a server waiting in the shadows with a watchful eye to report back to its master on the going-ons of the house. With only a cedar hutch, a few daguerreotypes, a smattering of books, the room is sparsely decorated, but kept clean and organized. You could see Sarah, a focused look in her eyes, sitting on the steps of the stairs and making Joel move and rearrange furniture over and over again until the room felt right. 

Through a white arched doorway, you find yourself in the kitchen. The light sparks more brightly here, the sky a stark blue through the four square window over the kitchen table and above the sink, reflective of the sun. You realize then the house runs north to south at an angle, where there are limited windows in the walls on the east and west sides, thereby limiting direct sun exposure and, more importantly, heat. Both the kitchen and the front rooms had been built out of the line of the sun, making cooking and cleaning and living bearable without a painful glare. 

A thoughtful and patient consideration.

Someone had attempted to add some levity with brown and blue plaid wallpaper around the cove of the dinner table, all the way to the other side of the room around the kitchen counters and stove. But unfortunately for everyone else, the wallpaper is hideous, only tampered by the off-white counters and cupboards. 

The cupboards have glass doors, blurring ceramic cups and plates on the tops of the shelves. 

It reminds you of the small apartment Anna and you lived in back in Boston, when it was just the two of you. It wasn’t much, but it felt sturdy, secure. Safe.

A door to the right of the stove has a latch, and you lift it and poke your head inside. A chilly darkness greets you, along with the scent of wet, deep earth. A basement? No. Not this close to the kitchen. Curiosity pulling you forward, you descend the sturdy wooden stairs, into the sunken darkness. You count ten until a draft licks your ankles. You keep going, one squeak of wood after another until - you touch soil. The heady scents of pine bark and peat moss soothe the air from where your feet press into the ground, fertility thick like mushrooms in the gut of a lichen-drenched tree. But it’s dark, too dark to make out much, barely your own hand in front of your face. With your fingers outstretched, as if you’ll bump into a gas lamp conveniently on the ground, you shuffle forward and almost immediately a cold chain tickles your face. You grab out of instinct and pull. 

Nearly blinded by the light that erupts from an exposed bulb directly in front of your left eye, you stagger back, wincing, your footsteps muffled by the earthen floor. You blink through the tears as the secret at the end of the stairs finally reveals itself. 

A pantry. A cellar. 

At least twenty feet deep and ten feet high, with rows and rows, stacks and stacks, wood shelves cover nearly the entire length of the underground room. In between the rows, large barrels sit, quiet and sturdy, with bottles of vinegar and olive oil sitting on their rims. 

You realize two things within seconds of each other. 

This house has electricity. It stands above the ground, proud, independent, full of heat and light. So unlike your husband’s dark hole in the ground. 

and

there is so much food. 

Pickling jars. Seed pouches. Culled wheat. Cans of fruit and vegetables and eggs. Olives with squash and pumpkins. Crates of potatoes and half bottles of wine and syrup. Onions and carrots and spices and garlic.

A feast. Meals for days and days and days. The bounties of earth stored, safe beneath the ground, like a secret. 

It’s more food than you’ve seen in years.

A hunger like you can’t remember having roars in your stomach out of nowhere and everything pitches to the right. The edges of your vision blurs, your shoulder knocking into stone wall, and breathing becomes a nearly impossible task. You turn, nearly stumbling up the dozen steps that have turned into a thousand.

The tacky memories that stick to the crevices of your dreams yawn awake, bringing with them dry mud in your mouth and thick salt to your eyes. Mud, dirt, dust – everywhere. In that stinking hut in the ground, the dust replaced your molecules, your atoms, until you too might blow away, until you are cracked and empty and dry. The static from the dust storm memories shoots down both of your arms and you sway on your feet. Your heart suddenly pounding so achingly fast, you have to drop your forehead against the flat surface of the closed door to keep the room from spinning. 

You had forgotten what safety looked like.

You had forgotten what living could be.

You know the ringing sound of that gunshot is just in your head, it’s not real, but you shudder all the same, your hands curling into claws under your chin, your nails tearing up the white paint. 

You’re here, not there. You are safe. Ellie is safe. That house and him have been entombed together under piles of dirt, with the bugs and the rot and the stench from the weak stove. Rivers of sweat rolling down the back of your neck, you beg yourself to stop shaking. You feel like cheap terracotta pottery – made from dirt, left too long to bake in the sun and made brittle; one good tap and you’ll shatter. 

You breathe in and taste wet salt. Breathe out and cry – cry from the fear and the dread and the relief and the hope. God, that hope tastes worse than all the dirt in the Panhandle of Texas.

You cry and cry and cry until you don’t feel so brittle anymore.

Sunlight has struck copper, heavy, tangy in the mouth, when the back door opens and the house is instantly filled with the sound of girls’ rabid conversation. You step back from the stove, cheeks warm and arm sore from continuously stirring the rice and vegetable soup. It’s not as thick as your mother once made, but without milk, it would be nearly impossible to improve. You smile at the girls as they tumble in, more dust mite than human, whispering about some secret. 

“Having fun?” You ask with a grin on your face as Ellie helps Sarah take off her shoes, already attentive to what a girl with her health concerns might need. 

There’s an overlap of chatter as Ellie and Sarah both answer you and then, answer each other.

“Well, good,” you say, turning back to the stove, making sure the bottom of the soup doesn’t burn, “but whatever you got up to, it’s all over your faces so please wash up before dinner.” 

“It smells real good, miss,” Sarah says as she hobbles over to the sink and starts rinsing off her arms and cheeks, while Ellie takes off her own shoes. “What is it?”

“Something my mom used to make when the cupboards were bare.”

Sarah stills, the water rushing over her soft skin. Those inquisitive eyes are just as captivating, just as forceful as her father’s, but for entirely different reasons. She tugs the words out of you by the sheer, needling strength of her gaze.

“I mean – I found the cellar, the house is incredibly well stocked, but I didn’t see any preserved meat or dairy and I didn’t – I didn’t think your dad would want me poking around out back.”

Immediately Sarah softens and rolls her eyes. “Dad’s all bark and no bite,” she huffs. “We’ve got stored beef and cheese in an ice chest downstairs. I’ll show you around tomorrow.”

You smile and those brown eyes go warm in the coppery light. “Thanks, Sarah.” 

“Bunch up, I gotta wash my hands too.” Ellie none-to-gently bumps Sarah with her shoulder to get to the sink but before you can scold her, Sarah swings back, using her precarious momentum, and pushes Ellie back. They both giggle. Something that’s been cramped far too long in your chest loosens. 

“So, Sarah, tell me where you are with your schooling. Do you have books, diagrams?”

She thinks for a minute as she opens a drawer that leaves her back to you and takes out two, then four thin cloth placemats. She hobbles back to the table to carefully spread them out.

“I was up to seventh grade before the school shut down. That was about two years ago, so Dad’s been trying to make sure I don’t forget anything. He got me a Midsummer Night’s Dream by Shakespeare a while ago and made me read it out loud to him. He has me work on my letters every day – including cursive.” She adds, with a bright spot of joy cranking her mouth open. You imagine someone like Sarah would have beautiful penmanship. “He shows me around the yard, asking me to identify plants and animals, especially anything that might be poisonous. I don’t think he really understands it but he explains what happens when you add water to a seed and keep it in damp earth. Oh, and he has me help balance the books for the farm – what we made, what we sold, how much we have left, stuff like that.”

You smile at her over your shoulder as Ellie hands her bowls. “Accounting.”

“Huh?”

Ellie rolls her eyes. “It’s so boring, don’t worry about it,” she whispers conspiratorially.

“What your dad is teaching you is called accounting,” you say a bit firmly, eyes tracking your niece as she shows no shame. “It’s a very special skill to have, especially if you work on a farm or in a business. Do you like it?”

She nods rapidly, those cork-screw curls bouncing around her thin face. “Yeah! I do! I’m much faster than Dad when it comes to figuring out the sums and dollar value.”

In the front hall, the clap door creaks open then slams shut, heavy footfalls proceeding the man that makes them.

“Does that happen a lot?” you ask softly as Sarah sidles up next to you to peer into the pot.

“Where I know more than my dad?” Sarah smirks up at you, all devious youth. “More often than you think.”

A mini sun bursts from the ceiling as Joel flicks on the light switch and is almost immediately tackled by Sarah. The copper sun on the horizon finally, in the distracted moment, slips down and drags the night behind it. It’s purple twilight outside when Joel lifts his head from the embrace around Sarah’s shoulders to stare at the two strangers in his kitchen.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” you say brightly and you can almost picture your mother in the same exact position in front of the stove, stirring soup until her cheeks were pink, her hand resting low on her back, her tummy round and full in her second attempt to keep her husband’s rage diverted from her. It’s a boy, she promised.

The memory makes you so violently ill out of nowhere, you lose your appetite. But you persevere; you carry on and load up the bowls Sarah stacked for you. Ellie saves you from having to dislodge the prickly knot in your throat when she snags a bowl and eagerly yells, “get it while it’s hot!”

The arrangements from the stove to the table are a bit of a blur, the slick anxious weight from earlier today curling around your lungs again as you remember shadows in chairs like these, but so different from the flesh-and-blood bodies that occupy them now. 

You’re dazed, a little light-headed, but not so much to miss the glance between Joel and Ellie. A junkyard puppy skirting the territory of an older watchdog, a bone in each of their mouths and dragged to opposite corners of the battlefield. Satisfied with the lines of demarcated territory that had been drawn, they call a temporary truce by eating in complete silence, until Sarah groans.

“Oh my god, this is better than it smells!” she hums, her mouth full of potatoes. 

“Just wait till she adds chicken,” Ellie grumbles, mouth cupped open to keep from spilling. You watch her, a faint smile on your face, and the slippery feeling fades. When cleaning up, she missed a spot on her left nostril and you fight the urge to clean it with your thumb.

“There’s more.” 

Your gaze snaps to Joel hunched over his bowl. The spoon that Ellie and Sarah have to both clutch in their fists to eat barely swings between his massive fingers. 

Joel’s dark eyes trace down your nose, your chin, your neck, to where your hands lay flat on the table in front of you. Your own bowl and spoon sit on the counter behind you. You worry you might have upset him, with the way he’s frowning.

“There’s more,” he repeats, same tone. 

“I'm sorry?” 

He puts his spoon down and clears his throat, then nods to the pot on the stove. Ellie watches him out of the corner of her eye.

“I saw how much you made. If you’re hungry, you should eat.” 

As though speaking a language only you could hear, he looks at Ellie the same time you do. 

She frowns. “What? Is there something on my face?”

Sarah begins to giggle, nodding, when Joel starts again.

“You should eat. There’s enough.” 

It’s like his eyes can see through your blue veins and clammy skin, to your yellow bones and clawing stomach. You choke on the mudball that’s been hovering in your throat for months and nod.

“Alright.”

You don’t know if you’re actually hungry – you can’t really remember the taste of warm food – or if you’re doing it just to appease him, but something about the heat of the bowl and solid spoon in your hand, it rouses you from this sinking you find yourself in. Your bones feel like jelly.

“How’re the fields, Dad?” Sarah asks with her big eyes, seemingly unaware of the layered exchange between you and her father, or kind enough not to address it. 

He responds to her, his voice deep in the cavern of his chest. It’s an easy way he speaks to her, heavy with the seriousness she’s earned to be talked to like an adult, but gentle enough that for all his low grumbling, it comes out as a thick murmur. You find yourself listening to their conversation, their interactions, as soothing as music turned low from a well-tuned radio. Ellie is even roped in when Sarah tells Joel all about the Space Family Robinson and Ellie’s knife. “It’s really cool, Dad,” she says preemptively. “She knows how to use it and she’s really safe.” 

“Well, if it’s really cool . . .” he fills his mouth with potatoes, tamping down the ghost of a grin on his lips around the spoon. 

Ellie shuffles in her seat, her own hesitant smile glittering in her eyes, and with only minor prompting, she holds no prisoners when gleefully telling Sarah that she’s got the story of finding a mess of wriggling worms out by the back of the barn all wrong. 

“Just keep ‘em outta my side of the bed, alright?” You grin at her, spooning another dribble of soup into your mouth. You’ve realized too much, too fast can just as easily twist your stomach so you focus on cradling a digestible amount of food – broth, potato, carrots – in the well of your spoon. 

But the landscape beyond the silver lip has stilled. Both girls are happily slurping up the last bits of their meals, throwing quips back and forth, but Joel’s shoulders have locked up again, the bones of his wrists flat, a static alertness that you’re sure would travel all the way down to his ankles if he was standing up right. You aren’t sure if Sarah has picked up on the subtle change in his breathing – from the deep well of his lungs to shortened and shallow – but somehow you have. 

You’re staring at him far too long.

Those thick eyebrows pitch down again. Beneath the loose button that pins your dress closed over your chest, you feel a swell of heat and you wish you were like Ellie, capable of making an easy joke – what, is there something on my face? The heat bubbles almost uncomfortably under his weighted gaze. 

“I hate bugs,” you blurt out, desperate to give him what he wants, if only you knew. The girls glance at your sudden outburst. “I don’t like worms especially. I don’t mind straw beds, as long as they’re clean – I mean, I–I hope they are, the straw beds, not the worms.” 

Another eternal second of being pinned down by Joel’s frown, this one decidedly less hostile, before understanding breaks open the harsh lines of his mouth and around his eyes. His eyes go wide for less than breath, then he drops his gaze to the bowl. His shoulders shift, muscle redistributing weight as he settles his thick forearm closer to the edge of the table.

Oh, that relief of muscle says. 

“You’re not sleeping in the barn.” Joel says, head tucked down. At that, Ellie slows her ravenous eating and frowns at him. 

“Then where are we sleeping?”

Joel lifts his head, a new, special emotion just for her tugging on his mouth: exasperation. “My room. You two in there and I’m takin’ the couch.” 

Shame and embarrassment drip down over your skull, between your ears, like a cold, runny egg. 

“No, we couldn’t possibly–,” 

He shakes his head, eyes still on the split potato chunk at the bottom of the bowl. His hand flexes briefly and you think of it around the bridle of the horse. 

“It’s not up for discussion.” 

Beside him, Sarah frowns at him and you’d wonder how many times in her life he’s ever said that to her – if you could think properly over the roaring of blood in your ears. 

“Joel,” you say, something syrupy under your tongue molding the words Mr. Miller into a tone you’d use for an old friend. “I can’t ask you to–,”

Hand flexes. The seat of the chair squeaks.

“You’re not askin’, I’m tellin’.” You’re still vastly underprepared for when those eyes - those deep, dark eyes - suddenly snap on you, as if your very presence commands his entire attention. You notice the dirt underneath his nails and around the knot of his wrist on the table. He’s filthy. 

Quietly, with the surety of a dog slipping its snout between its paws, he cuts the last chunk of potato in half with the curve of his spoon. “The new mattresses’ll be here next week. We’ll make do ‘till then.”

The slurp of soup between his lips seems to signal the end of the conversation, but you can’t quite mash together your kaleidoscope-spinning impressions of the man across the table from you. 

“Thank you . . . Joel.” 

He nods, back teeth breaking apart the soft mush of the potato. He swallows and glances back up at you. 

“It’s good,” he says, briefly holding his spoon aloft. “You did good.”

His words burst the choking bubble in your chest and warmth drips down your spine, splashing in the cradle of your hips. Hunger rises, but it’s a different kind of hunger. A growl of neglect. One you sometimes wondered if it was even possible for you to ever even feel. 

Even while you were married to your husband.

You put your spoon down to keep your hand from shaking. The soup won’t feed this new churning hunger and, frankly, you don’t know what will. 

You did good, he praised, parsed out like torn bread tossed across a black lake. 

It makes you warm in places food never could.

The immediate next morning, you meet the sun early, eagerly. Eager to wake and rise and become so useful, you are intricately tied to this house; if you are removed, a vital piece of the land, the prairie is torn up along with you. Ellie sleeps softly next to you, curled up in the same position she was in the hotel bed, tucked in so tightly as if to take up the least amount of space possible. She sleeps, unbothered, blissful, and again you fight the urge to brush the hair that covers her sleeping eyes. You settle for tugging the beautiful quilt, with its stunning blue and red and green patches, up to her shoulders. 

As you tie your dress up, your suitcase partially open and on the ground, movement from outside in the dawning pink catches your eye. A brisk shadow, those thick shoulders proceeding a taught waist are unmistakable as they move towards the barn. You stand, transfixed for a moment as broad hands slide open the barn doors, you hear a faint creak, and he disappears inside. The capability of those hands; the surety, where every action is deliberate and intentional – it makes something arc up your throat. A warm piercing that bursts through bone and muscle alike. Trembling fingers tug at the wilting lace around the cuffs of your dress, imagination stretching out into the dark morning, inspired by curious and impossible ideas of those hands. 

Something – most likely Sarah next door – squeaks the floorboard and those tendrils of thought snap back as if someone had slammed a lid shut. You glance at the clock and make a mental note to wake up earlier tomorrow, to beat him to the kitchen. 

You are also desperately eager to get out of the room where you can practically smell Joel on the walls. It’s simple, just like the rest of the house, but amongst the hand-drawn sketches of himself and birds (likely gifts from Sarah), the half-spent candles and well-read books, you find him in everything. You wonder, briefly, if the indentations made on the cotton mattress are from him or you – the scent of his hair in the pillow from sweat or soap. 

The encroaching feeling that you don’t belong here in this house nearly swallows you whole as you dress in a room you definitely don’t belong in. 

Joel remains a distant figure, a familiar shadow across the lightning horizon, long after you finish the eggs and toast. You consider perusing the pantry for blueberries or something similar, when Sarah comes down. Fresh-faced, dressed with the care most people reserve for church, she stumbles in, her braces clacking as she finds a seat at the table. 

You notice a brief flash of pain across her face when you bring over a plate of food. She unconsciously rubs a circle with her thumb on her left knee as she picks up her fork.

“Pain today?” You ask, eyes on her knee, even though it’s obvious. 

She nods, strained. “Just a little bit. But it’s nothing. I’m sure it’ll go away when it warms up outside.” 

You doubt that is remotely true, but you let her hold the comforting lie. She doesn’t seem like the type to swallow pity with ease, and neither was Anna. You put on that detached but focused "nurse's" mask, your lips a straight line and brow furrowed, your voice slipping on something more commanding too.

“Let me see.” 

Sarah blinks at you briefly, evidently surprised by your shift in demeanor but eventually, she obeys. She drops her fork and slides the chair back, the chair legs squeaking against the rough wooden floor.

You crouch in front of her, gathering up her ankle first and testing its mobility.

“When were you diagnosed?” you ask, as soft as you are firm.

“Never, technically.” She watches you and occasionally winces. You wonder how long she’s grown stiff like this. “The doc had left over braces that Dad bought before the guy skipped town.”

“So then how did you know it was polio?” 

By her sudden stillness, you know this is the first time that word has been uttered under this roof in a long time. You lower her ankle, rising gaze meeting hers. Her mouth is pulled tight. You can practically read the familiar headlines as they scroll across her mind.

