#radio snow code

[hbbisenieks]

please also tag where you grew up. i swear these were a thing but all my friends are telling me they've never heard of this, but it used to be that your school would have a numerical code and then if it was snowing in the morning, you'd tune into the AM news station or whatever and listen to see if they announced your school's code among closures.

[mw00nie]

i found you again g. satoru

A/N: okay so usually don't write notes. this isn't a note this is a warning. i cried writing this. so read at your own risk :)

w.c: 2.5k

warnings: reincarnation, vague smut, emotional hurt/comfort, yearning

gojo satoru has lived more lifetimes than there are stars in the sky. hundreds, maybe thousands. time bleeds between them now, thin and threadbare like gauze soaked in old blood. he is tired in a way that no amount of sleep can fix, in a way that’s ancient, mythic, cursed.

and yet, he wakes up in every life with one purpose: to find you.

he doesn’t always know how. sometimes it’s instant. the moment his eyes meet yours, it’s like the world shifts back into place. like he’s been out of breath for years and finally gets to breathe again. other times, it takes a while. you’re a passing stranger on a train, or a coworker in an office where he wears glasses. sometimes you’re older than him, sometimes younger. sometimes you love him immediately, sometimes you hate his guts and he has to earn it (which he always does.)

but you never remember.

you don’t remember the time you were a nurse in the 1800s and stitched up a bloody version of him under candlelight. you don’t remember the version of yourself that wore red lipstick and sang in jazz bars, where he sat in the back in a tailored suit and admired you. you don’t remember the lifetime where he was a war general and you were a spy and he risked everything to get you out. you don’t remember the time you were a jujutsu sorcerer too, and you died before he did.

he remembers all of it.

you never remember the thousand promises. never remember the vows whispered into the curve of your neck, or the way your body knew his like it was written into the code of the universe. you never remember the final moments, the deaths, the heartbreaks. you only ever look at him for the first time, again and again, and say:

“do i know you?”

And it shatters him. Every single time.

────────────────────

this time, you're a girl in tokyo who works in a quiet bookstore. you wear soft sweaters and tie your hair in lazy half-knots. you hum under your breath while shelving books and forget your tea on the counter while helping customers. and when you look up that day, eyes brushing over his frame in the entrance, he knows. immediately. It hits him like gravity, like a long-awaited breath finally exhaled. there’s no doubt, no hesitation.

it’s you.

but you don’t know him.

“can i help you find something?” you ask, smiling like it’s just any other tuesday. like your soul hasn’t been haunting his through centuries.

he swallows everything down. every ache, every memory, every "please remember me" and nods. “yeah,” he murmurs. “been looking a while, actually.”

you laugh, soft and oblivious, and he lets himself live in that sound for a little while. it's the first moment again. the moment before everything.

he visits you again. and again. he buys books he won’t read and drinks tea he doesn’t like, just to see you smile. you recognize something in him, maybe not the memories, but the tether. the gravity. the way your breath stutters sometimes when he says your name. you begin to wonder about him. you ask him questions. you lean in closer. he watches you tilt your head and squint at him as though trying to place him from a dream you can’t quite remember.

“you’re so familiar,” you murmur once, tilting your head as he walks you home. his heart cracks. he smiles anyway. “déjà vu, maybe.”

you don’t know he said that same line to you in 1847.

he knows the moment you start falling for him. you always do, eventually. it’s written in your soul.

but every time, it’s new for you.

────────────────────

weeks pass.

he dreams of you every night. some dreams are soft; a memory of you brushing snow out of his hair, or telling him your favorite song on the radio. some are awful; visions of you dying in his arms, blood on your lips, curses howling in the dark.

he wakes up sweating.

this life is peaceful. too peaceful. he’s retired from jujutsu. no more cursed energy. no more students. no more killing. but the price is you not knowing him. not really. not fully.

“what are you thinking about?” you ask one night, on his couch, legs over his lap.

you always ask him that. every life.

he says what he always says. “you.”

────────────────────

he kisses you the first time on your couch, your legs over his lap, your cardigan falling off one shoulder. you taste like strawberry tea and innocence, and he swallows the urge to sob into your mouth. his hands tremble against your waist. yours find his cheeks, fingers splayed like you’re trying to read something hidden underneath his skin.

that night, you tell him you want more, and god, he gives it to you.

it’s slow, at first. gentle. worshipful. he undresses you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, lips trailing reverent paths down skin he’s kissed a thousand times before. he kisses the inside of your wrist, your stomach, your thighs, remembering every life your body once held. you arch for him like you always do, instinctual, breathy, the way you’ve moved for him since the beginning of time.

“toru,” you whisper, voice shaking, nails in his shoulders.

he groans like your name hurts. like it undoes him. “you always say it like that,” he says, breathless. “every time.”

you blink, dazed. “what?”

he doesn’t answer. just sinks into you slowly, deeply, like coming home. and as you clutch him to you, legs wrapped around his hips, gasping against his mouth like your soul remembers even if your mind doesn’t. he breaks all over again.

he makes love to you like he’s begging the universe not to take you away again. and maybe, just maybe, for a few minutes, it listens.