New Polio Cases by the Thousands

Polio Claims Life of Infant

Polio Outbreak: Thirteen Dead

“Not every case is serious,” you say, gently, using the word serious in place of fatal. You don’t want to scare her unnecessarily. But by her wide eyes, you know the word sits in her chest all the same. 

“I know. And I know it can be made worse by moving too much. That’s why Dad’s always on me about resting and going slow.” 

You return to your examination. Her skin is rubbed raw in some places by the braces. You remind yourself to ask Joel for some old sheets to make better padding. 

“That’s not always true,” you say, shifting to her other leg. “Even though she was sore after, Anna often said she felt the stiffness go away after walking around the neighborhood block.”

Curious, Sarah tilts her head, those lovely curls swaying like leaves in a breeze. “Who’s Anna?”

Your skin around your eyes tightens – how could you be so careless with such a secret – when you hear feet thundering down the stairs and a second later, Ellie swings around the lip of the doorway.

“Is that toast?” She asks, eyes wide and hopeful. “If you got bacon, I’m gonna start kissing faces.”

You and Sarah exchange a small grin before you stand up right and Sarah returns to her own meal.

“No bacon today, but who knows what else is stored in the pantry?” 

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Ellie exclaims as she slides into a chair, her own plate pilled far too for a girl her size. “Treasure hunt.” 

You see the tips of Sarah’s ears go briefly pink at Ellie’s language but the muffled smile on her face hints at awe, impressed – so you let that one slide. A stream of light through the half-shut curtain tugs your thoughts outside, to the man literally toiling in the fields. 

“Does your dad want me to bring him some food?” You ask, standing from the chair and glancing out the window. You can’t see him any more and for some reason that makes your chest go tight.

Sarah shook her bouncy curls. “No. He’ll come in and get it when he’s hungry.” 

You didn’t like the idea that you weren’t going to be directly feeding the man who employed you literally to cook for him and his daughter.

“Does he like coffee?”

Sarah arches an eyebrow at you. “Yeah, he loves it. But I’ve tried for years to make it the way he likes and he always drinks it, but I think a little piece of him dies inside every time he does.” 

“Then you must be a great cook too,” Ellie smirks up at her. In response, Sarah smiles impishly around a mouthful of eggs. 

You hold that little bit of information about Joel - something you knew that he didn’t know you knew - close, like a dollar bill in your pocket. You drum your fingers, searching for memories of how Anna used to shoe-string coffee when you couldn’t afford a maker in Boston.

“Did you eat?”

Ellie’s voice tears your gaze from the window. Her plate is only halfway empty. Her fingers uneasily move the fork around.

“Yeah,” you answer truthfully. In fact, you are rather ashamed by how much you took, sitting at the table in the purple dark, before you remembered that you had to feed three other people. “I’m good, Ellie. Thanks.”

She nods, returning to her plate and shoveling two bites into her mouth without slowing down.

“What’s first today?” Sarah asks, her eyes bright. “I can show you my sums. We have a chalkboard in the barn.”

You smile at her eagerness to show off while Ellie dejectedly pokes at her remaining floppy eggs. She had never been one for school, another thing you found hard to relate to about her. Fortunately for her, Anna nor you ever had the time to be as diligent about her education as Joel had been for Sarah. And unfortunately for her, you intend to fix that as quickly as possible. 

“I’d love to see them, Sarah, but would you mind showing me around the cellar first? Maybe there is bacon hiding down there somewhere.”

You don’t miss the small smile that creeps across Ellie’s face.

“Junk or keep?” 

Sarah looks up from the tip of her stick dragging nonsense through the barn’s dirt floor, her chin flat in her palm, elbow on her knee. She frowns at Ellie holding up . . . something that might have been a tractor part at one time. 

“I don’t even know what that is, so – junk?” 

Ellie shrugs, tosses the piece back and forth in her hands, and then chucks it like a ball to the opposite end of the barn. It collides loudly with the wall and Flora, the white and black cow, lifts her head at the noise from her stable and lets out a low groan. 

The entire barn smells of hay and animal but in a way that is warm, almost comforting. The two cows lazily munch from their troughs in their stalls, occasionally eyeing you as you carry items back and forth. It’s fortifying in a way only working outside and with your hands can offer. 

You turn to her disapprovingly but she’s already back, elbow-deep, in the pile you had designated hers to sort. Sarah, to whom you suggested rest this morning, goes back to boredly drawing circles in the dirt. Even though she clearly hates the idea of being idle, you are surprised she takes your medical advice without any fight. 

If you had successfully completed your duties as cook, now it was time to take on your other task as teacher. Sarah had a few textbooks, but mostly outdated and only one copy. You know trying to find a full library in times like these is laughably impossible, but there is nothing wrong with hoping for a blackboard. You’d made one before when the school district you tempted at didn’t approve new funding, and you feel confident you could do it again. Trouble is, you have nowhere to put it, much less set up a laughably impossible classroom for two students. 

Until Sarah casually mentioned the unfortunate pile of junk in the back of her father’s barn, “taking up at least half the space in there.” 

She wasn’t wrong.

“Yuck – is your dad a hoarder?” Ellie asks with slight disgust as she pulls up a stack of newspapers held together by twine. “Why does he even have this stuff?”

Sarah grins, delighted by Ellie’s prickly teasing. “This place actually used to be pretty organized. This was his space for a long time – where he went to think, or figured out what crops we needed for the next year.”

Her smile crumbles. “But, uh, then I got sick and now he doesn’t come out here unless it's for work.”

Ellie pinches the soft of her cheek with her teeth, nodding, her eyes downcast.

“So . . . junk?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” 

The stack of newspapers comes up to her knees and Ellie struggles, off-balanced, to carry it across the hay-covered floor. 

You reach for it and she gives it to you gratefully. You take it with a smile; you never know what she’s going to appreciate or just see it regretfully as charity or pity. 

“I think your dad is losing it,” Ellie says as she wipes sweat from her brow, shaking her head far too seriously. “Losin’ it, big time.” 

Sarah giggles.

You drop the stack of papers in the corner, but when you let go, the string snaps and the papers spill everywhere. With a sigh, you kneel down and gather them back together, but not before a few headlines catch your eye. 

Your heart twists.

Paralysis Takes Three Children

Join the Mothers’ March on Polio

QUARANTINE: POLIOMYELITIS

Why would Joel keep these? Everyone knew how devastating polio could be to children, even infants. Why would he –

Roughly dispersed throughout the article, sentences and phrases were underlined in blue pen. Sentences containing, “iron lung”, “bedrest”, “antibiotic” –

No cure.

Warmth spread out across your chest. Joel was looking for a way to treat his daughter, the only way he could in a town without a doctor: outside information. Something about this makes the space beneath your chest bone hurt so badly, you get a little nauseous. 

Now you consider conserving these papers as if they are important historical documents. Behind you, where Ellie and Sarah are lobbying jokes back and forth, you see more stacks of neatly contained newspapers. He looked everywhere and found nothing. 

You reshuffle the stack that fell, when you spot something else that hardens the warm feeling in your chest and makes it brittle.

Mob Over Breadline Kills FIVE

Experts Say There is No Way Out of This Depression

Mother of Drowned Children Claims She Did “What Was Best”

The rough floor hurts your knees. Eyes closed, you try to ignore the flood of images of what you witnessed in Boston, how desperate and cruel people became in Oklahoma. With each memory, your heartbeat pounds harder.

Red. Blood. Pink. Skin. White. Bone.

The riots got to be so terrible, but people were just hungry.

Ellie calling your name jerks you out of the sinking muck of memories. 

“What? What is it?”

She eyes you with distant concern then glances at Sarah. “She wanted to know where you learned all this stuff.”

“About cooking, and teaching, and nursing,” Sarah clarifies. “I think I’ve read every book in our house probably four times and I still feel like I don’t know anything.” 

“You probably know more than you think,” you offer as you scoop up the uncomfortable newspapers, easily switching tracks of thought to mute the swell of horrors from the rotting box in your mind. You leave them in the corner for Joel to do what he wishes with them and stand, dusting your dress off. “What do you call the process by which plants get energy from the sun?”

Sarah’s eyes brighten immediately. Where her body fails her, her mind is as sharp as a tack.

“Photosynthesis!”

“Good,” you nod, smiling. “And what’s the primary source of energy in animal cells?”

“The mitochondria!”

“Very good.” 

Ellie sighs angrily from her pile and puts her hands on her hips. “I think I’m gonna make like mitosis and split, if we keep talking about all this boring stuff.”

Scorned for her love of learning a second time and already in a bad mood from the pain this morning, Sarah frowns. 

“What’s your problem? Why do you act like school sucks? You had your mom teaching you –,”

“She’s not my mom!” Ellie snaps back, her knuckles white around a rusted bucket. “She’s just my aunt!”

“Yeah, well, I have an uncle I never even get to see!” Sarah stands up as smoothly as she can, but her knees and ankles are pink again. Her calves shake. “You’re lucky!”

Ellie’s teeth clench in the back of her jaw, lip curling. 

You remember distinctly more than once having to pick Ellie up from school early because she’d been caught fighting and you take a step in her direction, even if Sarah could no doubt land a few solid ones in. 

“And you’re–,”

“Ellie.” You know how rough Ellie can be. You remember the tone to take with unruly students, even if you don’t mean an ounce of it. “Don’t. Just let it g–,”

“Why do you always take her side?” That ire whips around to you. Loyalty, that was another trait her mother favored. Ellie’s shoulders roll forward, her fists clenched. “Why do you let her talk like she knows anything about us? About Mom?” 

“I’m not taking a side, Ellie,” you say firmly, your chin tilted down to her. One day she’s going to be taller than you, you know it. “Both of you, this is enough.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Ellie tosses the broken bucket in her hand to the ground and storms towards the barn doors. 

“You just like her because she’s a fucking dork like you,” she growls under her breath before shoving open the large square door. 

It swings shut, the metal clattering against the wood. The brief stream of light filtering in is shortly swallowed up into the shadows again. 

“I’m sorry,” Sarah says almost immediately, her brown eyes swiveling on you. Her skin is tinged a little lighter and there’s sweat along her hairline. With a fleeting flash of worry, you wonder if she’s in more pain than she lets on. “I didn’t mean it . . . I mean, I think she is lucky to have – but . . . I shouldn’t have said that.”

She drops your gaze and you think those dark eyes might be softer, wetter than usual. She plucks at the hem of her dress, her mouth twisted to the side. 

Where Ellie explodes outwards, Sarah implodes inwards. You never could understand Ellie’s inclination to destroy everything around her.

You hand her a broom, with a smile on your face. 

“Do you want to tell me about your uncle?” 

She takes it slowly from you, eyebrows furrowed down. This is a look you are familiar with, even when it comes to Ellie. She is stuck between answering like a kid, getting it all off her chest to be free of the emotional burden, and swallowing it all to please the adults in her life. 

You’ve also found Ellie tends to open up when she doesn’t have to look you in the eye. Sarah’s own gaze is stuck to the floor as she vaguely sweeps at the hay. 

“We don’t talk about Uncle Tommy a lot,” she mumbles. 

You focus on untangling an old bridle. “Oh? Why?”

“Dad’s still pissed at him for moving out to California. Said he left what’s really important for a bullshit dream.” Her eyes pop up, wide and shocked. “Sorry, that’s what he said.” 

Despite your limited time with him, you can easily see how Joel Miller might take something like that personally, but you just store that away too, another breadcrumb leading the way.

“Why California?”

“It’s–,”

The barn door opens again and Joel’s shadow breaks through the almost painful white light. Behind him, Everett (the horse) snorts and huffs, pulling along the giant creaking plow, the air suddenly pungent with the smell of warm dirt, leather, and animal sweat. Joel murmurs something to the frothing snout and wipes his own forehead with the back of his arm, smearing sweat and dirt across his browline. He stops when he sees you two staring. 

By Sarah’s wide eyes, it’s clear Uncle Tommy is a subject that is not often brought up in this house either. Joel frowns, but just as he opens his mouth, you interject – you know how to deflate a potentially angry man.

“We were just cleaning up the back of the barn,” you say, careful not to use words like junk or scrap heap. “I’m hoping to use the space as a school, for Sarah and Ellie.” 

His gaze settles on you, like the dust at his feet. 

“Mhmm.” His tone scrapes something low in your stomach. 

“I’m sorry – I should have asked – I didn’t think –,”

“No, it’s –,” he shakes his head. His eyes catch Everett’s foamy nose and he pats it, noting the long sweaty forelock. “Smart. Next spring, we’ll come up with something better, but there’s no time now, with the harvest comin’.” 

You nod, peeling off what you were going to say from the back of your teeth with your tongue. Joel casually drags his fingers through Everett’s forelock before stepping back to unhook the plow’s leather buckles. It’s when he shifts towards Sarah, looking to her, that he grimaces. 

He put his weight on his right knee and it immediately caused him pain.

“We could help,” you offer, eyes on his knee, his thick fingers rubbing into the muscle just above his knee cap. "Ellie loves being out in the sun and I can teach her how to plant–,”

“‘M fine,” he mutters gruffly, straightening up and wiping his hands on the cloth around his neck. “Sarah, go inside for a bit. There’s something she n’ I gotta discuss.”

His tone indicates this is not the time for eye rolling but she does it anyway.

“I’ve said for years that you need help, Dad. She’s just offering to–,”

“Sarah, inside. Please.” 

Sarah scowls and drops the broom against one of the stalls. She hobbles out of the barn, first scrunching her nose up at Joel’s obvious smell, then muttering something about having to go look for the hell spawn. You finger the scrap metal in your hands, a fluttery nervousness growing in your stomach the closer Sarah gets to the door. With one more disapproving shake of her thick curls, she shuts the door behind her. 

Everett nickers and paws the ground, eager to be returned to bed after a long morning of work. Light streams in gold from the slanted windows above the loft, separating the front stalls from the back of the barn where you stand, fidgeting. There’s no escaping the hot animal smell now, and it’s your turn to be intercepted by Joel. 

Another apology is nearly out of your mouth when he speaks first.

“Do you know how to shoot a gun?” He asks, his mouth set into a firm line. In the half-darkness of the barn, you can’t quite make out his eyes. 

You swallow against the encroaching dryness in your throat. “I-I have a gun. Keep it in my purse, o-only for emergencies and I–,” 

“That’s not what I asked.” He shakes his head, tone soft, almost gentle. He glances past you to the stacks of newspapers you had moved into the corner, the ones about violence and pestilence. He rubs his fingers between the bridle and Everett’s thick hair. “Found a hole in the barbed wire fence today.” 

You frown, the tension of his voice indicating a severity you are utterly unprepared for. “What does that mean?”

“Someone tried to cut through.” 

A white hot panic lurches up your spine out of nowhere. Fueled by fear, you see the outline of your husband shambling across the propertyline and you go cold. 

“W-why would someone do that? What are they after?”

His hand stills as every muscle in his body briefly tenses. Eyes dark beneath a tight brow, the tightness in his jaw is an answer and a threat all at once. He looks almost offended by your question.

You know exactly what they would take. 

All you can do is nod. 

Everett nudges Joel’s shoulder, impatient to get out of the harness, for that bath he so very much deserves. As though you had disappeared, Joel unbuckles the restraints, taking a brush to the gray coat as he goes. Maybe you’d misread that last signal and he thought he told you to fuck off.

You move towards the back door when his voice, timbre deep and low, stops you again.

“I’m gonna to teach you to shoot.” He announces to the lathered withers of the horse. “But you keep that gun on you, at all times, especially when you’re out with the girls. You got that?”

He pauses just as he slides the hitch off the horse's back, his arms covered in dirt as dark as the leather. It’s minute, the shift in his weight, but you suddenly realize he wants verbal confirmation.

“Y-yes. Yes. I’ll take it with me.”

The minutia shifts again, a lessening of tension across his broad shoulder, his thick back. He nods. 

“Good.”

The aching need for him to say more, for that good to turn into you did good or good job – or good girl – it sparks so fast and hot inside of you, you think you’ll choke. Instead, you leave through the door on unsteady legs, jaw locked tightly shut. 

You find comfort in the monotony of sewing. 

Anna always scolded you for it, that you were “giving into women’s work.”

How are they ever going to take us seriously when you actually like doing this dainty shit? 

But where Anna seemingly delighted in her mile-a-minute thoughts, you need an outlet – some way to settle, to ground yourself in the here and now. Furthermore, you could sew anywhere – on the train, on the bus, in a foreign house in the middle of nowhere where you were, again, dependent on the kindness of a complete stranger – 

It isn’t sewing specifically that you enjoy. If there was another activity where your mind could detach itself from your body, you would have liked it too. Here, in this space of blank concentration, you separate further from yourself with every stitch you pull together. Here, you are not a sister, a housewife, or an aunt. Not a nurse or a teacher or a failed fieldhand. 

Not scared of living or scared of your husband or scared that you’ll fail your sister over and over and over again – 

For a handful of minutes, you are not scared and you are the closest thing to yourself you can possibly be. You think, as a child that might have been the closest you’d actually been to understanding your own wants and dreams and desires, but now it is through this act of repetition, of delicate guiding, do you find yourself remembering what it was like to exist unafraid, as thoughtless as a child.

You sit on the edge of Joel’s bed, eased into something vaguely like relaxation by the needle and thread in your hand. You’d found some old pillows in the barn earlier today and surprisingly the stuffing was still intact. After watching Sarah struggle today, you knew you couldn’t spend another second watching the poor girl hobble around on painful braces. 

It’s twilight, the sun gone beneath a blanket of scarlet and indigo, everyone fed and full – the girls almost instantly forgetting their first fight in favor of a discussion about their most effective marble-flicking techniques – and you already have at least one leather-bound pad that is twice as thick as her old one. You grin, excited to share your creation to her. You wonder what Joel will say.

Through the wall over your shoulder, in Sarah’s room, you can hear the low murmur of their voices, as quick and fast as two co-conspirators. You can’t quite make out what they’re saying, but the words don’t matter. It is the high joy in Sarah’s voice, or the creaky laughter from Joel. They could be speaking in a completely incomprehensible language but the sentiment is unmistakable: you make me happy and I love you.

I love you.

The needle and thread stills in your lap. 

You glance out the window, to a much smaller shadow in front of the barn as it cuts and darts in the blurry half-light. The silver tip of Anna’s knife winks in the glint of the light from the windows as Ellie slashes and digs in the open air. Alone. 

In the late hours, in the hours when the veil between life and death felt so especially fragile, Anna made you promise that you'd look out for Ellie, to raise her as your own. To finally give her a childhood like the two of you never had. 

You had done that. You raised her. She’s alive and healthy and fierce. 

But would she find your sentiment about her unmistakable? Do you know hers as intimately as you knew your sister’s? 

Do you make her happy when both of you are constantly reminded of the ghost between you?

Sarah’s chatter echoes throughout the dark house, disembodied and entirely untethered.

It’s one week into this new, adjusted life in a house you haven’t yet found a home in when the unthinkable happens.