────────────────────

it began the way most fragile things do. 

you couldn’t sleep. you never said the words out loud, but he could feel it in the way you curled too tightly against yourself beneath the covers, how your eyes stayed open long after your breath had evened, always pretending to have drifted off when he turned to check. satoru never called you out on it. he only opened his arms and let you fall into them, wrapping around you like a promise he couldn’t keep.

“want me to tell you a story?” he asked once, one hand cradling the base of your skull, the other tracing soft circles into your back.

you gave a sleepy laugh, the sound half-buried in his chest. “i’m not a child.”

“you’re not. but your body needs rest and your mind keeps chasing shadows. i know the feeling.” he waited a beat. “let me help.”

you didn’t say yes. you just exhaled into his throat, a breath that sounded like surrender.

so he told you one. his voice dipped low, slower than usual, threading through the stillness like smoke curling in candlelight.

“there was a girl,” he began, “in a city made of stone. she had ink on her fingers and a book always in her lap. she didn’t speak much to anyone, except to the man who kept finding excuses to walk by her table.”

you smiled into his shirt, already fading toward sleep. “was he in love with her?”

“he’d already loved her for a dozen lifetimes.”

that made your head tilt slightly. you didn’t speak again, but he could feel the way your body stilled, the way something delicate shifted in the quiet space between his ribs and yours, like your soul had paused to listen, even if your mind couldn’t understand why.

the stories became your nighttime ritual. in every version, the details changed, different settings, different tragedies, different kinds of impossible love. but there were always two constants: a man with winter eyes and a woman who never remembered him.

he told you about a girl who smuggled letters across enemy lines, passing paper hearts into the hands of a soldier with white hair and a secret. about a prince who gave up royalty to live a simple life with the village weaver. about a queen who knelt before a man in chains and fed him pieces of bread until the world burned for them both.

you laughed sometimes. other times you curled into him with something heavy in your silence, your fingers drifting absently over his chest like you were searching for something familiar, something just out of reach.

“they’re beautiful,” you whispered once, long after the story ended. “but they always die.”

he kissed your temple, his voice caught in the back of his throat. “love doesn’t need to survive the body to be real.”

that night, your nails pressed faint crescents into his side as you fell asleep.

────────────────────

one night, you asked him to tell the story of the garden again.

you were curled up beside him on the couch, knees pulled to your chest, your head on his shoulder, the rain whispering against the windows like an old friend. the world outside was slow and soft and soaked in silver.

“the one where she keeps trying to grow tomatoes,” you murmured, “but he always ruins them and she forgives him anyway.”

he blinked. “you remember that one?”

your voice was thick with exhaustion, barely there. “i think so. feels like i do. i don’t know why.”

he tucked you closer, lips brushing your temple. “she planted them in a field once. in a lifetime that smelled like honey and sunburn. he couldn’t keep his hands off her. she laughed like it was the only thing that could keep the earth turning.”

you smiled, eyes fluttering closed. “you always make them sound like love songs.”

“they are.”

“even the sad ones?”

“especially the sad ones.”

you fell asleep like that, warm and folded into him, his hand stroking through your hair in lazy, reverent loops. he stayed awake long after, staring at the rain, wondering if the story had reached somewhere deeper this time. if some part of you, the part that lived in dreams and blood and memory, had begun to stir.

you didn’t wake when he carried you to bed. but you curled toward him in your sleep and whispered his name like it was older than language.

────────────────────

he starts dreaming of the first time he found you.

before you were ever born. before you had a name. you were light in a void. a soul that gravitated to his.

he remembers the promise he made to you then. “i’ll always find you. no matter how many lives.” you said you’d try to find him too.

but he’s always the one who remembers. you never do.

and he wonders what he did to deserve this. to carry the weight of every version of you alone.

────────────────────

this life lasts longer than most.

you say you love him on accident. he says it back like he’s been holding it in for lifetimes (he has).

you move in. you paint the walls. he teaches you how to cook. but deep down, he’s waiting.

because something always comes. a sickness. a curse. a war. something that takes you.

he thinks maybe, this time, it won’t.

until it does.

you’re hit by a car.

no cursed spirits. no revenge. no evil. just a car. just a slick road. just stupid, awful, human randomness.

he sees it happen from across the street.

he’s too slow.

and it’s just like before. he holds you in his arms. your blood seeps into his shirt. you’re blinking up at him like you don’t want to go.

he’s shaking.

“don’t- don’t leave me,” he begs. “not again, please. please.”

you’re crying.