A loud, wet cry startles you awake and immediately your hand flies towards Ellie, panic like ice in your jaw. Your palm touches her shoulder, but she’s already sitting up, eyes towards the door. She glances at you and from your stumble out of a dreamless sleep, you realize it wasn’t Ellie who made that noise. 

It comes again, as sharp as a bone crack, and you both scramble out of bed.

Sarah. 

Up against the far wall, in the corner where her bed tucks up into the corner, Joel holds her like a lion clutches to prey. 

Giant, fat teardrops pour down the sides of her ashen cheeks, those bright eyes clamped shut, her mouth twisted in agony and she claws at her father’s forearm across her shoulders. His other hand is going white from her fingers crushing his in a bone-cracking grip. His voice is soft, firm, and fast in her ear, comforting and scared as hell, as she whimpers. 

Every muscle from her thighs down is stretched taut. Every muscle unwillingly tightened, flexed, the chemicals in her brain battling the commands of the bacteria. The pain, as described in medical journals, is crippling. 

Ellie glances at you out of the corner of your eye. Muscle spasms. 

“Sarah, darling, how long has this been going on?” She’s trembling from the pain and exhaustion. You wrap your robe around you before kneeling down to inspect her — and you feel Joel’s glare nearly singe the skin from your face.

“Don’t touch her,” he snarls and pulls her closer. Sarah whines and buries her face in his shoulder, trying to stifle her sobbing to keep from shaking and causing more spasms. “She’s–,” 

“I can help her, Joel.” Your training became a bulwark – strong, immobile – in moments like these. Maybe it was all an act but that first rush of hope that you could ease pain, soothe what hurts, made you feel like you were made of gold. You let that unbreakable shine pierce Joel’s gaze. “But you need to listen to me.” 

Sarah squeaks and you watch his resolve instantly break. Shakely, he nods. 

“Ellie,” you instruct over your shoulder. “Go start boiling water. There’s a pail out on the porch.”

She is out the door before you finish your sentence. She knows exactly what you need. 

Help on the way, you turn back to Sarah, her feet twisted in grotesque contortions. 

“How long has this been going on?” 

“About ten minutes,” Joel grumbles. She squeezes his hand so hard you hear his knuckle pop. She sobs, open mouth, and he presses his cheek to her. He murmurs softly, “I’m sorry, I know, I’m sorry.” 

“Is this the longest fit she’s had?”

Joel reluctantly nods. 

“Sarah,” you say and gently touch her knee. She peels her eyes open, cheeks stained with tears, eyes wet with fear. “We need to loosen your muscles, okay? That’s what’s causing you pain right now. So, we’re going to use heat and pressure to do that.” 

She nods, gaze solidifying with your every word, every word a new step out of the path of pain. Joel smooths her curls off her sweaty forehead, his own wide-eyed stare never leaving your face. You roll up your sleeves and curl up your hair off the back of your neck just as Ellie stumbles back into the room. She’s got at least five towels around her neck, and she’s red-faced and straining from keeping the pail of boiling water from spilling or burning her. She eases it down next to you and hands you a towel. Both of you each take a side and immediately tear the one in half.

Before you wore gloves, some sort of protection, but now there is no time. You hear Ellie inhale sharply, recognizing what you’re about to do a second before you do it.

You dip the towel into the steaming water, let it soak, and pull it out. You grit your teeth against the immediate burn on your palms, the trail of fire over your knuckles and wrists, as you squeeze out the dripping water, Sarah’s soft cries in your ears enough to push past your own pain.

Half-way between an inhale and an exhale, you think you hear your name. 

Ellie already has another dry towel loose around one of Sarah’s legs. She glances at you, her brows knitted together. 

Ready? She asks without words.

You drape the hot towel around her leg and Sarah yelps. She thrashes in her father’s arms as you wrap the towel tighter and tighter. Expecting Joel’s inevitable bark, a hard shove against your shoulder, get away from my daughter – but it never comes. 

As soon as you tighten the towel as firmly as it can safely go, Ellie slides in next to you and begins to massage the muscles in her calves, her feet, her toes. 

Sarah whimpers again, but the sound isn’t as sharp, pain-choked. Joel holds her tighter, as if her torso is also knotted and could be relieved with warmth.

On an inhale, you pick up the other half of the towel, drench it in boiling water, and wring it out with your bare hands. A silent prayer for lotion is fleeting as it drifts through the dense focus of your mind. You squeeze out the dripping water and wrap Sarah’s other leg, prepped again by Ellie. She watches you as you tug and tuck the steaming towel, her own focus as sharp as a tack, mirroring your motions as you knead and massage the muscles. 

After a few minutes of faint whining, a couple of sobs, the room slips into an exhausted silence. Her breathing slow on his chest, Joel draws back her damp curls and finds her face relaxed, asleep. His mouth parts and the skin around his eyes goes slack.

Relief. 

With a shudder, Joel knocks his forehead against hers, his thumb on her chin as if to feel her breathing. You look away, the moment so tender it shouldn’t be witnessed. 

You realize then how badly your palms ache. 

The towels have lost their immediate heat, so you unwind them. Ellie’s small hands overlap yours as she helps. For some reason, you can’t bring yourself to look her in the eyes. The both of you fall back into roles most comfortable to you. 

The wet towels gone, you wrap her legs more tightly this time, slightly past the edge of comfort. You ease her back, flat into the bed, and some small part of you is aware Joel is letting you guide her. He slips out from behind her when you tuck her in, tight with another blanket around her legs. She could be exhausted for days after this.

“We’ll need to keep heat on her legs every thirty minutes, fifteen if we can manage,” you say as you fold up the damp towels. Joel hasn’t moved. Stares down at Sarah’s small body. “I’d like to keep a warming pan here, to have hot water on hand if she wakes up in pain again. When she comes out of it, she needs water and food. Have her eat it slowly, small bites at first.”

You remember a doctor at the hospital where you trained as a nurse give advice to a newer doctor: medical mysteries and illnesses are one thing. Nervous parents are something else. 

You call his name and he doesn’t move. 

You step forward, touch his forearm, and he blinks at you. He feels so remarkably solid.

“Joel. She’s safe.” 

“Do you want me to go get more towels?” Ellie’s gathered the damp towels off the floor, her chest wet. She stares at Sarah’s bed frame. 

“Get breakfast first. Then I might need your help later.” She nods, turns to go, but hesitates. Her mouth is pinched tight, eyes wide, looking for something to ground her, to calm the vortex that the adrenaline in her veins widens with each beat of her heart. She looks so . . . childlike. 

She looks so much like Anna.

The momentary fortified strength shatters and you're afraid again. What do you say to comfort her? What would Anna say? Good job, I'm proud of you, thank you -

But then she turns away, carrying the dripping towels, and you lose your chance to parent.

Joel has curled himself into the rocking chair by her bed, so close his knee touches her mattress. He holds her thin hand in the cup of his two massive palms. His heel taps loosely, quietly against her rug, every possible outcome of this morning striking him in the chest with each drop of his foot. His face is a blurred, dark shadow, hanging between his shoulders.

To describe Joel in this moment, nervous seems quaint. 

In silence, you gather up the tepid pale of water and exit the room, closing the door after you.

The rest of the day passes in haze, tendrils of sleep still between the cracks in your brain left there by the harsh break into consciousness. 

You have Ellie feed the animals, and you start a load of laundry. The ratio of dry towels to wet is rapidly becoming unbalanced and you know after the initial attack is over, pressure is more important than heat. Sarah has barely moved all day but she is responsive and drinks water when she comes out of her deep sleep. You’ve made soup again – a heavy meal that doesn’t require much managing and can be easily re-served – and it gives you time to think. Sarah mentioned the doctor skipping town, that he had all but dropped everything and ran. You wondered what else might be in the doctor’s old shop. Morphine seemed too valuable to have been ignored in any ransacking, but often doctors kept a secret supply, unbeknownst to even most nurses for special cases or when supply was low. You think about that and stir the pot as the sun crawls across the sky. 

With your head bent over the pot, something moves in the field outside and you watch with surprise as Ellie leads one of the cows, Fauna, out of the barn. Through the rippled glass, you watch her talking to the cow, her face scrunched up in concentration, and shockingly, Fauna appears interested, her big ears flicking back and forth. But Ellie leads her only a little bit from the barn, in the grass but visible from the house. She drops to her knees and takes out a wooden stake and a hammer — nevermind where she found those – and then ties Fauna’s lead rope to top of the stake sticking out of the ground.

Ellie wags her finger, her back to the window, her stance very serious. You smile to yourself and to Anna as she marches back inside and shortly returns with Flora, the other cow, to do the same. She gives them both a stern talking to, as evident by her hands on her hips, before turning back to the house. You glance down, knowing she wouldn’t appreciate it if you saw her babysitting the cows. It was what Joel did every morning – let the cows out to graze – but she did it in her own Ellie way: on a smaller scale and perhaps with a little more gentleness. 

See, Anna, she’s all grown up.

By nightfall, both of you are exhausted. You don’t know how Joel manages to run this place by himself, especially with a sick child, but after one day, you’re ready to curl up into bed and never leave. Ellie looks like she’s about to face-plant into her soup, her eyes half-shut. You smile, stretching, before gently shaking her shoulder.

“Go to bed, Ellie. You’re exhausted.”

She blinks harshly, indignant and scowly, as you take both your bowls to the sink. “‘M fine. Just a lil’ –,” she yawns deeply, “sleepy.” 

“You’re right. My mistake.”

“Besides, we got coffee coming, don’t we?” 

On the counter, your make-shift coffee press gurgles, the cap steaming from the bubbling water over the grounds you found in the cellar. You eye her over your shoulder.

“You don’t even like coffee.” 

“Yeah but you’re staying up, right? You and Joel?”

Neither of you had seen Joel leave Sarah’s room all day. Ellie eyes the ceiling as if she can see right through it. 

“I’m taking him some food and a cup of coffee,” you say as you finish drying the plates. There’s a rigidness to your hands as you delicately lay the plates flat, unconsciously careful to keep them from making a sound as they touch. “But at St. Joseph’s, some of the nurses would offer to keep vigil, to give the parents a chance to rest.” 

You know in your heart he won’t take it. You just hope he finds your coffee inoffensive.

But Ellie doesn’t respond. She sits still, staring at the ceiling. 

“Ellie, she’s going to be okay.”

Those bright eyes fall on you. “You can’t know that.”

In your hands, you wind the damp towel between your fingers. They’re pink and still ache but the rough linen is a welcome distraction from the churning acid in your stomach.

“This isn’t going to be like last time,” you say, your hips against the counter. “Sarah’s infection is nowhere near her lungs. And she’s been responding to treatment.”

Ellie drops her gaze, her bottom lip curled between her teeth. 

“Don’t say that unless you mean it. Unless you can swear to me.” 

One of life’s simple truths: parents lie. 

You recognize there is a part of her that wants you to look her in the eyes and lie. She’d be angry, eventually, if your lies were exposed, but in that moment, as she sits in an unfamiliar house, at an unfamiliar table, with you and this wretched ailment the only things she knows to be constant – she wants a comfort you can’t give her. You are not capable of parental truth.

“I can’t promise anything.”

She inhales, breathes shaky, and exhales, the spoon in her hand trembling. “I know.” 

Hands full of a white, chipped food tray, you knock twice carefully with one hand like you had been trained to before opening the door. The lamplight has been turned on, but the room, blanketed in darkness and shadows, looks the same. Sarah sleeps deeply, if not well, her hand curled by her face against the pillow, her heavy storm of curls cradling her head gently. Joel watches her, as still and silent as the moon. His foot has settled, but now he breathes so slow he might not be breathing at all. 

Of all the terrible things you had seen during your time as a nurse, witnessing someone like this is always the hardest. Feeling helpless is a sentiment you are all too familiar with and the thought of someone just sitting there and watching you with your grief makes your skin itch. 

“Joel.” A formality, because those trapped in a cyclone of worry require a slow approach, easing a startled animal. “I brought you something to eat.”

Speaking, it lets him acclimate to your voice. 

You set the white tray on Sarah’s dresser, a piece of furniture meticulously crafted. Like Joel’s room, there are books everywhere, but more animal drawings, some directly on the walls. Sarah’s brilliant personality expanded here, in the blues and pinks, not capable of being contained in a single body. 

A body that seems so small and fragile in that little brass bed, while her father looms impossibly large.

“Joel.” Again, soft, but this time you put a hand on his bicep. Never near the neck, an older nurse warned you, that area is sensitive. His denim shirt is soft beneath your fingers, nearly bleached white from the sun and worn smooth from dust and dirt and wind. You think you smell churned earth and hot leather in the instant it takes you to kneel down beside him, your grip sliding from his shoulder to his forearm. With the other hand, you tip a steaming cup into his open palm. 

“Sarah told me you liked coffee.”

Slowly, as though he had blinked and reality disintegrated and reformed around him, Joel’s gaze slides from Sarah’s waxy face, to yours, and then the hand on his forearm. The back of your scalp prickles, the bulwark of courtesy shaking, before you remember you’d done this hundreds of times, to people of all ages, men and women. He seems to understand this – a professional gesture – and he takes the mug from you. With an almost perplexed expression, he stares into the nearly black liquid, his jaw tight. 

And then he drinks, without saying a word. 

You think you might have heard a low rumble from him, a pleased groan as heavy as the plow in the barn outside, but the floorboards creak when you stand up, so you might have been imagining things.

“This tastes good,” he says bluntly, voice weather-beaten. You smile into the bowl of soup as you wave a hand over the steam to cool it down to something bearable. “How?”

Despite his monosyllabic responses, you take this as a good sign. Something tells you that you’ve made exceptional progress by getting him to talk at all. 

“I got pretty good at making cowboy coffee, as my sister used to call it, before we moved to Oklahoma. You already had the beans in the cellar,” you say, shrugging as you bring the soup over to him. He eyes it warily, as if this is not the appropriate time to eat, as if his own suffering would make Sarah’s lessen. 

You’d only ever seen that instinct in a handful of parents while in the hospital and it made something wide and warm press up against your chest bone. 

So you don’t give him a choice. You push the soup into his hands with enough speed that he has to take the bowl or drop it entirely. He, like most people with common sense, takes the bowl. He has a second to frown at you before you turn away to Sarah. 

“And I suspect they were hidden down there on purpose?” You ask as you take out another blanket from the basket beside her bed and flutter it over her legs. You remember stories about the women working with Elizabeth Kenny filling quilts with rocks or beans, anything with weight, and putting them over the affected limbs of polio patients. The compress soothed the ache. 

Sarah snores gently in her sleep as her father behind you laughs, a soft rush of air from his nose, his mouth preoccupied with a half-grin. 

“I try not to hurt her feelings,” he admits quietly. You hear the clatter of metal on porcelain as you fold and refold the blankets to carry more weight. “That girl is a lot of things, but good at making coffee isn’t one of ‘em.” He slurs around the soup in his mouth. 

It’s hard to believe she’s only a year older than Ellie. They have both lost things, indescribable things at too-young an age. But where Ellie carries it in the grip of her hand around her knife, Sarah takes it on the chin. 

Polio, a disease of freezing agony. 

You wonder how much of Sarah’s inner world she keeps to herself. 

Like with Ellie, you fight the urge to brush a lovely curl away from her cheek. 

“You have a special girl here, Joel.” 

You feel his gaze on the back of your neck and you drop your gaze from her pristine face, remembering it’s not your place to look at her like that. Not like how you want to look at her.

Not like how you might want to look at him. 

Joel shifts on his feet, leaning forward to put the now empty bowl on the ground.

“I know.” By the strength of his tone, he admits to knowing that you see the bright light about Sarah like he does and so he lets you look. Your heart stutters at this silent transference and you grab blindly for that mask of noble duty. 

“How has her breathing been?” You sit down next to her and pick up her wrist, feeling for that steady pulse. You relax slightly when it’s easy to find. The beat of it is a little faster than you would like, but it hasn’t woken her up. 

“Good.” A disgruntled groan from the chair as he adjusts behind you. His voice is rich like molasses, dripping warmth down the knots in your spine. “Woke up here n’ there, like you said. Gave her food. Got her water. But she just went right back to sleep.”

“But she ate and drank?” 

He nods out of the corner of your eye. You check the mobility of her joints and they seem to be back to their natural looseness. Whether she’ll feel strong enough to walk is another matter entirely, but it’s not good to worry him unnecessarily. 

“That’s good, Joel. That’s really good.” 

You smile at him and finally, finally, the corners of his eyes soften, his brows pluck up, and he breathes deep. The tension leaves his body the way steam leaves a lake in the hours before dawn, the cup of coffee resting on his thigh. His gaze falls from your face to hers, shrouded in shadow.

“She’s never slept this long after an attack,” he says quietly. “Always restless, pain flaring up. We once stayed up a whole day and night when it got bad.” 

He shakes his head, clears his throat a bit as if the words in his mouth leave behind a mucky, sour taste.

“Thank you. For treating her properly.”

For doing what I couldn’t. 

It’s true. But no amount of reassuring – I’ve just had training, you did the best you could – would dissipate that repugnant scent of guilt lingering in the air. You are forced to let it linger, unable to say a single damn thing that would mean anything to him. 

As he finishes the last dregs of coffee, Joel unwinds his long legs from beneath the seat and his knees crack. Stiff joints after a long day of stillness, but immediately his fingers fly to that same spot he touched in the barn in that afternoon, his mouth tight from the unexpected flash of pain. 

Immediately you kneel down, worried at the slight hiss he made, fingers inches from his thigh when he straightens.

“You don’t have to–,” he shifts as if he can pull away from your touch and stay seated. “It’s not that bad –,” 

You frown at him. “Can the person here who has had actual medical training determine that?” 

Something light flickers over his eyes, so fast it might not have been real, smoothing the lines around his mouth. Joel nods, glancing to the floor. 

“Yes, ma’am.”

That single word almost splits your skull in half like lightning. 

You are immediately grateful for the heavy shadows in the room. Your palms, smarting all day, are now blistering with heat. Mouth shut tight, you don’t trust whatever sits behind your lips, so you begin your inspection of his muscles. Thumbs down, you feel along the lines that lead down to his knee.

Hard, firm, you notice. Made solid by work and toil. A few of the bricklayers and farmers you’d attended to had muscles like these. Despite the rough denim and how unsettling it is to be this close to him, it’s easy to lose yourself in the methodology of the human body. You’ve learned to read sinew and bone and scar tissue like a map and you come to find that the topography of Joel Miller is mountainous. 

“So, mhm, where’d you learn to make coffee?”

You thought the stiffness in his thigh was due to lingering pain, but when you look at him and his guarded expression, chin tilted into his chest, fingers tight around the bottom of the seat, you realize he is uncomfortable. He is made uncomfortable . . . by you. Something sharp pokes through a slot between your ribs and you sit up straighter, trying to make your touch even more clinical if possible. But what he says next, you aren’t sure if it’s genuine or genuinely meant to hurt.

“Your husband?” 

You shake your head. “My sister, actually. Ellie’s mom. We’d trade night shifts when she was a baby. One of us would come home from our second job, and the other would leave for their first. Anna said she’d never have survived those first years without coffee.”