“toru,” you whisper. “i don’t… i don’t want to forget…”

he presses his forehead to yours. he’s sobbing now. you’ve never said that before. not once.

maybe you remember. maybe you don’t.

he kisses you. you die in his arms.

again.

he lives another life.

and another.

and another.

each time, he finds you.

in a garden. on a battlefield. in a subway station. in a storm. you always look different. but your soul is the same.

he’s tired. so tired.

but he keeps looking. keeps waiting. keeps finding you.

he wakes in a body that doesn’t belong to the name on the mail by the door. he’s in his thirties. again. new life, new skin. but he remembers.

and he knows, without needing to be told. this is the last one.

there’s something irreversible about it. sharp. infinite. a full stop at the end of a sentence centuries long. there are no curses here. no clans, no talismans, no death wrapped in duty. just cities that hum gently in the distance, and skies that bleed peach-orange at dusk.

the world is normal. he’s just a man now. and for the first time in hundreds of years... that’s enough.

he sees you on a thursday. you’re in his building. you live one floor down. he finds you in the shared laundry room, sleeves pushed up, your fingers flipping through a book while the machine hums behind you.

you look up when he steps in. and for a moment, it’s nothing. just the blink of a stranger seeing another stranger.

but then...

your eyes change. your lips part. your fingers go still on the page. and you say his name.

soft. uncertain. like a question carved from every lifetime you never got to finish asking.

“satoru?”

his breath punches out of him.

he stares at you. older, softer, utterly unfamiliar in every way that doesn’t matter. and somehow you know.

you drop the book. it hits the floor with a thump. your hands cover your mouth and you’re already crying. no hesitation, just recognition. grief, love, memory. spilling all at once like a dam giving way.

he crosses the room in a heartbeat. he’s holding you like you’ll vanish if he blinks too hard. and you bury yourself into him like you’ve done a hundred times before, in a hundred different forms, a hundred different deaths.

“you remember,” he whispers, stunned. cracked. “you remember.”

your fingers clutch the fabric of his shirt. you nod, tears slipping down your cheeks. “i remember everything,” you choke out. “every life. every time. i always loved you.”

and he breaks. completely.

because for lifetimes, he carried it all alone. every death, every kiss, every time you smiled without knowing why, every time you died without remembering him. but now... now, in a quiet building with humming machines and coffee-stained paperbacks— you do.

“you found me,” you whisper, tears caught on your lashes.

he laughs. it’s hoarse. broken. joyous. “of course i did,” he breathes. “i always do.”

your smile is wrecked. radiant. you touch his face like you’ve done it a thousand times. and this time. this one time. you say: “this time, i found you too.”

he kisses you in the hallway, beneath flickering fluorescent lights. it doesn’t matter. nothing matters except the feel of your mouth against his, the weight of your memories pressed between your chests.

this life is quiet. unmagical. miraculous.

there are no curses here. no fates to outrun. no knives between ribs or lives left unlived. just two people who’ve burned through eternity to get here.

and this time— you remember. you both do.

in this life, you begin again. not from scratch. but from everything you carried here.

together. fully. finally. forever.

[sims3alexsa]

Wintergreen world (beta)

Wintergreen is a charming Christmas town located in a picturesque mountain gorge. Here, amidst snowy landscapes, a magical Christmas market has unfolded, where you can find unique gifts and delicious treats. Guests are invited to enjoy snowboarding at the cozy ski resort, and after an active day, relax in stylish cafes with hot drinks. Don't forget to check out the toy and souvenir shops to take a piece of this winter fairy-tale world with you. Wintergreen is the perfect place to create unforgettable Christmas memories!

The world of Wintergreen was created as a vacation town for characters with the help of the Traveler mod. Here your characters will be able to enjoy a variety of Christmas activities.Thanks to the author douglasveiga, who shaped the snowman Frankie from Sims 2 in the world of Wintergreen appeared not only a wonderful animated snowman and a new radio holiday party, which is available on any music player in the town, to create a special Christmas atmosphere. Thanks to the creator @aroundthesims, and her wonderful set “winter fun station” your sims will be able to ride snowboards from a huge mountain at the ski resort.

There are sets of stor!

Installing the Wintergreen world:Install the Wintergreen world file to the following path:(x86) Program Files > The Sims 3 > GameData > Shared > NonPackaged > Worlds

Additional materials are divided into two folders ie folder “Packages” goes to your folder Packages and, respectively, the folder “Overrides” goes to your folder Overrides.For your convenience and numerous questions about the installation of fixes for sets of stor I installed them myself already in the necessary download folders.

Recommendations:

At the first boot in the world enter the code rozrabotkazhchik “testingcheatsenabled true” press the key “Shift” and click anywhere on the ground.In the options to change the time of year change to winter set the level of snow and temperature and play :)

Download World

Download (mirror)

Download CC

Download cc(mirror)

Acknowledgements:@aroundthesims;@Votenga;@douglasveiga;@martassimsbook;@arhitecturalsims;@Thefaery'sGifts;@Severinka;@potatoBalladsims.

Thank you for your work, without you I wouldn't have succeeded!

If you want to thank me, buy me a coffee.