You can hear the question he wants to ask buzzing in his head, your thumb rubbing therapeutic circles around the inflamed area. But instead he asks:

“And you . . . you like coffee?” 

You shrug. “I don’t think I ever slowed down enough to ever taste it in the first place.” 

With Joel Miller, silence means a thousand things. It’s not the way he looks at you, but the way he looks into you.

“Anna always said we’d be fine, that two unmarried women with a baby could make it in the city. But I wasn’t so convinced. There wasn’t much time for something like enjoying the taste of coffee because I was always busy taking every job I could get.” 

“Like treating sick kids.” He says it like he just found a piece of you off the ground and added it to a sprawling puzzle. He politely stares over your shoulder.

You swallow, throat tight. “Actually, um, Anna had it - polio - too. I took the job as a nurse to learn how to treat her from home.” 

Those heavy eyes swing into you full force and you can feel your stomach roll and collapse against your spine. 

“Every case is different, Joel. What I did for Sarah, it wouldn’t have helped someone like Anna.” 

“But she died?” A third unwelcome presence. 

“Yes. She went fast. There was nothing anyone could do to save her.”

There was nothing you could do to save her. 

Your thumbs are starting to ache, but you don’t want to leave just yet. You want to sit and listen to his voice, even if it’s pitched in anger towards you. 

But it’s not. His next words come out soft, if not a little bit disbelieving. 

“Where did you come from?” Joel asks. “You said the city, Oklahoma. How’d you end up in fuckin’ Dalhart, Texas?” 

You use your elbow on the thicker muscle up his thigh and he tries very hard not to wince. 

“We grew up in Boston. City girls all our lives. We had big plans of catching the bus line and going all over the country, just the two of us, but then Anna got pregnant and overnight, everything changed.”

He nods, knowingly. You add that to your own Joel Miller mosaic.

“I met the man I’d marry while I worked as a maid in a motel. He was a banker, or so he told me, and he wanted to whisk me away. We were three months behind on our rent, so I told him yes, I'd marry him after knowing him for a week — as long as I got to bring Anna and Ellie with me. All he talked about was money, so I thought he had it. What he did have was enough to get us to Oklahoma, buy some farm equipment for the wheat boom, and then lose it all in a handful of years.”

“And then we lost Anna. We lost my husband. I went back to trying to find a job in town with no jobs.” You pull your hands back, the deep tissue of his thigh flushed with blood from your therapy, and having nothing more to do, little more to say, you drop them into your lap. “Just after we missed the payment for the equipment for the second month, I got a letter from a man claiming to be my long lost Uncle Robert. I hadn’t eaten in three days and Ellie just got tagged by the police for shoplifting. I sent him a letter back and he said if I sent him our last twenty dollars he’d get us set up in Dalhart where he had a successful car dealership. I did and he didn’t and if you hadn’t picked us up, I don’t know what we would have done.” 

You sit with the hot truth of it and he sits with the both of you. It’s silent in a way that only a house in the middle of nowhere can be. Sarah stirs in her sleep, her legs rustling the sheets, but doesn’t wake up.

“You don’t have to do that here, you know.” He straightens his legs, just as quietly as the rest of the house. He crosses his arms over his chest and you think about the muscle just under his forearm, thick and immobile as sea-drenched rope. “Not eat . . . for Ellie’s sake. There’s enough for you and her. Always.”

You think of the cellar with its soft dirt, cool air, the endless rows of stored fruits and vegetables and meat, buried like a still-beating heart beneath the dust-whipped house in a paradise on the prairie. 

“But I understand the inclination.” With you on the ground before him and Joel leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his broad back arching under the stripe of white moonlight, he looks at you. 

Really looks at you. 

Like recognizing like.

A passing in a distorted mirror that might be me but it’s not but I think I know you all the same there is a thing just like me out in the world and it sees me.

Slowly, hesitantly, as if he’s afraid you’ll bite, he reaches forward and takes your wrist from your lap. The calluses on his thumb brush roughly against the knot of bone as he twists your palm upward. Pink, too pink, a stinging color, even in the low lamplight. Joel works his jaw back and forth, staring at your palm with weary concern, as if it told him things he didn’t want to know. 

His gaze lifts and your fingers curl instinctively in. He’s trying to make you look and you don’t want to. He sees your sacrifice and you don’t want it called that, there’s certain nobility in sacrifice, in a sort of suffering for other people, but it’s not sacrifice if you go willingly and despite you not wanting to look, not wanting to put a name to it, not wanting to take up any space at all, he looks at you like he, a man as broad and wide and powerful as he, is grateful. 

For you. 

Every bulwark inside of you, every foundation that you had built yourself because you never had the chance to grow hearty roots somewhere permanent, rumbles. Shakes, beneath a single solitary, rolling earthquake. A landslide of earth behind the strength in his eyes. 

“For her, for Sarah, I’d do the same,” he says. 

For her. For the children in your lives. 

Do you even like coffee? All you know is how to make it. What would you do with it if you did? If you liked coffee? If you loved it.

If there was someone outside yourself and Ellie to make you coffee simply because you wanted it. Because you were in a circle of people for whom people would do things for. For her. For you. 

The heart of Joel is like coffee: dark but warm. 

Your wrist slips between his fingers, finding refuge again in your lap. 

“I know.” 

You wonder what it would be like to be within Joel’s circle of people for whom he does things. To be given coffee, just because you want it. 

You bet it’s warm.

You stand up, collect the empty, used things, and wish him a good night. 

A noise and sunlight startles you awake. Your eyes tear open, hand flat on an open pool of sunlight in the center of the mattress, head twisted and knees bent up by your chest. In your sleep, your body twisted itself into a Gordian knot, unable to escape the dreams about the cellar ground turning into coffee beans, and the cramped bloodflow leaves you disoriented until you can roll onto your back and remember where you are. The smells that surround you. 

You hear the noise again and you think of Ellie and in that instance where complete consciousness returns to you, the weight of her is gone. Literally.

Ellie is not in the bed beside you. 

The room’s brightness is suddenly too bright, the clear, electric blue sky too blue – it’s too beautiful and it lulled you into a sense of comfort. Stupid, so stupid. You ignore the warm floorboards against your bare feet, the faint birdsong from outside, as you rush towards the source of the sound, towards Sarah’s bedroom – oh god, I was wrong it’s too late it took her in the night and I –

The sound you do not recognize, the sound you could not comprehend while buried in dreams and memories, is the sound of laughter. Loud, full laughter.

The brass bed creaks as Ellie uses the mattress to fling herself into the air. On the other end, just as determined to reach the ceiling, is Sarah. Hands outstretched and reaching, her legs bend and flex and propel her up and up. Every time she gets within a handful’s reach of the ceiling, Ellie’s laughing, cheering her on, and then it’s her turn, Sarah giggling as Ellie’s face scrunches up as she reaches out towards the blue sky on the other side of the roof.

“Oh, hey!” Ellie says, pink-faced and causal, half-way out of breath. Sarah spins, mid-way through a jump, her eyes bright, sweat peaking on her brow line. “Sarah bet – I couldn’t touch – the ceiling — so we’re taking turns – loser has to shovel – the barn!” 

You watch, dumb-struck, as the bet continues, the girls laughing and criticizing each other and offering techniques as they work in tandem to fling the other one higher. Sarah is flush with vitality, with life, with a dewy glow reserved for spring mornings when the earth stretches awake after the death of winter.

And Ellie . . . she looks her age. 

The earth has shifted beneath your feet, while you were sleeping, and a seedling has been planted, the dawn of something new, something fresh and utterly unexpected. You can feel it in your bones. Hear it in their laughter. 

“Not a bad thing to wake up to.” 

Joel, arms crossed, eyes soft, leans up against the door frame, blue striped pajamas low on his hips, a thread-bare white undershirt cupping his biceps. He eyes you from toe to head and stops when he meets your eyes. You wonder how long he’d been standing there – if he too woke to noises he couldn’t explain, rushed in here, and found something miraculous.

The smile crinkles his eyes as it unfurls across his face. 

“I haven’t heard her laugh like that in a while,” he says quietly, head tilted towards the bed, as if there could be any other meaning. “I owe you one.” 

You could say the same thing about Ellie.

There’s the line, the boundary of the circle to the place of being warm. He’s not cleared the way for you, not invited you across, but he’s shown it to you. You can see it, feel it, and know what it takes to get there.

Your smile blooms. The girls’ laughter rings throughout the house and into the sunlight.

But, outside of paradise, away from the river and the white a-frame house, from the horse and the cattle and the long strands of prairie grass, where there is not enough to eat and the earth is in its death rattle, the wind blows. It swallows up dust, and dirt, and fine sand, gluttonous. It swirls and pulses, agitated and restless and seeking violence. Spinning with the power to blind with a single whip of dust, it spins up over the earth in its death rattle, where there is not enough to eat, towards the prairie grass. Towards the horse and the cattle. Towards the river and the a-frame.

Towards paradise with the promise of total ruin. 

END OF PART I 

series masterlist | AO3 Link | prologue | part ii

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller series #joel miller au #joel miller imagine #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us hbo #joel miller tlou #tlou fic #joel the last of us #the last of us fanfic #joel x reader #tlou hbo #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller the last of us #joel miller x female reader #joel miller fluff #joel miller fic #joel miller x you #lover share your road

[popatochisssp]

The Court AU has me DEAD!!! If you’d be willing, what sort of outfits would they wear? I’d love to draw them!

Anon, I had so many tabs open looking up medieval-type fashion and armor, we're talking like 30+, felt super awesome finishing this and closing them all 😌

Anyway--

Sans (Undertale): What’s black and blue and white all over? Why, him of course! His jester’s motley features a black-and-white diamond pattern, offset by bright, rich, royal blue—a mark of his service to the king. He doesn’t wear one of those silly hats, though…because he wears a silly hood instead! Less chance of falling off, you see. When not in costume he tends toward simple tunics, of decent material and often still in blue.

Papyrus (Undertale): Almost never out of full plate armor, even in downtime, he has to dress for the job he wants and that means being a shining metal bastion of knightly glory at all times! …Though he does often remove his helmet and hold it by his sword at his hip, or fasten it to his steed’s side. He’s a very handsome skeleton, it would be cruel to deny the people the chance to see their hero’s face!

Sky (Underswap Sans): Soft blues and yellows, as a squire only lightly armored—greaves and pauldrons, a mail shirt beneath his tunic if he’s expected to go into battle—but he considers even that much armoring to be overkill for what he’s doing. Still, his Captain insists, and it makes his brother feel better, so he takes care protecting himself. He has some nicer finery to wear about court, as a nobleman, but tends simpler for anything that might be dirtied or torn in training.

Paps (Underswap Papyrus): Rich green and earthy browns, his clothing tends to be without ostentation—no embroidery, no gold buckles or buttons, or anything especially elaborate. He may be noble but he’s a scholar and a recluse and prefers not to stand out much. Still, the fabrics of which his clothing is made are always fine, as coarse or stiff materials quite put him off. Mostly cottes—long belted tunics—with the occasional robe over, if it's cold.

Jasper (Underfell Sans): Blacks and browns, sturdy plain clothes which can stand up to considerable wear and tear. Often wears a short diamond-quilted gambeson and some leather armor (vambraces and greaves), but always has a sword belted to his hip and a cloak made of dire-wolf’s fur draped over his shoulders. If ever he should need to acknowledge his denounced family name, he does have some finer clothing stored away somewhere—in red—and a shiny gold signet ring with his family crest on it.

Pyre (Underfell Papyrus): Usually in half plate armor, dark metal heavily scratched and scorched, dents meticulously hammered back out. He also wears a tattered red cape about his shoulders that billows quite majestically behind him when he rides or runs into battle. He will occasionally dress down in laced tunics and breeches, still in red and black, fine but not too fine as to raise suspicion about his heritage. Should all that ever come out, he does have a suit of pristine night-black armor he’s been dying to inherit and a silken cape to pin about it with a golden clasp of the family’s crest.

Mal (Swapfell Sans): Mostly black but flaunts his privilege and royal ties with purple accents wherever possible. Brigandine armor with a fine gold-plated gorget and pauldrons and a few other ornamental trappings—he is the Empress’ personal guard and must in some capacity be as elegant. Very fine doublets and tunics for his (rare) downtime, often with gold threading, but not fond of most jewelries.

Rus (Swapfell Papyrus): Dark colors and crisp whites, noble yet eccentric, he has a lot of fine doublets and other such court-wear but tends not to actually…wear them. He can mostly be found in loose-fitting cottes, baggy sleeves often penned up by leather armlets to keep them out of his paints. He has a fur-hooded cloak for travel or cold weather, but he rarely leaves his rooms, much less the castle, so he doesn’t don it often.

Slate (Horrortale Sans): Dark browns and off-white cream, simple rough-hewn clothing showing signs of wear and occasionally odd stains. He works in the stables, with animals, and being around animals so much makes it difficult to keep clean. He has a somewhat decent dark blue cloak that he’ll wear into town for errands, or in polite company—it has a hood to conceal the great jagged hole in his head that tends to make the squeamish or timid flinch away from him.

Papy (Horrortale Papyrus): Still hasn’t quite shaken the habit to be armored, even when it isn’t necessary, but he’s cut down from full plate to chain mail only, much lighter and easier to move around in—which is vital when hurrying to the training field for an accident, or running to meet a wounded knight at the gates. He wears a simple tabard over his mail, blue with red edging (the Queen’s colors), and keeps a pouch of bandages and other aid supplies belted to his waist instead of a sword.

Ash (Undergloom Sans): The livery of the king’s court, gray and gold, but dyed into fabrics suitable for common folk. He still wears gray when not performing at court, tunics so thickly woven they could pass as a gambeson and often paired with hooded cloaks, but he keeps his golds set aside until needed to keep them in good condition. He takes equal care of his shiny brass sackbut (it’s a horn, with a very funny name but an instrument nonetheless) so it always plays well.

Yrus (Undergloom Papyrus): Off-white and tan linens, loose and breathable for hot work in the kitchens, sleeves rolled up and pinned at the elbows to keep them from getting in the way. Always an apron about his waist, occasionally with food stains after a long day’s work but these he quickly tends to as soon as he’s able. He has nothing in the way of real finery but tries very hard to make sure what he has is clean and presentable.

Brick (Horrorfell Sans): Fine brocaded doublets of rich red and shining gold thread, as a duke and brother to a king, he does have to dress the part a bit. He wears more jewelry, especially rings, but nearly always still has his dire-wolf fur cloak over his shoulders. When called for executions, he dresses down quite a bit, in simple black cloth with only a leather pauldron over one shoulder to help brace the weight of his axe before he swings.

King (Horrorfell Papyrus): Half plate armor essentially at all times, even formal or polite occasions—he’s the owner of a stolen throne and all too aware that it could be stolen from him the same way he got it. His breastplate is scaled and his pauldrons are elaborately spiked, but it’s all black. The only pop of color on him is his crown, the same worn by Asgore and Undyne, gold and sharp, with rubies inlaid.

Merc (Horrorswap Sans): Chain mail over a finely-made kaftan and beneath a traveling cloak, the latter two with signs of wear from a long journey. His head is notably absent of a crown—left behind in the kingdom he fled—but a new one awaits him soon, of flashing silver and blue stone, depicting the phases of the moon. When fully established in his new kingdom, he may begin dressing as a proper king again, draping himself in the blue and silver finery of the land that sheltered him.

Ell (Horrorswap Papyrus): Browns, greens, and blacks, he wears light leather armor—really just a breastplate and vambraces—and a thick woolen cloak about his shoulders. He has no need of greaves for his shins, legs lost to an accident in the wilderness, but supplanted by magical prosthetics, living blackened wood provided by his land when he called upon it for aid. …Not that he’s fully accepted that it’s his land, keeping his crown of twisting copper and emerald tucked away in a saddlebag instead of on his brow. Maybe someday…

Pitch (Horrorswapfell Sans): Rich purple and verdant green, amidst a sea of black—he favors very fine fabrics with open lacing at the chest. Still not especially fond of jewelry, but wears considerably more decorative leather braces on forearms, shins, and even the occasional full-chest corset. (He has some chronic pain and the extra pressure and support in certain spots helps.) He wears considerably more plain clothes for knight-training purposes and when traveling wears a black cloak with a cowl that comes down over the hole in his face at a point, as the beak of a raven.

Nemo (Horrorswapfell Papyrus): Usually in half plate splint mail armor for his patrols along the wall, but favors rusty oranges, brown and black for the tunics and boots and breeches he wears out of it. Often carries a lantern, and always has tinder in a pouch on his hip. Beside his pouch is a war-horn in case an alert would need to be called, loud enough to make everyone come running if it’s ever sounded.

Sunny (Gastertale Sans): A cavalierly styled courtier, at first having made do with graciously lent clothing and now being able to buy his own in a whole variety of rich colors—yellow, blue, magenta, and on. His aim is to look at home in court, which means he must dress as other courtiers do, so he has doublets and fine tunics and many, many fashionable capelets with embroidery and stylish pins, as well as a few equally chic plumed hats. The other courtiers look to him now for the latest fashion trends and he couldn’t be happier.

Aster (Gastertale Papyrus): A bit more subdued in style than his brother…though only a bit. He favors black frocks, almost as a cleric would wear, but beneath them, elegant doublets in greens and yellows as vibrant as anything his twin wears, with fine silver filigree work in his buckles and pins and clasps. He’s the pinnacle of restrained class and taste and it’s no wonder at all that the king should respect him so highly if his care in thought is as his care in appearance.

Spectr (Transcendtale Sans): Deep, dark black from head to toe, most prominently a long hooded cloak with two eye-lights glowing in the darkness. He always wears gloves and never lets his hood down, as he’s not especially fond of his metal bones and doesn’t really wish to be seen. It’s difficult to see in the daytime, but at night he’s trailed by faint wisps of ghostly light in all colors of the rainbow, such a strange sight that many a drunkard who’s seen him has poured out their bottle presuming they’d had quite a bit too much.

PapAIrus (Transcendtale Papyrus): Full plate armor, of course, but as he’s now some sort of spectral entity, it (and he!) glows and is slightly see-through. Being ghostly has washed out his colors quite thoroughly which is unfortunate—mostly all white with hints of silvery blue—but on the up-side he seems able to change his appearance some by will alone, donning or discarding his helmet at will, manifesting a majestic cape for himself out of the ether, and so on. It seems a fair enough trade to him!

Xanth (Ascendswap Sans): A man at court now, he’s donned an eye-patch and abandoned the trappings of prospective knighthood, fully embraced courtier fashion…if a bit ‘eccentrically.’ He favors bright yellows and spring greens, flowing garments of fine cloth layered beneath and over leather vambraces, gorget, and tasset. All these are elaborately, intricately designed and certainly make the similarly intricate gold jewelry (with multicolored gems) that he wears at wrist and neck stand out, but it’s hardly in fashion… Still, the mystic’s thinking is often inscrutable.