Щасливого Різд��а!

[cod-thoughts]

Day 10 of 31 days of COD

Word count: 1.6k

Relationships: poly141

Tags: secret language, attempt at humour, secret signals, fluff

Ghost nodded almost imperceptibly, the shadow of a smile hidden beneath his mask. The mission had been routine—observe and extract. But in the middle of it, Ghost had subtly adjusted his glove twice and pulled at the edge of his neck gear, a signal meant only for his lovers: "I need you." Soap had returned the signal with a playful scratch of his chin, which to the uninitiated could’ve looked like nothing more than a face scratch, but to Ghost it was clear: "Not now, love. Patience." The recruits had been completely baffled, oblivious to the conversation happening around them. The four of them had barely been able to keep their composure, holding back laughter. Soap leaned back further, his grin widening. “I reckon next time, we give ‘em something even more ridiculous. See if they start copying us.” Keep reading under the cut or on AO3

Task Force 141 was legendary for a reason. To anyone on the outside, they were an elite unit of soldiers, perfectly in sync and always two steps ahead of the enemy. But for those few who were lucky enough to see beneath the surface, it became clear there was something more to their impeccable coordination. Their communication was flawless, almost preternatural, but what no one outside of the team knew was that it went far beyond tactical hand signals.

To the untrained eye, it might look like Price adjusting his hat or Ghost rolling his shoulders were nothing but muscle memory. In reality, these gestures were part of an intricate, silent language that only the four of them knew—a language that not only kept them alive on the battlefield but was also a reflection of the bond they shared as lovers.

It was evening in the safe house, the flicker of low light casting shadows on the walls, and the soft hum of the radio filling the background. Snow drifted outside, thickening in the cold air. Inside, the team was scattered around the room, each doing their own kind of preparation. Soap sat at the table, fingers tracing the edges of a map, his mind running through potential routes for the next mission. Gaz cleaned his rifle nearby, the methodical clicks of metal barely audible in the quiet. Ghost stood near the window, his eyes fixed on the snow-covered mountains, while Price lingered by the door, his ever-present cigar smouldering between his fingers.

Soap’s hand tapped lightly against the map twice—an action so small it could be mistaken for nothing more than impatience. But to his team, it was the opening line in an ongoing conversation. "Watch me."

Price took the signal, lowering his cigar just a fraction and raising an eyebrow, the subtlest of smirks tugging at the corner of his mouth. To anyone else, it would’ve looked like nothing, but Soap read it easily: "Go on, Johnny."

In the corner of the room, Ghost didn’t move from his post by the window, but his hand shifted slightly to adjust his gear. The movement was so fluid it would’ve been dismissed by anyone else, but for the team, it was his quiet contribution to the conversation. "I’m ready." Even as his gaze remained outward, scanning the horizon, Ghost was fully present.

Gaz, catching Soap’s subtle cue, didn’t even glance up from his rifle. Instead, his thumb clicked the safety off, then back on again—a soft metallic sound that only the team would notice. His message was clear: "I’m sharp, as always."

The four of them had developed this system over years of working together, but what had started as tactical necessity had grown into something far more personal. A signal didn’t just mean "I’ve got your six" or "Proceed." Now, it could mean "I miss you" or "Later, when we’re alone." It was a code that held layers of meaning depending on the context, blending their professional lives with the intimacy they shared behind closed doors.

Soap leaned back in his chair, a lazy smile spreading across his face. “Y’know,” he began casually, “I’ve been thinking...”

Price didn’t look up, but the flicker of his cigar in the dim light told Soap he was listening. “Dangerous thing, that.”

Soap grinned wider, clearly relishing the banter. “Maybe we ought to teach some of these signals to the rookies. See how long they last before they’re confused.”

Gaz chuckled softly, glancing up briefly from his rifle. “They’d be lost in the first five minutes, mate.”

“They’ve got enough to keep up with as is,” Price added, his tone amused. He knew where this conversation was going, and it was always a source of fun between them—watching the fresh recruits scramble, trying to understand what they thought were merely tactical gestures.

Ghost, as usual, remained silent but his body language told them all they needed to know. He adjusted his gloves again—twice, the smallest of movements that signalled "We’ll see."

“Remember that recon mission last week?” Gaz said, looking at Ghost. His mischievous smirk was barely concealed. “You threw them off with that glove thing.”

Ghost nodded almost imperceptibly, the shadow of a smile hidden beneath his mask. The mission had been routine—observe and extract. But in the middle of it, Ghost had subtly adjusted his glove twice and pulled at the edge of his neck gear, a signal meant only for his lovers: "I need you." Soap had returned the signal with a playful scratch of his chin, which to the uninitiated could’ve looked like nothing more than a face scratch, but to Ghost it was clear: "Not now, love. Patience." The recruits had been completely baffled, oblivious to the conversation happening around them. The four of them had barely been able to keep their composure, holding back laughter.

Soap leaned back further, his grin widening. “I reckon next time, we give ‘em something even more ridiculous. See if they start copying us.”

Price let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re a menace, Johnny. But not a bad idea.”

“Later,” Price added, straightening up from his position against the doorframe, “we’ll talk about that once this mission’s done.”

As much as they loved messing with the rookies, they had work to do, and the team knew when to buckle down. But the idea of their own little prank still lingered between them like a private joke waiting to be shared.

Soap stretched, rising from his seat and moving to the window where Ghost stood. His shoulder brushed against Ghost’s arm, a touch so light it could be mistaken for casual movement. But in reality, it was a signal: "You good?"

Ghost didn’t move, didn’t even look at him, but his hand twitched just enough to brush against Soap’s. "Always." The silent reassurance between them was enough.

As the evening wore on, the atmosphere in the room settled. They were close to mission time, and the focus was sharpening. Even so, the signals continued.

Price, who had been watching the room with a careful eye, made his way over to Gaz. His hand lightly tapped his chest twice, a gesture so subtle only Gaz would catch it. "I need you with me."

Gaz, ever reliable, nodded almost imperceptibly, his fingers brushing the table in reply. "I’m here. Always."

In moments like this, the signals weren’t about tactics. They were about reassurance—small, intimate moments of connection before the chaos of battle. Price, ever the leader, always checked in with his team, making sure they were all on the same page. But these days, it wasn’t just about making sure his men were ready for the mission; it was about making sure his lovers were okay, that they all understood the unspoken promise between them: "We come back to each other."

Soap, now leaning against the wall near Ghost, crossed his arms casually. His fingers drummed against his bicep in a slow, deliberate rhythm, one that the team instantly recognised: "Let’s make this fun."

Gaz caught it from the corner of his eye and responded with a barely-there shake of his head, his lips twitching upwards. "Later." Even in the midst of preparing for a dangerous op, Soap couldn’t resist teasing, couldn’t resist pushing for a moment of levity that would ease the tension in the room.

Price exhaled a slow breath, nodding towards the radio. It crackled to life, bringing them all back to the task at hand. They gathered their gear, each falling into their pre-mission rhythm, but even then, the signals didn’t stop.

Before they headed out, Price adjusted his hat once more, a signal known only to the team. It was so subtle, but it carried weight: "Stay close to me, and we’ll all make it back."

The night was cold and dark as they moved out, the snow crunching softly underfoot. Their mission went off without a hitch, but even in the thick of it, their signals continued, more necessary now than ever. Soap tapped his knife twice against his leg, letting Ghost know he was watching their flank. Ghost gave a nod in return, his hand brushing over his weapon in response: "I’m good. Keep moving."

At one point, Price gave a small flick of his wrist towards Gaz, signalling for him to move ahead. Gaz tapped his boot lightly in reply: "Got it."

The communication was flawless, and no words were needed. They moved as a single unit, operating in perfect harmony—something that had become second nature after all their years together. But beneath the tactical signals lay something far more intimate—a deep, unspoken trust that was rooted in love.

---

After the mission, the team returned to the safe house, tired but satisfied. As they stripped off their gear, the room once again filled with the easy banter that was so familiar to them.

Soap stretched out on the couch, his arm lazily flopping over his eyes. His fingers made a small gesture in Gaz’s direction, a loose wave that said: "Good work today, mate." Gaz, now sitting by the table, cleaning his rifle yet again, responded with a casual thumbs-up: "You too."

Ghost leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his gaze locked with Price’s. He didn’t move, but the intensity in his eyes said everything. There was no signal now—just a look that conveyed what words couldn’t. "I love you."

Price nodded, his expression softening, before finally letting out a contented sigh. "We’ll have that talk with the rookies later," he said, a smirk tugging at his lips. "But for now, I think we’ve earned a bit of quiet."

As they settled into the post-mission calm, the signals quieted, but the connection between them remained as strong as ever. Task Force 141 wasn’t just a unit—they were a family. And no matter where their next mission took them, they knew they’d always come back to each other.

Always.

[ryleigh130]

Frostbite- - - ryleigh130

Summary- reader gets hypothermia on a mission and the boys help warm them up.

Relationships- platonic!taskforce 141 & gn!reader

Characters- cap. price, soap, ghost, gaz.

Word count- 2.2k

Warnings- hypothermia, profanity, 2nd person pov [you/yours/yourself], usage of c/n [code name/call sign].

Note- This is my first ever fanfiction written on here so please leave me suggestions on how to improve! This story is inspired by the creator @python333 so go and check out their work it’s absolutely amazing! If you would like to leave a request for me to do a specific prompt feel free to message me! That’s it, thank you and I hope you enjoy! <33

It’s. Fucking. Cold. The three words repeat in your mind over and over again as you consider voicing your complaints to the team for what had to be the 8th time in the last 30 minutes. You couldn’t help it, it was cold. Freezing actually, you and the others were assigned a mission in the middle of butt fuck nowhere Siberia so excuse you for being cold.