Piper (Ascendswap Papyrus): Unlike his brother, very fashionable and eye-catching, in rich amaranths and brilliant turquoises, with even the occasional lavender. He has many fine embroidered doublets, threaded liberally with gold, and wears many pieces of gold jewelry as well—necklaces, bracelets, pins, and brooches. When showing the birds of the crown at court or bidding them on a royal hunt, he wears the livery of the crown-proper—royal purple and gold—and always has a thick leather falconer’s glove on his left hand.

Carmine (Underfell Fruition Sans): What’s black and white and red all over? Well, newspapers haven’t been invented yet, so it’s him, of course! He’s no jester so he hasn’t a motley to wear to work, but he is a performer and does dress in the livery of the king, which is red and black. The material is a bit finer than he’s used to, but being that he’s no longer wearing rags and rotting in a hole, he’s quite pleased with it and doesn’t mind the bright colors that help him attract the eyes of many comely nobles at court. Off-duty, he sticks to loose, somewhat open tunics—red still very much preferred.

Tank (Underfell Fruition Papyrus): Laced linen shirts, not especially loosely fitting due to his largeness in the chest and shoulders but he hasn’t burst any seams in awhile so the measurements must be somewhat correct. He’s fond of white and a true connoisseur of red, all shades from dark to very light. He keeps an array of small carpentry tools—hammers, chisels, things for measuring—in a roll on his hip, a dedicated apprentice to the core.

Vi (Swapfell Fruition Sans): All black, pourpoint armor beneath fine silk doublets but almost disappointingly plain otherwise—no embroidery, no ornament, or stitched pattern, or brocade. Over this he wears a cloak, equally fine and with at least some ostentation, a bit of silver stitched decoration that matches the intimidatingly clawed silver gauntlet he wears upon his left hand—a symbol of his wealth, if not his status. These flashy items are for matters of court only, as he has a much more nondescript hooded cloak and less identifiable sharp implement which he uses for matters of stealth and misdeeds when it is important that he not be recognized.

Hunter (Swapfell Frution Papyrus): A prince in princely attire…mostly. He happily flaunts the color purple but proudly wears it with the black of his old family name, and drapes himself in silk tunics, fine (mostly decorative) pauldrons, capes and capelets. He tends to show off a bit more of his chest than seems appropriate for a man of his station, and seems to wear his elegant silver jewelry in ways such that the eye is drawn there, and…other places, but few question the whims of royalty. His pewter crown is heavy and inelegant and he’s talked much with his brother about how angry people would be if he had it melted and recast into something more stylish.

Kohl (Descendtale Sans): Plain, rough tunics, in black and dark brown. He wears a heavy fur-lined gabardine as it gets quite cold in the dungeons, though it’s uncertain where he managed to get such a nice garment. He keeps a knife on his belt, large and jagged-toothed, and though he hasn’t had need to use it yet, the threat of it tends to keep most prisoners from attempting to bring him harm.

Bram (Descendtale Papyrus): He’s traded in his full plate armor for a comfortably fit leather jerkin, accompanied by matching gauntlets to protect his hands and torso (inasmuch as they need protection, without flesh) from the thorns he trims back every day. He mostly wears black and white and brown, all things closely fit to his body, less they snag overmuch and need to be replaced too often. His clothing is simple but well-suited to his work, and he wears it nicely.

#anonymous #headcanons #court au #undertale #underswap #underfell #swapfell/fellswap #horrortale #undergloom #horrorfell #horrorswap #horrorswapfell #gastertale #transcendtale #ascendswap #underfell fruition #swapfell fruition #descendtale

[macfrog]

so torn but i need a little 🩵

feel free to send more than one, baby! here all week 🫶🏼

meeting joel 1.3k words | duckie's baby shower 🩵

“fucking – shit…”

the truck squeals around the corner – the same goddamn corner it squealed around five minutes ago. you pass that same lime green mailbox, those same kids drawing farm animals on the sidewalk.

jesus christ, just admit it. you’re lost.

you did visit the place – though, only the once. and that was a couple months ago, now. you didn’t put a lot of effort into memorizing each street in the fucking neighborhood. did the houses look this similar, the day that you viewed it?

you’re sure you’re circling the same rows of houses over and over; sure you recognize the wind chimes hanging from that porch. you take another left, and –

“for fuck’s sake,” you sigh, pulling in down the street from those same sidewalk chalk artists. their cow drawing has a smug smile on its face.

your eyes roll to the right, and there it is. you probably passed it three times over.

it’s humble, quaint. pretty white wood, a wide-open porch. still some budding flowers left in planters by the door. you blink from the bay window to the numbers nailed squint into the column.

it’s so…grown-up. it almost makes you shiver.

you hop down out of the truck into blazing sunlight, lifting a hand to shield your eyes. a lawnmower hums in the distance, the scent of fresh grass diced through the air. a sprinkler whirs a few houses down. the kids across the street giggle and split the yellow chalk in two.

on one side of your new home – a similarly polite house with a row of vibrant tulips leading up to it. reds and yellows and blushing pinks – clipped and groomed within an inch of their life, each one blooming and beautiful.

on the other – a man, stood in front of a blue house, watering his grass. he’s tall, lean. built wider the higher up his figure your eyes climb. tanned, toned arms and broad shoulders which tug at the white tee he’s wearing. a square jawline beneath a thick brown beard.

you catch his eye and lift your hand to wave.

he turns away, aiming the hose at the grass behind him.

“dick,” you whisper, slamming the door.

you jog around to the back of the truck, taking hold of the sunbaked handle. it chinks, but it doesn’t budge.

“c’mon…” you grit your teeth, rattling it again and again. “are you fucking kidding me?”

you step back, sneakers scuffing on the road, and prop your hands on your hips.

your new neighbor is still focusing intently on his grass, spewing a stream of water at the lighter patches. the longer you stare, the more grass he finds to wet.

fuck it.

“hey!”

he gives the hosepipe a jerk, shaking his free hand dry.

“excuse me?” you call, waving an arm.

the man looks up slowly, checking over his shoulder first. making damn sure there’s no one else he can pretend you’re talking to.

and unless you’re eliciting help from the fucking paw patrol across the street, he’s no escape.

“hey,” again, and then, “i’m new around – i’m moving in next door. i can’t get this stupid fucki–freakin’ door to lift. would you mind helping me? please?”

he twists the hose in his hands. you can’t tell if he’s squinting because of the sun, or actually glowering at you.

it feels like the latter, the way he throws the thing to the grass.

he stalks over, a little intimidating in his stride, eyeing you as he approaches. without a word, he wraps two big hands around the latch. he tugs once, and the door doesn’t move.

“see?” you ask, gesturing to the truck. “i bet it’s, like, older than me. might even be older than you, might…”

your neighbor pauses, eyes sliding to yours. his stare is intense – dark, stormy eyes boring into yours.

and this time – you know he’s glowering.

“it’s the heat,” he drawls, giving it another strong pull. his biceps swell, the tattered sleeves of his t-shirt stretching around them. “it’s just a little st–”

the door suddenly shunts, rolling upwards. a rickety noise until it slams at the top.

the paw patrol glance up at the sound, wrists paused. they resume doodling when your neighbor backs up.

“thank you,” you mutter, tugging on the hem of your shirt.

you push yourself up onto the back of the truck, standing amidst the fractured bones of your old apartment. a shadeless lamp here, a box of kitchen utensils there.

the guy takes half a glance at you and double takes, eyes scanning the sea of cardboard behind you. he looks you up and down and back up again – jaw tightening when he notices your hopeful expression.

“do you mind?” you ask, lifting one of the heavier boxes. “if you got somethin’ better to do…” you glance over to his yard, the hose lying in a swirl on the lawn, “…then i understand.”

he sighs, reaching for the box. his thick arms tense when the weight shifts from your grasp to his.

“thanks!” you deliberately chirp, watching his figure swagger off to your porch.

joel miller, as it turns out, is a man of few fucking words.

his name is the most you’ve been able to get out of him – and that’s only because it’s on his mailbox. he tells you nothing else.

up close, he’s graying. the lines of a decently-aged man on his skin – that, or just a miserable asshole (perhaps both). he has a syrupy southern drawl, each word riding a wave from his tongue – but with each answer he relents, he still manages to sound fucking miserable.

he seems like he might have his uses, though. he’s got some pretty good intel on the neighborhood.

“that,” he nods to the house directly across from yours, “is steve and kris’s place. they just had a baby. some nights, you can hear the kid from over here.”

“congrats,” you mutter, following his hand as it moves across the window.

“diane,” joel says. “she’s got a dog – the thing’s a little shit.”

your chin lifts. “diane, little shit,” you echo.

he nods, tongue in his cheek. he turns, hand flicking in the direction of the tulips. “alice,” he says. “let me tell you somethin’ – if there’s anything you want broadcast to every person, pet, and goddamn mailbox in the neighborhood, she’s the one to talk to.”

“nosy, huh?”

“nosy,” he agrees.

you snicker, leaning by him to glance at the swaying flowers. “but look what good care she takes of her tulips.”

“hm. ‘s all a front, you’ll see. she’s smart with it.”

joel helps you unload the rest of the truck, sliding each box across your living room floor. outside, he passes you the last couple, and then reaches up for the door.

his tee lifts ever so slightly – flashing a sliver of skin with a smatter of hair above his belt buckle. a dark trail diving into his jeans.

the sight sears itself behind your eyelids. you drag your gaze from him, bending to scoop up the lighter of the two boxes as he jumps back down. he follows at your heel towards your house again, dropping the last box right by your front door.

he says, “you need anythin’ else, just give me a holler,” but his dry tone – and the fact he’s already halfway out the door when he mumbles it – are enough to convince you that this motherfucker never wants to see your face again.

so – you skip after him, following him to your porch steps.

“nice,” you call, watching him thud down each one, “you any good with diy? i got a shit ton of ikea stuff to build.”

he turns, bottom lip between his teeth.

your eyebrows lift, heel kicking against the wooden step. “a – shit – ton,” you repeat.

joel scoffs, shaking his head. “better get to it, then.”

he wanders back over to his lawn.

#me: a -short- drabble #also me: writes over a thousand words #duckie's baby shower #🩵

[live-love-be-unique]

I Am No Bird; And No Net Ensnares Me

Summary: Ghost finds himself starting an informal book club with the newest addition to the taskforce.

#22. Ghost and Reader are in a book club for @glitterypirateduck Ghost Challenge.

Parings: Ghost x f reader

Warnings: angst, death and an unconfessed love

You’d been reading your book, when you looked up noticing him staring “you can borrow it if you want? Price says we’ll be sitting tight for a while”

You weren’t kidding, three days later and the exfil still hadn’t shown up. Ghost devoured your book in the meantime, it was actually pretty good, a story about two sisters that had been separated during German-occupied, war-torn France. A little too heartbreaking for his liking but still a good read. One quote amongst the many you had underlined in gray lead pencil had stuck with him: “if I have learned anything in this long life of mine, it is this: in love we find out who we want to be; in war we find out who we are."

Days later you’d been sitting on the break room sofa, talking with another female soldier and as he passed he dropped a novel onto your lap. Not a fiction story like you preferred, this one was a memoir of a retired Navy SEAL who was also a Guinness world record holder and an ultramarathon runner. He’d met the man once, respected the hell out of him, for an American. “Thought you’d enjoy this” he offered to your questioning glance as he passed.

It quickly become a habit between the two of you, packing a novel in amongst your supplies for missions to swap during to periods of waiting. Almost like a little unofficial book club. Sometimes, you’d find yourselves together in the break room decompressing after a long mission discussing the books you’d read over cups of tea. He’d learnt you preferred fantasy, dark romance and mystery while he enjoyed thriller, true crime and the odd biography.

He also learnt that you weren’t above the odd prank either, during one particular downtime, he was reading the book you’d brought along and, as he was invested in a pretty graphic sex scene involving a gun, Soap had spotted the book’s title, it also didn’t help that he had been imagining it was you underneath him in that same position. Once Gaz had caught onto what was happening he knew he’d been hearing about it for weeks. He caught sight of you giggling away behind his copy of the historical non-fiction he’d lent you about America's first considered serial killer.

He retaliated by bringing what he imagined you’d think was the most boring book in his collection, all 411 pages of a nautical historical fiction about a young naval lieutenant newly promoted to master and commander. He was right, you’d read the entire thing, under sufferance of course.

He found himself watching you as you read, the way you chewed on your lip as you concentrated, the way you smiled when you read something you enjoyed and frowned when you didn’t. He even learned to love the little notes and quips you left in the margins of his books when at first it annoyed him. He’d watch you, hoping to catch you glancing over at him, above the pages of your book, sending a soft smile his way.

The last mission had been a mistake, anything that could have gone wrong did, and you had born the brunt of it. You’d been raced to the medbay unconscious and barely breathing, they’d had to intubate you immediately and had moved you to a hospital off base for treatment. He hadn’t left your side since.

He spent his time devouring any medical textbooks he could find on your condition, so much so that Gaz was convinced, if allowed, he could perform your surgery.

Price had visited a few days later, citing mission reports as the reason for his delay, bringing with him a box of your belongings, “some comforts from home” he’d muttered. At the bottom of the box, buried underneath a well-worn sweatshirt and a teddy bear that was signed by friends and family from back home, his hands brushed against a small paperback.

The cover was tattered and pages dogeared and a little note on the inside cover from someone he could only guess at being your grandmother telling you how this was her favorite story as a young girl and how she hopes you love it as much as she did. It was clear that you loved it as much as she had hoped as his eyes trailed over sections you had underlined and the little notations you’d made in the margins, it was like a window into your soul as he found the first page a started to read aloud to you in that quite hospital room.

“There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the question.” His voice thick with exhaustion and emotion as he read. He read to you throughout the night and into the next day.

Your heart monitor flatlined just as the story ended and Jane and Mr Rochester were reunited. Even though the doctors and nurses said you probably hadn’t heard anything, he liked to think you’d held on long enough to hear him finally finish your favourite book.

Days later Ghost found himself standing at the front of the large crowd of mourners, surrounded by colleagues and friends alike as they lowered your coffin into the ground. He couldn’t move as the others dispersed, your younger brother clapping him on the shoulder as he passed by. Price had stayed with him, Gaz and Soap stood close behind, giving them a moment.

“Did you tell her?” Price had asked him.

“Tell her what?” He muttered, watching as they filled in your grave.

“That you loved her” Price murmured, chewing on the end of his cigar.

“No” he shook his head. “Didn’t get the chance”

“She knew, lad, she knew” Price sighed, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

She does now, he thought as he absentmindedly scratched at his chest. The sandiderm covering the fresh tattoo itched like crazy underneath his suit. The simple line-work done immediately after your passing, your favourite quote, directly over his heart: "I am no bird; and no net ensnares me”

List of books mentioned:

The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah

Can’t Hurt Me by David Goggins

Haunting Adeline by H. D Carlton

Devil In The White City by Erik Larson

Master and Commander by Patrick O’Brian

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë

#ghost riley #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader angst #ghost core #gpdrecs writing challenge #Ghost Challenge #I kind of broke my own heart with this one #here there be angst

[songbirdtales]

Keepsakes (AstarionxTav)

Author's note:

The more I'm writing the more this is turning into the slowest of burns. IDKY I'm eating up Astarion and Gale rivalry but its fueling me lol. Enjoy!

Tav sat by the fire with a ragged stuffed bear. The tattered toy had tears in several limbs and had been partially decapitated. Tav has some rags and a needle set aside as they examine the damage, mentally calculating their supplies. 

“You’ll kill your eyes like that.” Gale stood over their shoulder, his arms crossed behind his back as he surveyed the scene.

“Good thing I’ve darkvision, yeah?” They offered him a fanged smile, the levity of conversation welcomed.

“Still, if you’ve need of, you’re welcome to use my tent. I keep it well lit for late night reading.” He was doing it again, this dance they’d been at the last few days. This dance of over generosity met with deflection when Tav would probe at his intentions. Sure, perhaps it was simply friendly companionship, but the dissonance in his words and actions made Tav feel there was something Gale wasn’t telling them.

“I wouldn’t want to keep you awake, we need you fresh tomorrow.”

Gale held his hands up as if he’d been caught in a crime. “No need to worry, I’ll be sleeping by the fire tonight. It’ll be empty regardless of me.” An arm opened to gesture back towards his tent. “You’re welcome to it as you please.”

And again they went. “Thank you, Gale. I’ll keep it in mind.” He couldn’t say much to that. Tav looked to their rags, then back up to the wizard. “Gale, could you help me with something actually?”

“Of course!” He was so eager. “How can I help?” Tav almost found themself pitying him. He wanted them so bad, and although Tav couldn’t deny there was a physical attraction, they didn’t want him like that, and they respected him too much to play with his heart.

“Do you have any scrap cloth?” Tav held up the moth worn rags, some had holes in the center with very little usable fabric, it made for a rather limited stock.”I’m trying to mend this toy I found in the village we passed through.”

“The goblin infested one? I hadn’t even noticed.” That’s what he was growing to like about Tav. They were thoughtful, even if they weren’t exactly a hero. They were a chaotic neutral soul from everything he’d seen. He didn’t mind that, but he found it unfortunate how they seemed to attract the worst kinds of characters, himself included. “I think I have a few pieces I can spare.” He nodded towards his tent. “I didn’t know you liked dolls.”

“I’m not sure I do, but mending things like this is familiar, and I could use something familiar right now.” Their eyes had turned back to the toy in their hands. They grabbed their supplies and stood, ready to follow him back to his tent, which is exactly what they hadn’t wanted to do. Still, they could keep this from escalating in a direction they didn’t want. Everything was still fine.

“I understand. I’ve been grabbing every book we pass. It’s the most I’ve read in ages. It’s comforting.” Gale said as they walked side by side to his tent. His strides were longer and quicker than Tav’s, Gale actively having to alter his pace and path to keep at their side. His body language betrayed his excitement, and Tav felt nothing at the sight but anxiety. Tav paused beside his sitting cushion as Gale stepped forward, kneeling into the tent and gathering some slashed clothes. “There you are,” Gale beamed as he handed the cloth to Tav.

The cloth was good quality, heavy and strong, but it had been brutally cut up in battle to the point it wasn’t much worth repairing. The blood had been mostly washed out but the reminisce of stains lingered. All in all, there was more than enough good fabric for their bear.

“You really took a beating the other day…” Tav mused as they looked over the torn robe. They’d not really thought much about how brutal the Gnoll on the road had been.

“You should have seen the other guy.” He joked back, laughing a little until he noticed Tav wasn’t laughing back. He quickly tamped the laughter down to awkward silence.

Tav offered Gale a soft smile. “I’m glad you’re ok Gale. You’re a valued part of this party, and I don’t know how we’d fare without you. So, do try to be more careful, yeah?”

“Of course.” He said with a nod, his eyes struggling to keep contact with Tav’s demonic glow. His gaze only turned up when Tav spoke again.

“Well, I better get started if I want to get some sleep tonight.” Tav said as they switched spots with Gale, his body naturally following their movement as if they were both being pushed by opposite currents. Tav got down and crawled in, sitting in the pile of cushions Gale had amassed and formed into a reclined seat. They curled their legs up, propping their supplies on their thighs as they began to tear the gifted cloth into smaller segments.

Gale didn’t leave, sitting down on the cushion outside. He grabbed something nearby to seem as though he had a task himself, but it was truly just an excuse to watch Tav work. Tav didn’t mind, even if they saw his act for what it was. Eventually he actually did become fixated on his task, the two working silently, fueled by the other’s presence. It was peaceful, familiar, like working in a library. Gale had no idea how long they had been at this, but as he pulled himself from his work to speak to Tav, he paused.

Inside the tent Tav was passed out in his pillows. The bear had been noticeably mended in parts, but it was not yet done. Gale got up from his seat and kneeled into the tent. His hand reached for the blanket, pulling it across the tent to gently drape it over Tav. A warm smile bloomed on his lips as he let them sleep. Only then would Gale leave, heading back to the fire.

“There you are,” The annoyance in Astarion’s voice was palpable as he approached Gale at the fire. “Where have you been off to?”

Gale knew the smell of jealousy well, and Astarion was worse than he’d like at hiding it. “Just doing a little late night carving.” Gale reached in his pocket and produced a small wooden figurine. It was crudely carved, but even Astarion had to admit it vaguely resembled a cat in a cat’s most basic shape.

Astarion stared at the deformed wooden cat for a moment before looking up at Gale with the least amusement Gale had ever seen from him. “Do you know where Tav is?”

Gale had to actively resist smiling but the faintest glimmer of a triumphant grin couldn’t help but pull at his lips. He’d cross his arms over his chest. “I do.” He said simply and curt as if he had no intention of elaborating. Anger twitch to Astarion’s face, and just as he was just about to speak, Gale spoke again, cutting him off. “They’re already asleep for the night. Poor thing, utterly exhausted. I’d let them be.”

Astarion’s face had more warmth to it than Gale had ever seen, the heat of his anger barely contained. “I asked you a question. Do not make me repeat myself.” That normally beautiful face was twisted and sharp as Astarion glared daggers into the human wizard. 

The grin grew broader across Gales lips at Astarion’s posturing and he’d nod back over his shoulder. “I thought it best to leave them be.” He was so smug about it, as if he’d won some unspoken competition.

Astarion glanced over in the direction Gale had gestured quickly at first before realizing Gale had nodded to his tent. His gaze came back to Gale as a glare. “No need to make things weird, Gale. We’re all adults here.” If his tongue wasn’t so sharp, Gale might have noticed the projection in Astarion’s words, but both men were preoccupied with their egos. The condescension in his voice was cutting, leaving Gale speechless long enough for Astarion to turn sharply away and saunter off.

Gale sighed as the Elf departed, a wave of relief washed over him that his jugular was still intact. “Dramatic.” He finally scoffed.

Astarion was at Gale’s tent in a matter of strides. Still fuming, he knelt beside the opening of the tent and pulled the flap aside with his arm. The sight of Tav, fully clothed, dead asleep, with a partly repaired stuffed toy was not what Astarion had been expecting. Instantly the wind was knocked out of his anger and the fire of it died, leaving Astarion frozen. Any action he’d thought to take was now wildly dramatic if not inappropriate… for a moment he was almost aware of his jealousy, until Tav stirred.

A soft, sleepy sound came from Tav as one eye struggled to pull itself half open. Their arms were just about to start pushing themself up when Astarion reached out a hand. He didn’t touch them, but his hand hovered just overtop their back. They didn’t push up into the hand, they didn’t have the strength. They were exhausted from the near daily feeding.

“Hush, go back to sleep.” He urged in a sweet whisper as his eyes turned about the tent. Gale had this packed with all sorts of magic nonsense, but his eyes fell back to the stuffed bear. He was fascinated instantly, not because of the toy, but because of the magic radiating from it. They had pulled apart Gale’s bloodstained shirt for thread and stitched it in a way he’d seen before from the witches of Baldur's Gate, a way of hiding protections and curses in the stitch and weave of clothing. Though in this instance it was very rudimentary, Astarion couldn’t help but wonder how a tiefling bard knew such magic. 

“Are you hungry?” Even half asleep, Tav’s mind was preoccupied with the camp, making sure everyone was safe. He almost admired that about them, if only for the wrong reasons. He was impressed that someone could have the willpower to keep all of this together.

“Not tonight darling.” His hand reached for their hair, gently shifting some loose strands from their face. He’d lean over to their ear and whisper,  “Sweet dreams,” as Tav’s eye fell shut once more.

He lingered, hesitating, his eyes shifting back to the bear before deciding it was best to leave what questions it gave him till the morning. Astarion would wait until he’d gotten a few steps from the tent before letting his real thoughts catch up to him. He was hungry, but a boar would have to suffice. It would look bad on him to drink Tav’s blood while they’re passed out in another person’s tent, and he needed to keep appearances up if his very simple plan was to succeed.

The next morning Tav woke up early. Gale had aligned some objects in his tent to take the first light of dawn and amplify it and wake him, Gods did it work, Tav almost wished it hadn’t. They were groggy, vision fading in and out of focus as they crawled out into the sunlight. They sat on their knees and stared at the horizon in silent reverence for a time. Their thoughts swam with everything that had happened leading up to the blighted village; the abandoned temple, the grove. It all came back like recalling a vivid dream, surreal and fragmented, yet so clear. 

They let their eyes close as the still cool air washed over them. Tav’s breath fogged in the morning chill as they let out a deep, tired yawn. Their fangs snapped as they closed their mouth and rubbed the sleep from their eyes. As they crawled back in the tent to retrieve their craft, they noticed something shine in the morning light. A single white hair. Tav cocked a brow but gathered it with the rest of the fabric and the bear.

Everyone was still asleep as Tav ted lightly towards and past the fire. Even Astarion was still in his trance from what it seemed so Tav went towards the river. As soon as their back was turned, a sanguine eye popped open. Astarion was silent as he followed Tav towards the water. He watched as Tav washed their hands and face in the running water before settling on a rock and pulling their bear back out.

“Good morning, Darling.” He watched them closely, the breaking of the silence practically made Tav jump but they didn’t hide their work. They’d been threading their needle and paused, tucking the needle into the bear so as to not stab themself with it on accident.

“Good morning,” Tav sighed in relief, a soft smile pulling across their face before their hand twirled in a flourish towards him. “You dropped something in Gale’s tent.” They held out the single silver hair between two fingers, offering it back to him. “You should be more careful with a wizard.”

Astarion scoffed and looked between Tav and the hair. “How do you know that’s mine?” The two stared silently at each other for a long moment, Astarion set in his flimsy denial as Tav’s hair was much longer, much more yellow, and much less curly than the strand in question. He’d groan a little. “Fine, yes, it’s mine.” A hint of irritation simmered in his tone before shifting into that arrogant sarcasm. “I’m surprised you’re giving it back instead of using it in your little curse doll, make me fall in love with you.”

Tav choked on laughter, doubling over as their cheeks puffed before their lips burst open. Their hand clapped over their mouth to muffle the sound so as to not wake the others. “I don’t need magic to steal a heart.” 

They turned their hand down, ready to flick the hair away towards him but Astarion reached out to snatch it before they could. He didn’t keep it, brushing it off his hand on his trousers. Tav looked back down to the bear and held it up a little. 

“Besides, these are for protection. It’s something my mother taught me to do. When I saw this in the rubble, I thought I might give myself something familiar to do. This one’s for Gale, since it’s got his blood and all on the thread.” Those blue eyes turned up to Astarion curiously. “I can make one for you next time I find a stuffed animal.”

“Don’t expect me to give you my bloody drawers.” Astarion huffed.

“No need for that.” Tav was still chortling as they picked up their needle to resume work. “I'll be honest the blood was dramatic of him, but I’m thinking of making one for everyone. Give my hands something to do while we travel.”

“Really?” His tone shifted as he leaned just a little closer, that perfect, sly smile on his lips. Tav knew a performance when they saw one, and this was well rehearsed. “Nothing else to busy your hands with?”

Tav knew this game, bored flirtation. It was one of their favorites, and considering there was nothing else to do besides fixate on the imminent fear of death, why not play along? Their hair swayed as they tilted their head, strands still caught in their horns and loose down their back. Their hair was long, past their shoulders and with a hint of a wave. “Yet.” They hummed in response, a curious look on their face, studying his reaction.

Astarion recoiling as a very confused “What?” come from him before he’d clear his throat. He wasn’t used to someone flirting back, normally they were too intimidated. “I mean, What about your uh, violin? Or is it a Lute?”

Tav backed off, their smile growing wider at his stumbling words. “I’m fine playing classics by the fire, but I’m a bit reluctant to work on my own stuff around the fire with strangers. Besides, most of them want to sleep as soon as we get back to camp. I'm not gonna keep them up.”

“Oh come now,” He’d put the charm back on, gesturing to the camp. “I’m sure Gale would be thrilled.”

Tav’s face soured, their nose scrunching a little as their lips thinned. “Yeah…” They didn’t seem excited by the idea. “You… never heard me play in Baldur’s Gate, did you?”

Astarion laughed and found himself a seat on a nearby stone. “Darling, I have no idea who you are beyond our time together with the rest of our companions.” Tav squinted as they caught sight of a glimmer of honesty. When he didn’t care about something, he had no filter, and in that they could see just a hint of what hid behind the mask.

An easy smile grew across Tav’s lips. “What kind of music do you think I make?” They asked with pure amusement.

Astarion stared blankly at Tav for a moment, blinking a few times as the gears in his head turned. “What other kind of music do bards make besides adventure ballads?”

Tav instinctively covered their mouth as they laughed again, truly amused by his ignorance. It drew Astarion’s eye instantly. “I mostly sing about grief and death, heartbreak and vengeance. It’s not exactly the mood I want to bring to camp.”

“It can’t be that bad.” He said as he crossed his arms. “Come, let me hear some of this emotional music. It can’t be that much of a downer.”

Tav rose a brow, his challenge wordlessly accepted. They reached into their back for a small book where they worked out their lyrics. “Here’s something I’m still working on.” They cleared their throat and began reading the lines like poetry. It was an eloquent verse, and very clearly described having dreams of murdering their own father.

Astarion was thrown off in a completely new way. The longer they read for, the more his expression contorted as Astarion tried to mask his concern. They only got two lines in before Astarion held one hand out and averted his gaze. “Th-that’s enough. I get it.”

“Yeah,” Tav was holding back laughter. “I don’t need to be playing songs like that at a time like this. I’ll get my musical fix by playing their favorites by the fire, but I figure it’s better to save the heavy stuff.” Their eyes turned to the sky, the sun was just about to peek over the trees, the morning star fading as the sky lost its pastel hues. “Never gets old.” They sighed, as the sun came up and the warmth of its light washed over them both. 

Astarion flinched instinctively before letting out a deep sigh of relief. “No, it does not.”

They sat in the silence of the sunrise for a moment before Tav’s voice gently broke it. “I know everythings scary right now, but I truly believe that if we stick together, we can survive this. And if not, at least we’re free, for what it’s worth.”

“I think freedom’s worth everything.” His eyes were fixed on the water, watching the river glisten as it ran. The flashes reflected in his eyes, making them sparkle like rubies.

Tav let themself stare for longer than they should have, taking in the contours of his features, the shapes of his shadows, the lines in his skin. They didn’t care if he caught them, though he seemed too fixated on the water to notice. “So do I.” Tav’s voice melted into the sound of the river, so soft Astarion barely registered they’d said anything at all.

By the time he’d looked back to them, Tav was standing, holding the now fully mended bear in their hands. They tilted their head as they gazed at the bear, checking their work. They bit their lower lip in thought, as if trying to remember a forgotten step. Finally, they went to the river crouched beside the edge. With one finger, Tav reached to wet their nail, holding the drop in the carved point of their nail before bringing it to the forehead of the bear. The toy looked a little cleaner, Astarion could even feel the magic of it was more pure. The protection charm was complete. 

“I’ll try to find you a different animal. Maybe a goose?” They said with a joking smile.

Astarion clicked his tongue, squeezing his still folded arms as he pouted. “Take your time.” He had no desire for a hagcraft charm.

Tav shook their head as they left Astarion at the riverbank. The elf glanced back towards the fire to see Tav giving the now well awake Gale the bear. He seemed more fascinated with the magic than the bear itself and began to info dump about thread based magic.

Astarion’s face felt relatively hot as anger gathered in him. He covered his face with a hand as his mind still raced from that one word. He didn’t like this, whatever feeling this was. He didn’t recognize the feeling as it gathered in his core, this twisting in his guts, as if he’d eaten something rotten, yet still starved. Was it really hunger? He’d fed that night and this felt different. He’d already made them his mark, so why was he starting to panic?

It was then that a new thought came to Astarion, what if Tav can see through his game? How well could he really wrap them around his finger if they knew it was fake? And what did that mean for the security of his simple plan?

#baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction #fanfiction #fantasy #astarion x tav #astarion bg3 #astarion #gale of waterdeep #gale bg3 #light angst #jealous astarion #rivalry #sfw fanfic #nonbinary tav #tav oc #bg3 tav #tiefling #vampire #slow burn #friendzoned gale #sorry gale i still love you

[goldenamaranthe-blog]

The Battered Dragon

Buckle up, buttercups. This is a long one.

Jaune: Soooo... (continues looking around at the "forest" around him) where do you guys think we are?

Ruby: I don't know. I honestly didn't think I'd find anyone that quickly. Even if half of the group was tied up my a village of mice.

Weiss: (plucking a thorn out of her sleeve)They were... craftier than I would have thought.

Blake: (ears wilt) It makes me wonder where Yang is, or if she's okay.

Weiss: (places a hand on Blake's shoulder comfortingly) I'm sure we'll find Yang. You have to remember that this is Yang we're talking about. If anyone can manage surviving in an unknown world filled with random dangers, I'd place the charred remains of the Schnee fortune on it.

Blake: (ears perk up slightly) Yeah, you're right.

Weiss: (watches as Ruby and Jaune discuss what steps they should take next) You know. When we find her, it might be a good idea to have a bit of a heart-to-heart with Yang.

Blake: (ears spring skyward) I-I don't know what you're talking about.

Weiss: Blake, you almost jumped off the platform after Yang. I dragged you off the literal brink, and you immediately went feral on Neo afterwards.

Blake: I'm that obvious, huh?

Weiss: To everyone except Yang herself... (watches as Ruby trips over a random tree root and pulls Jaune down to the ground with her) And maybe those two.

Blake: (chuckles softly)

Jaune: Hey! Do you guys think we'll see the Lively Carpenter or the Battered Dragon???

Ruby: The Battered Dragon? I don't remember that character from the story.

Blake: The Battered Dragon was a strong warrior that fought back the night in a fiery blaze, but was always warm and kind towards the people in the book.

Weiss: We're not in a storybook. But! If we were, I wouldn't mind meeting the Lively Carpenter. They were so sweet in the story.

Jaune: I remember the Battered Dragon was like a barbarian of sorts. Super cool and strong who fought with her fists.

Ruby: I don't remember Yang ever reading that character. Actually, I don't remember her reading me that story at all.

Jaune: Huh... That's odd. I would have though- (draws sword) INCOMIIIIIING!!!

Jabberwalker: (bounds through the canopy into the clearing and slashes at Jaune)

Ruby: Jaune! (pulls Jaune out of the way)

Blake: Ruby! (throws Gambol Shroud, wraps the ribbon around Ruby, and yanks her back)

Weiss: (glyph attacks Jabberwalker and blasts it back)

Jabberwalker: Seeking - Searching - Contacting - DEVOURING!!! (leaps towards the group and slashes at the group wildly)

RWBJ: (get tossed to the ground)

Jabberwalker: (tail whips Blake to pin her down and leaps onto her)

Blake: (blocks claws with her sword and struggles to keep the claw from her face)

RWJ: Blake!

??? : I said I wasn't done with you yet!!!

-Burning fireball of stone barrels in and slams against the Jabberwalker's head, shattering into a million smoldering pieces as molten rock oozes over spiral horns-

??? : (rugged, dark brown leather adorned with intricate patterns and fur trims, well-worn trousers and boots, tanned leather tank top with tatters at the hem where the bottom has been torn off, revealing muscular abs and a few battle scars, and a blazing heart tattoo on a well-endowed chest. Scarred left arm is on display, muscles rippling as powerful hands grab the Jabberwalker's horns, while a paint chipped, slightly rusted metallic right arm glints dully in the sunshine. A purple bandana tied off where the metal meets flesh. Black and brown leather hand armor and pauldron adorn the left shoulder and hand with golden brown/grey whisps of fur protrude from under the plates. Burning golden hair burn out in a long trail behind a scorched, wooden dragon mask)

??? : Did you honestly think I'd let you hurt anyone here? (punches Jabberwalker a few times in the face) Then you're crazier than I thought! (throws Jabberwalker over to the next acre)

RWBJ: (stare in shock)

Jaune: (gasps like an excited child) Oh, my gosh! It's the Battered Dragon!!!

Blake: The Battered Dragon! In PERSON!

Weiss: We're actually in a fairytale....

Battered Dragon: (panting before squaring her shoulders and turning to RWBJ) Dammit! (takes off her mask, revealing one lilac and one crimson eye and three scars on her jaw) You guys weren't supposed to be here.

Jaune: Is that...?

Weiss: Yang?

Ruby: (walks up to the Battered Dragon) Yang?

Battered Dragon: (shakes her head, dislodging the tears in her eyes before nodding firmly) Yeah, Rubes. It's me. And you guys weren't supposed to-

Ruby: (grabs Yang's hand tightly) If you didn't think we'd come looking for you, then you must have forgotten who raised me.

Battered Dragon Yang: (sniffs and holds Ruby's hand) Right. I'm just... glad to see you guys again after all this ti- PUAH!!!

Blake: (tackles BDY to the ground and hugs her tight) Yang~

Battered Dragon Yang: (shocked eyes glance at Blake briefly before tears slip from her eyes, her nose wrinkles in an attempt to keep from crying, and she breaks. Arms wrap around Blake like a lifeline) It's actually you....

Weiss: (after a few minutes) Yang, what happened to you?

Battered Dragon Yang: It's... a long story...

#the rusted knight parody #the battered dragon #yang xiao long #blake belladonna #rwby #weiss schnee #ruby rose #rwby crack post #jaune arc #slightly angsty #there have been a few asks for rusted knight yang equivalent so here you are! #now I kind of want to make a fic about this #but I already have fics I havent touched in a long time #damn

[yandere-class-1a]

I wanna see your head canons on what their fins would look like! (I can imagine everytime they feel happy and warm their tail glows)

Authors note: These are my personal headcannons for the mermaid AU. I might change them in latter stories but I feel pretty comfy with where they are right now. They where all just sorta ideas I have floating around but I hope you like them! Also I actually had the idea of their eyes glowing when they get happy but decided not to add it, so your not that far off with the tail ♡

Shoji has eight silver colored tentacles with a dark blue under belly. His suction cups are a slightly lighter blue and his beak is the same color as the top. I can imagine him being a bit self conscious about it and usually keeping it covered up by the tentacles, kinda like his mask in the anime.