To make matters worse for you, you’re the only 141 member currently suffering the biting cold as you were the one who drew the short end of the stick and got put on sniper duty whilst the others get to enjoy the warmth of actually being in the building they’re trying to get the info from.

With that thought, you sigh and shift your position slightly from where you are laying looking through the scope on your M107. It wouldn’t be so bad if you were actually moving around but instead, you’ve been laying in the same position, in the snow, for around 3 hours and you’re starting to loose feeling in your fingers and toes.

“[c/n], how copy” your radio sparks to life as the gruff, British accent of your Captain comes through.

“Still fucking cold, are we almost done here? I’m freezing my balls off out here” you groan, tentatively flexing your fingers trying to spark life back into them.

A low chuckle is heard over the radio as you can practically hear Price roll his eyes from where he is positioned, “you’ve mentioned. But yes, as soon as Soap plants the bombs we should be good to go. How’s it looking Soap?” A clicking can be heard over the radio when suddenly the loud, Scottish voice of John “Soap” MacTavish booms through,

“Aye Cap’n, jist aboot done” you hear another click and a hushed exclaim of victory, “Aw set!” You practically let out a cry of relief at the thought of going back to the safe house and getting warm,

“Took you long enough!” Gaz’ teasing voice pipes up before promptly getting shut up,

“Oh shut it you bawbag” Soap’s voice is light as you hear their footsteps going down the halls to escape the building. You watch through the scope of your rifle making sure to keep an eye out for any rouge enemies that might be hanging around the building the team was gathering the info from. You see Gaz leave the building first, followed by Price and finally Soap. You frown slightly, waiting a few moments before radioing,

“Ghost, how copy” you wait a few seconds before radioing in again, this time sounding more worried, “Ghost, ho-“ before you could finish your sentence, Ghost’s voice, accompanied by the sounds of gunshots filter through

“Solid copy.” He grunts out “I’ve got a few on my tail now but I’m taking care of it” you hear more gunshots as you look through your scope trying to spot Ghost’s form. Suddenly, an alarm rings through the building, you watch as dozens of enemy soldiers flood into the building your team once occupied,

“Fuck Ghost, incoming” you manage to warn before you hear Price’s loud and commanding voice boom,

“Ghost! Get out of there now! We need to detonate this thing now!” You hear Ghost reply with a short grunt. You watch as Ghost’s body runs out from the quickly populating building spraying round after round at accompanying enemies following. You try and help the best you can picking off as many enemies as possible before you hear Soap’s shout,

“CLEAR!” And with that, the building goes up in flames. You duck your head from where you’re positioned to avoid the ash and debris from the burning building,

“All Bravos, how copy?” You hear Price’s voice through the slight ringing of your ears,

A chorus of “Solid, copy”’s respond to the Captain, including your own as you begin to pack your weapon up to head out.

“Brilliant, alright everyone good work. Let’s regroup at the safe house 5 clicks from this position.” A murmur of approvals ring through the coms as you absentmindedly hum your approval and mute your radio. You finish packing up your gear when you hear a twig snap somewhere close by. You perk up and draw your M18 from where it’s positioned in the small holster on your thigh. As quiet as a mouse you sneak through the snowy brush to where the noise originated, peaking through the tree line your heart sinks to the bottom of your stomach as you see a squadron of about 9 soldiers approaching your position.

Fuck me. You practically groan, you know you won’t be able to take them all down at the same time so you do the only sensible option, you run. Expertly navigating through the snowy taiga, you run, duck, and jump over the obstacles in front of you. You can hear the pounding of footsteps behind you and the whizzing of bullets flowing past your body, barely missing their target. You run until your lungs burn and your eyes water from the cold air. You look around seemingly cornered by the enemy soldiers and the barren landscape when you spot it. A frozen over lake and possibly your one chance at survival, without a chance to second guess yourself, you’re running towards the lake. You hear yelling in the distance followed by more gunshots as you continue towards the lake. You reach the shoreline and tentatively put your body weight on the ice, judging by the fact it didn’t immediately crack, you take the risk and start sliding toward the other side. Luckily you are small and light enough to be able to tread across the slippery surface. You look over your shoulder to see the soldiers staring at you and continuing to try and shoot you. Before you could react, a stray bullet embeds into the icy surface and a loud crack and be heard. You look down in terror as the ice begins to crack and splinter. With a new objective in mind, you quicken your pace to the reach the other side of the frozen lake.

It’s too late. You’re about 3/4ths of the way when the ice suddenly relents under your weight and you get plunged into the deep icy depths of the water. The icy water causes your body to immediately freeze and jolt in pain as the below freezing water feels like pins and needles getting pushed into your skin slowly. You sink toward the bottom of the frozen pool before your mind catches up with your body and a gasp of air leaves your mouth. You’re choking on the icy water as you struggle against the cold, slowly and painfully you make your way back towards the surface. Your head emerges from the water first, then followed by your hands as you desperately try and grab onto something to be able to drag yourself out of the water. You can’t get a grip on the slippery surface causing you to gasp and sink back into the water, kicking your feet one final time you propel yourself out of the water and onto the ice. With the last bit of your remaining energy you fling yourself to the safety of solid ground on the other side of the lake.