Koda has motly white tail with red details. His tail actually resembles a seahorse but much bigger to support all of his weight above water

Sato's tail is a a soft brown color with black and white stripes. I imagine his tail with a sorta puffy feel to, not supper puffy though, kinda like puffy stickers. It resembles a sort of clownfish look with brown instead of orange.

Ida has a dark blue tail with one of his bottom fins being made out of metal parts, think like toothless from HTTYD. I imagine he would have made it either himself or with Momo's help.

Sero has a long black tail with white puffy streak all around it. The streaks look a lot like tape, to match his original universes quirk.

Shoto has a half red half white tail that colors switch places with his hair. I imagine that he might have a few darker spots on his tail from his past.

Momo has a red tail with beutifull yellow fins at the bottom. It's a pretty basic mermaid tail but it has a little of a rough texture than the original sleek mermaid scales.

Bakugo has a ash blonde tail with large swirls of orange and black. His tail kinda resembles a catfish in all ways except color.

Kirishima has a red tail with specks of black that resembles a shark. I would imagine that Kirishima would sorta be the protection of the pack so his tail would have scars and possibly a healed bite mark out of one of the fins.

Ojiro has a thick skin colored tail with a small tuff of fins at the end. It kinda looks like his tail from the original universe but is more smooth.

Aoyama has a shiny white and yellow tail that has a sort of sequins look to it. He has the ability to change the colors to fit in with the environment but he says that these colors make him ✨️sparkle✨️ more.

Denki had a bright electric yellow tail with little black marking that happen to look like lightning bolts. His tail takes resemblance to a electric eel.

Izuku's tail is a beutifull emerald green with freckles of red and white. The fins are a bit longer than the average mer-man, it is a pretty yellow and looks slightly tattered and torn (Probably from how reckless he is).

Mina, as stated before, has a glimmering pink and yellow tail. Her tail is very strong and has some visible muscles, but not a ton.

Tokoyami had a dark black tail with a white under belly, like a orca.

Uraraka has a pretty white tail with large splotches of pink and brown, it kinda looks like boba.

Jiro had a shorter but strong looking purple tail with flowy fins that resemble earphone jacks hanging from her side.

Hagakure has a long almost clear tail that resembled that of a jelly fish.

Tsu has a beutifull green tail with black swirly stripes all along it. It resembles that of a tadpole. Her type of mermaid is supposed to grow legs but hers somehow stayed like a tadpoles.

#mezo shoji x reader #koji koda x reader #rikido sato x reader #tenya ida x reader #hanta sero x reader #shoto todoroki x reader #momo yaoyorozu x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #eijiro kirishima x reader #mashirao ojiro x reader #yuga aoyama x reader #denki kaminari x reader #izuku midoriya x reader #mina ashido x reader #fumikage tokoyami x reader #ochaco uraraka x reader #kyoka jiro x reader #toru hagakure x reader #tsuyu asui x reader #yandere class 1a #mermaid au

[kisskiss-slashslash]

I need the slashers meeting a kid who's parents abandoned them and they become their parental figure. (Maybe ages 5-10)

Much love xxxx

Aw that's cute. I left out Freddy this time because we all know what he does to little children.

Slashers finding an abandoned child and taking them in

Jason Voorhees

He finds you stumbling through the forest all on your own, clutching a teddy bear to your chest, crying and calling out for your mother.

At your age, you have not quite heard of the Crystal Lake killer. You only know that the grown ups kept saying how dangerous this lake is and to never to there. And now your family drove you here, made you get out of the car and just... sped off.

At your age, you are positively *tiny* to Jason. He kneels down in front of you and, remembering what his mother used to to, pulls an old, tattered hankerchief out of his pocket to wipe down your tear- and snot covered face.

"D... do you know where my mommy went, mister?", you ask miserably, but even your little mind knew that she wouldn't be coming back.

Jason can understand your misery all too well. At the same time, he is furious that your family would do this. So it's decided. The feared Crystal Lake killer has a tiny apprentice now.

The Sinclair Brothers

Lester finds you walking along the road towards Ambrose, a stuffed animal in one hand and an almost empty waterbottle in the other. You look terrible, like you have been walking around for days without food. Your clothes are dirty and torn and your hands have bloody scratches on them.

He quickly gets out of his truck and asks where you came from.

You sniffle and tell him that your family promised to take you camping, and they told you to walk ahead and find a good spot, and they would catch up to you. But they never did.

There is of course the concern that your parents may have ended up being victims of his brothers. But there hadn't been any new victims in the past few days.

So he takes you to Ambrose, sure that his brothers wouldn't put their hands on a small child. And they don't.

Bo immediately finds himself reminded of his childhood, being the one left behind, and takes a liking to you. They give you some of their old childhood clothes, and some food. Vincent takes you to the wax museum, to show you all of the cool things he and his mother made. He might even teach you how to paint and do wax figures yourself. And just like that, the Sinclair family gained another member.

Brahms Heelshire

It is a cold and stormy day, when Brahms hears a soft knock at the front door. And there you are, in completely wrong clothes for the weather, wet down to your skin and crying.

He takes you in, thinking that hey, your parents are probably gonna come looking for you soon, right?

Except they never do.

Brahms gives you his childhood clothes, so you don't catch a cold, and tells you about his routine and that he actually always wondered what it would be like to have a little sibling.

The Sawyers

While the Sawyers are less likely to take in a random child than the Hewitts, it is not impossible. Nubbins finds you wandering along the Texas roads in the blistering heat, your little head completely red and your hair sticking to your skin with sweat.

He takes you to Drayton's gas station, and they have a kind of wordless conversation. Nubbins points at you with a grin, while you eye the meat being grilled in the small room, and Drayton eyes your small, malnourished frame, and shakes his head. Then gives you another, thoughtful look.

"You hungry, lil one?", he asks.

"Yes, mister", you reply.

Drayton generously takes a piece of rib and puts it on a paper plate for you. And once you scarfed down the meat, he grins at you.

"And what if I tell you that that was human meat?"

Your young mind doesn't quite understand what he just said, or just assumes he is joking. "Uh... okay? It was yummy though."

"It really is, isn't it. Look, kid, if ya don't know where to go, ya can go with us."

Bubba is absolutely thrilled when Drayton and Nubbins come home with you. He immediately introduces you to his chickens, and wants to make you your very own leather mask. Oh you are gonna have so much fun together! Bubba always wanted to have a younger sibling.

#jason voorhees and child!reader #Sinclair brothers and child!reader #Brahms Heelshire and child!reader #the sawyer brothers and child!reader #slasher and child!reader

[shockinglysubmissive]

I'm Okay

Taishiro Toyomitsu (Fatgum) x AFAB!Reader (GN Pronouns)

Warning: angst (slight), office sex, fingering, squirting, pussy eating, unprotected sex, cream pie

A single text was the last contact you had with him, and it left you flooded with fear. 'Stay far away from down town. I'll meet you at your home when I can'. You knew he was facing an intense villain attack. It was all over the news. But even after the villain was subdued, you still hadn't heard from him.

You ignore his message, needing to see him now. Your relationship was still young, so this was the first time he had faced an intense fight while you had been dating. Fighting through the crowd of reporters outside his agency, you get to the lobby. A few recognize you, and try to stop you for questions. It was a miracle that you made it to the double doors of the building without throwing an elbow at a reporter trying to grab you.

A twinkling bell rings, letting the two interns standing guard know the door had been opened. "Hey! You can't be here!" Red Riot tries to stop you, not recognizing you right away. "It's Fatgum's order." He steps closer, reaching a hand out to stop you from passing by the desk. Pure adrenaline got you to this point through the crowd, you weren't about to sit and wait like a nobody.

"No offense, Eijiro, but I don't give a fuck. Now can you please step aside and let me see my boyfriend?" Struggling to keep your voice level, you look at the red head, locking eyes with him. You look between him and Suneater, almost challenging one of them to stop you now they know it is you.

Glancing at Suneater, he finally caves. "You keep watching, I'll take them back to Fatgum." He sighs before leading you up to his office. The halls seemed longer than usual as your anxiety and stress continue to build the longer you go without seeing him. Eijiro knocks firmly on the office door, wanting to get his attention.

"This better be important Red Riot." A tired voice calls out, the faint sound of shuffling can be heard before the door is unlocked and opened. "It better not be a reporter making Suneater freak out again. I don't think I can handle that today." The taller than average doorway is filled with a large man leaning against the frame for support.

You are greeted with the muscular form of your boyfriend. His clothing is torn and tattered, covered in a mix of blood, sweat, and dirt. The filth on his face was smeared, as if he was in the process of washing it off when he opened the door.

"Sorry... They um... didn't want to wait." Stepping aside, Taishiro is finally able to see you. His shoulders relax and he moves to let you enter the office.

"I'm sorry for the way I acted, and could you tell Tamaki I'm sorry too? I shouldn't have reacted so harshly when you were just doing what you were told." You keep your voice low, now feeling embarrassed by how aggressive you were when you entered the building.

"Thank you for bringing them here. Just a bit longer and I'll come down to talk to the press." He assures him, giving him a tired smile before shutting the door again. He stands with his hand on the door looking at you for a few seconds. "We will talk about you not listening to me later. I shouldn't have to worry about the press tearing you apart to ask questions after dealing with a villain."

His tired body passes by you, slumping down in his desk chair, looking at the mess of bandaids and antiseptic gels. Grabbing a wet rag from a bowl of warm water, he rings it out. He looks into a small mirror and starts cleaning his face again. Guilt twists like a knife in your gut, and you move closer to his desk. "Can I help you? I was just so worried." Your voice feels small as you speak.

"Actually, I would love that." Sensing how bad you feel, he flashes you a quick smile, rolling his chair back to make space for you. Moving in front of him, you clear the mess of papers and sit down on top of his desk. Spreading your legs, you make space for him to slide between them to get closer to you again. He hands you the rag, still wet with hot water. Leaning forward, you let your body hover just above him.

You gently dab the cuts and scrapes littering his pale skin. His eyes fall closed, letting you clean the dirt from his face. Your free hand rests on his shoulder to stabilize yourself as you meticulously clean the bleeding areas. Switching to the gel, you carefully apply it to the deeper gashes. Once you are sure that everything has been cleaned, you press your lips to his. Not expecting the soft feeling of your mouth, his eyes open quickly.

"I'm sorry. I couldn't resist. Seeing you all beaten up scared me. I needed to know that you were still my Taishiro under these injuries." You set your hand on his cheek, your thumb brushing small strokes. You're careful not to rub against a bruise on his jaw. A large hand rests on yours.

"Hey. It's just a few bumps and bruises. Nothing changed. This happens from time to time. I shouldn't have worried you by sending that text then not reaching out when I got back to my office. I'm still getting used to having someone else worry about me." His golden eyes lock with yours, trying to give you comfort. "I just knew I wanted you far away from any danger. I didn't stop to think that you would be freaking out until you heard from me again."

"It's not your fault. I knew what I was in for when I started dating a pro hero. Now, I think I've gotten your face patched like it should be. Do you mind if I look at the rest of your body? I can see a nasty looking cut on your shoulder. Could you please take this off?" Your hands trail down the solid muscles of his chest, grabbing the rag and dipping a clean corner into the cooling water. He shrugs the tattered and torn remains of his jacket off, letting it fall to the floor to give you access to his torso. Even the undershirt he wore was barely intact enough to stay in his body. "I wish I knew it was that easy to get you out of your clothes." You say under your breath, only half aware that he can hear you.

"All you ever need to do is ask nicely. Please and thank you go a long way, my love." He flashes you his beautiful smile, attempting to hide the wince as you clean the deep cut. Reaching down, you set one of his hands on the fat of your thigh. "Huh? What are you doing?"

"Squeeze my thigh like a stress ball if it hurts too much. You don't need to pretend to be fine around me." You try to ignore the way his huge hand easily covers most of your plush thigh. Applying more pressure to his cut, you feel his fingers tentatively tighten, testing if he would hurt you. "That's it. I just need to apply a bandage, then I can clean the minor scrapes and you're all done." Pressing firmly on the wound to properly apply the bandage, he grips down tighter on your thigh. "Are you still doing ok?"

His knuckles go white from the grip he has on the fat of your thigh. "It doesn't hurt. But dammit. I wasn't expecting it to feel so good when I squeezed your body. You didn't even react." He forces his hand to relax, looking up to your face.

"I told you that you could use me as a stress ball. I've got a high pain tolerance." You keep your voice gentle to reassure him. He lifts his hand to run it through his messy hair. "Is everything ok?"

"I know we agreed to wait. But seeing you on my desk, leaning so close to me, telling me to use you as a stress ball... Well it's getting hard to resist you. All I can think about is pushing those soft thighs to your chest while I work you open on my cock." His face flushes red with embarrassment as he confesses. "I would never do that without your approval, but I don't want to keep it a secret how I feel about it or how badly I want you right now."

With the fear of his well being finally gone, you are able to take in the tent that had formed in his loose fitting hero pants. You couldn't deny you wanted him too. The thoughts had been creeping into your mind the entire time you had been cleaning him up, but you didn't want to take advantage of his shaken state of mind by throwing yourself at him. "Is this the best time? I mean you have all those people outside waiting for you. And your interns. I don't want to keep them waiting." Your voice comes out as ramblings, trying to rationalize this.

"The press will get bored soon enough. I can send a message to the boys telling them they can take the back exit and leave whenever they want. I never make them stay to talk to the press unless they want to. I don't want to overwhelm Suneater with that just yet. They won't be suspicious of anything." He explains, his face suddenly falling. "I'm not trying to pressure you into this. I just wanted to make sure you know those things won't be an issue."

Your throat feels dry as you try to speak. "Y-you want me? Right now, I mean. Even after getting injured? You must've used so much energy expelling all that fat. I would understand if you're not really in the mood." You continue rambling until two large hands grab your thighs and pull your ass to the edge of the desk.

"You're so cute when you ramble, but I'd much rather have your lips against mine." Your hands meet his broad chest as your body falls towards him. Leaning closer to you, his lips catch yours, tasting like sugar. You don't fight him, though you remain aware of where your hands are sitting so you don't irritate any of his injuries further. His hands fumble their way up your thighs, thick fingers hooking under the elastic of your lounge pants. "Lift up." He instructs against your lips, unable to bear to break the kiss any longer than the brief moment.

Tentatively, you lift your ass just enough for him to get the waistband of your pants around the curve of your ass. It takes effort to pull yourself away from the kiss, shallow pants leaving your kiss-swollen lips. Your skin starts to stick to the wooden surface of the desk as soon as it touches. It was in this moment, where you no longer had the material of your pants, when you remember you had been in such a rush to get here, you never put panties on. The slick from your cunt starts to puddle beneath you.

"You seem excited, and I haven't even taken my pants off. Though it's a good thing you're this wet. It'll make it easier for you to take me." His calloused thumbs rest on either side of your lips, spreading you open to give him a better view of your clit. The cool air sends a chill down your spine and you find it increasingly difficult to keep from fidgeting. One of his index fingers gathers your slick before easing its way to massage your deepest nerves. "That's it. Good job. Just relax for me and I'll make you feel so amazing." His voice is soft as he showers you with praises, his middle finger nudging against your entrance.

Your hands fall back to brace yourself on the desk, soft moans leaving your lips as your breathing becomes labored. His thumb circles around your clit, occasionally brushing over it directly to make your body jolt. When his ring finger breaches your slick wall, electric waves course through your body. He doesn't stop his movements, letting your pussy clench around his thick fingers. The hand that had been teasing your clit moves higher, pressing down lightly just above your pelvic bone through the fat of your stomach.

You don't have time to feel insecure as his fingers buried deep inside you curl up as if they were trying to touch his palm. The hand pushing down lightly adds even more stimulation to your g-spot, pressure building on your core. It doesn't take long before the pressure hits its peak and you feel as if you're going to bust.

"Tai~ you gotta stop. It's too much." You gasp out, trying to find the strength to push him away. A chuckle leaves his lips as his fingers quicken. His golden eyes focus on you, taking in the way you thrash around, begging for him to stop so you don't make a mess. Something unlocks within him and he can't help but imagine how pretty you would look crying from pleasure.

"Just let go. Stop holding back. I know you can do it for me, my pretty little one. You trust me, right?" He coos, only picking up the pace when you grab his wrist. Around his fingers, clear liquid gushes out, soaking his hand and the desk beneath you. He is reluctant to remove his hand, but he is too greedy and impatient. His head dives between your thighs, all previous injuries and exhaustion long gone as he laps up the taste of you. The sounds that leave your mouth are heaven to him, only encouraging him to ignore the hand tugging his hair in an attempt to separate him from your sensitive core.

It's not until your hand travels through his hair, brushing against a bandage that he pulls away. The pains from before slowly ebbing back to the front of his mind. Catching your breath, you sit up enough to look at him. Through his torn and tattered pants, you can see the obvious erection fighting to get freed. He sees where your attention has landed, and his face turns a deep shade of red.

"May I remove your pants?" You bat your lashes at him, seeing his slight hesitation. His large frame shifts nervously in his desk chair before letting his desires get the best of him. He finally nods and guides your smaller hands over his bulge. Just knowing it is you touching him is nearly enough to have his seed spilling into his clothing. You are delicate with everything you do, unzipping his pants and tugging them enough to free his leaking cock.

You were prepared for him to be large. Even in his thin form, he was over 220cm. But you were shocked by how pretty it was. His tip was a deep shade of red, matching the color on his face. Drops of precum leak out of his tip, allowing you to use it as lube as you pump the length slowly. The skin along his shaft felt so warm and soft in your hand. The tuft of blonde hair at the base was trimmed to keep it manageable, leading its way up to disappear under the remaining pieces of his shirt. Your head starts spinning and you release the breath you didn't realize you had been holding.

"Don't make me wait. I'm dying to feel myself buried inside you. I don't think I'll be able to last." He groans through gritted teeth, heels digging into the ground to keep from fucking into your small hand. "Your hands feel so good. I bet your pussy will feel addicting." The moans leaving his lips made it hard for you to stop. You just want to focus on the sounds he is making, and to feel him spill his seed in your hand. He can see it in your eyes that you don't plan on stopping, so he grips your wrist. He easily overpowers you, prying your hand off his twitching cock.

"No!" You look at him with your bottom lip jutting out. You were right there. Just a few more pumps and you would have felt the sticky cum you were desperate for. His hands grab your thighs and drags you off the desk so you fall in his lap.

"What are you whining for? I was the one with the denied orgasm." He lovingly teases you in an attempt to distract you from his large tip easing between your lips. Your eyes lock with his, and the golden eyes are hazy with need. Hooking your legs over the arms of the chair, he eases you down in him. "I'm going to push in now, ok sugar?"

It takes insane patience on his part, fighting the urge to slam into you, and fill you with his cum. You aren't sure how long it took, but eventually, your cunt is stretched wide around him. His tip kisses your cervix and you dare to look down. The sight between your legs was nearly enough to make you cum. Only half his shaft is able to squeeze inside you. Your slick drips down the rest of his length, making his lap wet.

"I... Oh fuck... I was so right about how good you feel. I don't think I'm going to last." His head falls back, bruised chest rising and falling rapidly. With his feet planted flat on the floor, he thrusts into you. You roll your hips slowly, already falling over the edge and clenching hard around him as you cum. Your orgasm triggers his, and you feel painfully full of his seed, pushing your stomach out. His shaking hands lift you off of him and place you back on the desk. Being moved away causes your stomach to drop and you reach out to him.

"Aw. Don't be like that, sugar. I'm not leaving you. But I do need to eat to regain my strength. And it just so happens that you can help with that. After all, cream pie is my favorite dessert." He winks up at you.

#mha #mha smut #bnha #bnha smut #my hero academia smut #my heroe academia #boco no hero academia smut #boco no hero academia #taishiro toyomitsu #taishiro Toyomitsu smut #fatgum #fatgum smut

[rat-typewriter]

l,,link with a really clumsy male S/O who can barely walk straight,,,,pls,,,

Note: Good grief i am so sorry this has been chilling in my inbox for a YEAR oops,,, anyway im sorry its late and not the best quality but we tried and ive just done 4 hours straight of biology cramming soooo

Proofread: did shakespeare have time to proofread???? I think not 😌😌

Clumsy - Link x GN!Reader

You stared at your hands, which gripped the sword tightly - to the point of whitening your knuckles. It was heavier than you had expected; it didn’t help that your palms were drenched in sweat, leaving you readjusting your grip every few seconds.

A few feet away, sitting in the grass, Link watched you carefully as he sharpened his own sword. It had been his idea - after an uncomfortably close call with an angry moblin - that you should learn to defend yourself. It definitely wasn’t a bad idea, but you could practically feel Link’s watchful gaze and his tenseness each time you took a swing at the scarecrow in front of you. 

You lunged forwards, taking a jab at its limp straw body, just as he’d taught you. It was satisfying to watch the dry grass guts spill out of the torn scarecrow; it was even more satisfying to see that you were actually improving.

“That wasn’t so bad!” you grinned, turning to Link - who nodded and gave you a thumbs up and a smile.

A gust of wind ruffled his hair as he turned back to his work. Pausing, you watched him for a moment. Over the last year that you had travelled with Link, you had always been amazed at how calm he seemed - even when faced by a Linel or hoard of Bokoblins; even on the night that he kissed you for the first time. Nothing ever fazed him; that was always something you thought you could be certain of.

At first, his silence had puzzled you. In the quiet moments you found your mind racing, were you bothering him? Was he listening? Would he rather you didn't say anything? The more time you spent together, you had grown to enjoy his company - you learned to read his expressions and pauses and silent laughter and suddenly he seemed to come to life. You found that he wasn’t mysterious or dangerous, but he was, in fact, the biggest dumbass you’d ever met. With everything he did came an air of mischievousness; everything was an adventure. And before you knew it, you were falling for the blonde-haired soldier. 

You smiled to yourself, as he knit his eyebrows together with focus. Another sudden breeze sent his hair into his face and he shook his head - attempting to flick it away. As he did so, he caught your eye. It didn’t even last a second, but it was there.

You quickly turned away, hoping that he hadn't caught you staring. Nearly three months ago you had confessed to Link - on an overcast summer night, as you waded through a river. His face had been unreadable; you stared at him - desperately searching his face for an answer. All the words that you’d held in spilled out like blood pouring from a cut - yet suddenly you had nothing to say at all. His name was on your lips - then, all at once, his lips were as well. It had been three months since that night, but he still made you nervous.

A quiet snicker came from behind you and you looked back over your shoulder at the smug-faced boy.

"What?" You said - your voice several octaves higher than normal - feigning innocence.

He raised his eyebrows and returned to sharpening his sword - still smiling to himself. He barely had to do anything to make your heart skip a beat. And he knew that. 

You huffed in a pointless attempt to mask how flustered you were. Sometimes you wished you could do something to make him as nervous as he made you. 

You turned back to the scarecrow and adjusted your stance, ready to take another swing.

I’ll figure it out one day, You decided. I will make him blush.

Sweeping your sword, you cut away at the shredded scarecrow - watching as tatters of fabric tumbled to the ground. 

You took a step back and - without warning - you lost your balance. Letting out a yelp of surprise you wobbled for a moment before landing in an awkward heap on the ground. As you hit the grass, a dull thump seemed to resonate through your body - leaving you aching slightly as you lay still on the ground. 

Not only had the fall knocked the air out of your lungs, but it had apparently also knocked the coherent thoughts out of your head. 

“Ouch,” you said, stupidly, as you stared up at the clear, blue sky. Before you could heave yourself up, a very-worried Link appeared at your side. His eyes were wide as he crouched beside you, frantically scanning you for any signs of harm.

You watched him, slightly confused - it was hardly a particularly dramatic fall, just the type of thing that seemed to happen to you at least three or four times a day. 

“Hey, I’m fine,” you said softly, moving to sit up. “You don’t need to worry-”

He pushed you back down and reached behind him, grabbing his bag. He rummaged through it, pulling some bandages out.

You giggled, shaking your head, propping yourself up on your elbows. “Link, I’m fine - really!"

He pointed to your hands - which you had scraped slightly. 

You laughed again, swatting him away. "Oh, it's all good - that's nothing."

It was true, it really was nothing. You tripped and knocked yourself all the time; your arms and legs were littered with cuts and bruises.

He sat back on his heels, raising an eyebrow - his expression still laced with concern. 

"Seriously, I'm alright!" 

He tilted his head at you worriedly. No matter how many times you stumbled or slipped - he never failed to panic.

You smiled softly and reached forward, putting your hand on his wrist. "You don't have to worry, I promise."

He glanced at your hand and then back at you. You suddenly saw the pinkness in his cheeks and a pang of excitement in your stomach brought a grin to your face.

"Are you blushing?" You leaned forwards, taking your head - watching as he looked away and scoffed. 

You sat up fully and pushed a strand of hair from his face. "Awe, you do care!" You joked.

He rolled his eyes, but smiled anyway.

"I'll have to fall over more often." You grinned.

He cocked his head as if to say, more often?

"Yeah, yeah, I know I'm clumsy." You giggled. "But you love me anyway."

He rolled his eyes, but was unable to fight off a smile. 

Yeah, you didn't mind being clumsy.

#link #botw link #loz link #legend of zelda breath of the wild #botw #breath of the wild #loz #loz botw #loz breath of the wild #botw link x reader #link x reader #loz link x reader

[signedeclipse]

I had this cute idea that I need to let out... so could I have a headcanon of the any Hashira whenever their haoris get damged they go to Hashira! Reader to mend it since she is a excellent seamstress? If that make sense.

Giyuu

Giyuu always had a very unique haori, split down the middle with an intricate and plain design on either end

It was actually made that way by you

In a tough battle, he had torn his patterned one's sleeve right off and tattered the same side to shreds

Of course, you couldn't fix it, but Giyuu seemed pretty upset that his favourite haori was ruined

So you came up with a new idea, you found a haori in a colour he liked under the guise of 'making him a new one,' sliced it down the middle and attached them together

He is left speechless, or perhaps just as he always is, when you manage to bring him this masterpiece

For the first time ever, he actually smiles and bows to you

He has never taken it off since, not publically, at least

You were a little worried it'd be too 'flashy' for him, but he looks as happy as can be

Gyomei

Not only had you repaired his haori countless times, but you also made it entirely new as he grew physically

He noticed how the fabric changed and became more comfortable with every new rendition, how your stitches improved with time

He could feel at the seam line so see how well you had done and give you all sorts of compliments

At this point, it only got in the way during fights, but he wears it because he sees it as a good omen

On several occasions, demons have underestimated his form and missed, so you'd consider it a good thing he wears it

Not only that, but you've even gone out of your way to fix the string of his prayer beads on several occasions

One day, you'll find he's gifted you your own string of prayer beads to keep

He made them himself :]

Muichiro

Once upon a time, Muichiro used to have a haori of his own

As in when he started demon slayer training, which was only a few months ago

When he became a hashira, it was already in a horrible state, so you offered to mend it to your best ability

But every battle, he would return, and it would only be torn more

So eventually, you just told him you'd keep it until you could find a replacement

Much less frequently but still concerningly often, his own uniform ended up torn

That, Mui cared enough to waddle over to your estate and request you fix it

" Sure! Did you bring something to change into while I fix it? "

" ... "

You end up fixing it while it's on him, extra cautious to not poke the boy with the needle and thread

It's almost funny how patiently he sits there and stares off into space

And whenever you announce you are done, he always inspects it for a good minute or two before leaving and thanking you

It seems he always forgets a spare set of clothes, so he gets to has to sit there the whole time

Shinobu

Being experienced with stitching wounds, Shinobu could mend her own garments

But when she did, it never gave her the satisfaction yours did

How all your stitches were unique or well hidden

How you'd match the thread to the exact gradient on her garment so only someone paying close attention would notice

The haori was originally sewn using only white thread, so anywhere you mended stood out a little more

Since you also helped the other girls around butterfly mansion and fixed the uniforms of those she took care of, you were very frequently right next to her while she worked

At this point, you had your own space for it, right next to her countess desks and shelves worth of books

Nothing helped her work better than the sound of you cutting through fabric and thread while humming small songs

Uzui

His uniform used to be full sleeves

But you eventually had to trim it down because it was getting too torn, and he really liked it

When he added the little gem strings to his headpiece, you had to fix those a lot

It used to be held by a thread, but over time it became wire and then a small iron chain, so it was much harder to destroy

You make the gems into beads yourself and keep an extra bag of them in your sewing room in case he ever needs them to be fixed again

Jewelry wasn't really your expertise, but you appreciate the challenge

You decided to save some of the old gems in case he decides to take on a wife (or three)

That way, you can sew them into the wedding dress instead of rhinestones

Authors Note - This was a super cute request!! Thank you so much for sending it in <3 Please take care of yourself, Anon!

#demon slayer #demon slayer x reader #demon slayer headcanons #headcanons #kny x reader #kny headcanons #kimetsu no yaiba #x reader #reader insert #giyuu x reader #giyuu #gyomei #gyomei x reader #muichiro #muichiro x reader #shinobu #shinobu x reader #uzui #uzui x reader

[leggerefiore]

cw: angst, ingo and Emmet reunion

It seemed Emmet had hit his lowest point when Ingo had disappeared.

His sobs had echoed off the walls of the Gear Station while Depot Agents tried to desperately to comfort him to no avail. Elesa had even been called yet was unable to do anything to get through to him. Your best attempts had only managed to make him cling to you and beg for you not to vanish too. He had been unstable for weeks afterward, having gone into a retreat of isolation and desperate searching. Nothing brought him comfort. Everything reminded him of his brother.

Then, he decided to force himself to return to work. He was needed, after all. Emmet could not just throw away everything that he and Ingo had worked so hard for. His pain had not left, nor did it appear it would ever, but he was going to take responsibility for keeping everything for Ingo to return to. You supported him to the best of your abilities, becoming his assistant of sorts and keeping him company throughout the long days that never seemed to end.

Of course, you had not expected the intense hurt he would feel upon seeing his brother again.

Ingo was returned. In one piece, he was, but one look could tell you something was off. His clothing was tattered or previously unknown. His posture was something that no one would dare see from the older Subway Boss. Not to mention, his immediate response to speak a language that was not common in Unova. The worst, however, was how he stared at Emmet. Confusion. Fear. Sending out a pokemon against him while claiming that he would not fall for a Zoroark's illusion.

Emmet was crushed.

He fell to his knees, sobbing and begging his brother to remember.

You had to stop the attempted pokemon assault. An explanation that he was actually his twin seemed harder to believe for him. A glance at the sobbing man at least told him that he was not a threat. Emmet managed to regain his footing and stumble over to the new Ingo. Arms came around the older twin as the younger just wept. Ingo stood stunned, staring out into space for a moment. Something did seem to click, however, as he brought his arms around the shaking man. The hug calmed Emmet a bit, at least.

A hospital trip followed, naturally. New scars and injuries littered Ingo's body, alongside his obviously concerning mental state. You both fretted over the man the same, but Emmet was the most torn by the news that Ingo was suffering from an extreme amnesia. There was little the medical staff could do, but they felt his memories may have a better chance at returning in a familiar location rather than wherever he had been.

Ingo was not overly chatty, something rare and concerning, but he was interested in Emmet. You left the two alone for a moment, knowing full well it was better to give them some privacy.

You waited and waited in the hall. Hours passed, but Emmet never seemed to pull away from Ingo's side. You peered in a few times, but could not catch what their conversation was about. Eventually, when visiting hours were just about to end, he emerged. Rushing to his side, you stared at him. A sniffle came Emmet. Then, arms pulled you into a warm hug. A bright smile was on his face.

“Ingo is verrry mean,” he sighed, “All he could remember about me was something I said on the battle lines.”

You were honestly stunned. Obviously, you had heard what the doctors had said, but you were not expecting him to truly have forgotten Emmet. Not with how close they were.

“… Was it you ordering everyone to smile?” you questioned, a bit curious about what he said that was apparently so memorable.

“Nope! It was me saying that I like winning more than anything else,” he laughed a bit.

“Wow, I'd be a bit offended if all I could remember about my twin is them saying that,” you teased him, “I'd think they didn't like me.”

“Hmm…” he considered your words seriously. Then, he wordlessly turned towards Ingo's room and walked in. You tried to stop him, but he marched towards the resting man. Their direct eye contact was a bit awkward, but Emmet suddenly pulled Ingo's fringe lightly. “I like victory, yes. Verrry much,” he nodded, “But, I love you, too, Ingo!” You held back laughter. He turned towards you. “You, too, darling!”

Well, it seemed he was almost back to his old self. Now to work on Ingo, you supposed.

#ingo.ima #emmet.ima

[barry-j-blupjeans]

Taako woke up to voices talking over his head. He had put the light from his fire out before he went to bed, but the air still smelled of smoke, so it couldn't have been too long since he had fallen asleep. It was certainly dark enough to be the middle of the night. His stomach clenched with anxiety and he kept his eyes closed, trying to still appear asleep.

"-not going to remember you," the first voice said, so quiet Taako could barely pick it up.

"I- I gotta see, though," the second voice said. "If there's a chance that something got past the ######## then I have to try. I have to."

An uncomfortable feeling shot through Taako's body. He knew that voice. Where did he know that voice from?

"I know," the voice first said. "I know."

This was not a good situation to wake up into. He was currently stuffed inside his sleeping bag, in a poor attempt to avoid any night terrors. This was the first time he had gotten to sleep since- since the... incident had happened at Glamour Springs. His wand was in here with him, sure, but if these people were coming to kill him because he killed someone they loved? He was kind of screwed. Like, what do you do in that situation? Hell, if Taako had literally anyone he loved, he'd be super upset if a traveling chef killed them and then ran away.

Taako shifted and turned over, his eyes still closed. The voices stopped abruptly. He had to play it cool. He had to get out of this stupid sleeping sack before they decided to kill him because then he'd at least have a chance. Going slowly, he started curling up so his hands were near the top of the sack, ready to get himself free at any moment.

"Taako...?" the second voice said. He didn't remember anyone at Glamour Springs sounding like that, but it must have been. Right? Right. Someone near the back, who hadn't gotten a chance to eat. "You awake, bud?"

He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, trying not to give himself away.

"You don't have to pretend to be asleep, babe," the second voice continued. "I'm not- we're not gonna hurt you. I promise."

Okay, familiar voice or not, that was so obviously a lie. Of course, they wanted to hurt him. He killed their- their family member, or their friend, or whatever the fuck. Honestly, if Taako could come across anyone in the next few months who didn't want to hurt him, he'd be amazed. It was going to take some getting used to. Celebrity chef directly into mass murder probably wasn't going to be an easy career change.

"Taako," the second voice pleaded, "please open your eyes."

It wasn't a spell, or a command, or anything, but Taako followed through before he could help himself. He blinked a few times, adjusting his eyes to the darkness and letting his Dark Vision do its thing. There was no one in front of him. No shadows, no legs, or feet, nothing.

And then, slowly, something circled around from the back of him. Two sometimes, actually. Taako's breath caught in his throat. They weren't exactly... living. Their red robes were torn and tattered at the edges, dissolving into what looked like pure magic being used as a flesh suit. Their fingers were long, curved, and horrifying. And, when he tilted his head up just slightly, just to see if he recognized the face if it was going to be some lost soul he had killed come back for revenge, the swooping hood gave way to a skull. It shimmered with the same memorizing magic pattern.

Taako was terrified. And stunned. And maybe, in the back of his head, just a little bit impressed.

"Taako," said the Red Robe on the right, the one with the familiar voice. "Do you... know who I am?"

Taako slowly, slowly sat up, getting his arms out of his sack and unzipping it. They didn't seem ready to fight him. Well, okay, they looked like they could kill him with a single spell, but he was trying not to think about that.

"Ghost of Candlenights future?" Taako said with a little, totally normal, totally not nervous laugh. The Red Robe on the right sparked slightly and the one on the left put a hand on her arm.

"No," the Red Robe said, voice sounding a little watery. "I'm- Taako, I'm ###. Your ######? You- you know me Taako."

Taako had his hand tight around his wand now, hidden under the sack. He glanced past the Robes and into the trees. He could make it if he booked it. Or- or-

"You're, uh, you're cuttin' out a little bit there, Casper," Taako said. The Red Robe sparked again, a little more violently this time, and the one of the left pulled her back a few inches, whispering reassurances. "Look, uh, it's been nice to meet you but if you're not planning on killing me or like, permanently handicapping me-"

"Why would I do that?" the right Red Robe asked. Taako dodged a bit of electricity as it came flying off the Red Robe's form, leaving a singe in the ground next to him. "Why- Taako, it's me! It's ###!"

"Babe-" the left Red Robe said. "He can't-"

Taako cast Blink, vanishing into the Ethereal Plane. There were fuzzy shapes of dark red where the Red Robes should be standing, but Taako didn't have the time to focus on whatever the fuck they were. He scrambled the rest of the way out of his sleeping sack and booked it to the line of trees behind them, appearing a second later back in the Prime Material Plane, ten feet away from where he had started. The Red Robes didn't even seem to notice. Taako ran before they could.

He only stopped when his lungs were burning so much he could hardly breathe, and even then, he hid himself in a patch of bushes, crouched down so his head wouldn't peek out over the top. His mouth was so, so dry and he still felt the anxiety seizing at his heart, relentless. He was far enough away that he couldn't even begin to guess where his camping site had been anymore.

After a few minutes of no one showing up after him, Taako let himself sink to the ground, still out of breath. The tree next to him had a paper nailed to it. It read:

Wanted Alive: Taako (from TV) for the murder of thirty lives in Glamour Springs. Reward: fifteen thousand gold. Contact Glamour Springs Sheriff's Department with any leads. Caution: Considered armed and dangerous.

His face was below, taken from one of his promotional posters. Suddenly, Taako was out of breath for some very different reasons.

This week would not give him a fucking rest.

#taako #lup #barry bluejeans #taz red robe #taz #taz balance #mine #i have Thoughts about this one my dudes sldfsd #ise cube writing