You lay on the snowy ground shivering violently. You look out at the side of the lake where you came from and notice the soldiers were gone, must’ve thought I was a goner, you think bitterly. You don’t have time to reminisce on it as the wind picks up and reminds you that you are currently shivering, wet, and unable to feel your own body. Weakly, you try and turn on your radio to signal for help. You almost cry when you realize it’s gone, you must’ve lost it when you fell in. Coughing violently, you shakily get on your feet, stumbling once, then twice, you manage to stand and take unsteady steps towards where you assume the safe house should be.

The hike takes longer than it should’ve as you continuously stumbled and fell, taking longer than you care to admit to get back up and continue. It’s around 1700 judging by the just setting sun, when the small cabin comes into view. You almost weep in relief when you see it, you pick up your pace into a small run and, promptly fall down face first into the snow. You lay in the snow no longer shivering as your body begins to shut down, No! Not like this, I’m right there! You feel yourself thinking. You feel as if you hear a noise that resembles a door opening and voices yelling but you chalk that up to your imagination as your vision slowly fades into black. With one last tired breath you close your eyes and let the warmth take over you.

When you wake up, you’re burning, and not in a nice way. You feel as if your skin is on fire and is about to melt off your bones. It hurts, painfully so and you make sure to vocalize your discomfort with a pained screech. You try moving your body away from the burning heat but your muscles won’t respond to your brain so you can do nothing more then just let out pained screeches as tears flow down your face. Faintly you can hear hushed voices trying desperately to soothe you but you’re too out of it to notice. With one last screech you black out, in the back of your head you feel as if you can feel a hand card through your hair.

When you wake up again, the pain is still there but significantly lessened. You can feel yourself lying on what you assume to be a mattress with possibly the fluffiest blanket you’ve ever felt on top of you. You try opening your eyes, the light took adjusting to but after a moment you are able to look around the room where you are laying in. Almost immediately you spot the sleeping form of Captain John Price, he’s leaning back in the old wooden chair he’s on with his mouth open in a soft snore. His hand is laying on your covered leg comfortably, he looks tired and worried like he hasn’t slept in a good while. You look around the room trying to figure out where you are before you make yourself known. With a small clearing of your throat Price violently jerks awake and stares at you for a moment before he moves into action,

“Jesus Christ you’re awake!” He states as he starts to worry over you. He gently takes his hand and puts it over your forehead, frowning at what he feels, he moves toward yours eyes. With a flashlight he checks your eyes and nods once before setting the flashlight back aside. Once he finishes his initial exam, he surges forwards and wraps you in a tight embrace,

“NEVER do that again, you hear me?!” He started firmly, his voice laced with clear worry and concern. You chuckle lowly and rasp out,

“My bad, next time I wanna take a quick dip in the pool I’ll wait until summer.” This obviously was the wrong response as Price fixes you with a firm glare,

“I’m serious [c/n]! Do you have any idea how worried we were! First, you were MIA for 2 hours! Then, you show up DRENCHED in −5 °C weather! And THEN, we find you face down in the bloody snow! [y/n] we thought you were dead!” He scolds. You look down with a light blush of shame tinting your cheeks but before you could apologize, the door slams open causing you and Price to jump. In rushes both Soap and Ghost as they storm over to your bedside. Soap grabs your hand and holds it to his face,

“Steamin Jesus kid, ye gave us quite the scare there.” He says into your palm, Ghost approaches his side and stares at you in worry,

“How are you feeling?” He asks. You open your mouth to respond when suddenly footsteps echo through the hall and Gaz comes barreling into the room.

“[c/n]!” He rushes to your bedside and pulls you into a tight hug,

“Gaz! Quit it! Ye gonna hurt the lad” Soap scolds immediately as Gaz pulls away sheepishly with a muttered apology. You take a moment to gather your thoughts before looking back up at the team you consider family.

“M’sorry” you mutter out, tears threatening to fall, “they- they came so quickly and and I tired to run but I couldn’t lose ‘em so I tried to cross the lake but then they shot at it and I fell in and itwassocold-“ your rambling coming to a stop when a firm hand lands on your shoulder. You look up to see Price, Ghost, Gaz, and Soap staring at you with an unreadable expression.

“Hey, hey kid. It’s ok, it’s ok. You’re safe now” Price soothes gently. “It’s gonna be alright we’re here.” He continues giving you a soft look. You nod looking at your shaking hands when suddenly clothed hands cover your own. You look at Ghost as he warms your still cold hands with his own, you feel a hand in your hair and smile as you lean into Price’s touch. Soap and Gaz bring up a chair next to your bedside and sit close to you, protectively shielding your body from further harm. With the team you consider family so close to you, you give into your quickly tiring eyes and fall into a deep, comfortable sleep.

[arcadiabaytornado]

Life Is Strange Holiday Headcanon's:

A: Max is an extremely intense tree decorator. Not a branch can be bare, and not an ornament can be spared. Good luck to anyone decorating with her because she takes putting her homemade decorations on with the seriousness of a Marine.

B: Steph has worked retail before, so she HATED holiday music, which made her radio job nearly intolerable in December. But that all changed when she started dating Alex and learned she had a soft spot for the classics. Watching Alex sing "Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer" on her guitar single-handily reinspired her love of holiday music.

C: Sean, Daniel, and Lyla all have matching stocking's hanging in the Diaz's home. Sean and Daniel took turn's putting their stocking in the middle so it could be closer to Lyla's, to the point where Esteban banned them from touching the stocking's until it was time to open gift's.

D: Rachel and Chloe always joked that they were going to run off and see the NYC tree lighting. Well, one year, Chloe decided to bring their joke a little bit closer to reality and host a little tree lighting of their own. So, yeah, they lit dead tree's that had been left at the junkyard on fire. It wasn't exactly what Rachel had in mind, but she'd be lying if she said she wasn't enthralled by the whole thing.

More Undercut

E: The running joke in the Diaz family is that Daniel is permanently on the naughty list for biting a mall Santa when he was two. Sean think's the joke is hilarious, but Daniel actually feel's really bad. Both about the biting AND the worry he's getting robbed out of gifts for his transgression.

F: Alex buy's holiday gifts for everyone throughout the year. Partially because it stresses her out to wait to the last minute, but also partially because she loves giving custom things and those can take awhile to get commissioned. She bought Steph's gift (A few custom DND figures of all the people that live in Haven) in February and she bought Ryan's gift (A hand carved cardinal with either a platonic or romantic engraving on it's base.) in July.

G: Chloe got in trouble at school one time for telling a particularly unpleasant kid that Krampus was real and would eat them if they didn't start behaving better. She was so convincing that the kid cried and the teacher called home. William thought it was unfortunately hilarious. Joyce was...not super pleased. Max still brings it up and jokes that Krampus is going to get her if she doesn't give her girlfriend enough kisses.

H: Max and Chloe have had very intense debate's about which holiday songs they'd be. Max says that she's very "Winter Wonderland" coded while Chloe is a "Snow Miser/Heat Miser" type of a gal. Chloe would argue that Max is more of a "Twelve Days Of Christmas" type and she is more of a "Jingle Bell Rock" type.

I: Rachel loves the holiday reason for the sole reason that she LOVES holiday themed treats. Gingerbread, mint, cinnamon, eggnog, and pumpkin are all some of her favorite flavor's. She's a regular at the Two Whales at this time of year, and so devoted to her like of festive flavors that she's managed to convince Chloe that gingerbread is good.

J: Ryan volunteered to be Haven's resident Santa Claus. He dresses up every year and goes house to house bringing small gifts for everyone in town. After the events of True Colors he get's Alex involved in the fun by having her go with him as The North Pole's most important elf. He love's watching how much joy she get's when handing Ethan a video game that they're totally going to play as a group later.

[chutefullofholes]

020. jamming out to a christmas song, and inflicting the pain of holiday songs on someone else. - for Bucky, please 🥹

Their house at the end of the road came into view as Gale turned the truck onto their street, headlights cutting through the early dusk. The Christmas lights their neighbors had put up blinked against the snow, the inflatable reindeer John had convinced him to stick in their own front yard rocking a little from the wind.

Inside the truck John's singing carried over the hum of the engine, and the voice of Bing Crosby's rendition of the Twelve Days of Christmas coming through the radio. Gale failed at stifling a laugh when his voice cracked- his husband remaining undeterred and not needing his encouragement anyways when he had his own cheerleader.

"Daddy you needta' do Jingle Bells," Josie piped up from the backseat, leaning forward as much as she could to make her request.

“All right, all right,” John said and grabbed for his phone to queue it up on Spotify.

As he turned the volume up Gale passed their house and made a left to do another loop around the neighborhood.

“Wouldn’t want to cut the show short,” He said, a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth when John squeezed his knee.

As the final notes of Jingle Bells faded out Gale guided the truck up the driveway, the motion sensor light above the garage flickering. It needed a new bulb, but the Christmas lights dangling off the roof served the same purpose for now.

Climbing out of the truck after John, the cold bit at his face at the same second Josie barreled into the side of his legs. Snow crunched under all their boots, John shoving his hands in his pockets, grin lingering.

"Not itching for an encore?" He joked and bumped his shoulder, Gale's chuckling.

Josie unfurled from Gale to walk in between them, hopping a little with each step. "I think you sing pretty daddy," She chimed in, giggling at the sight of her breath making clouds in the cold.

"Thank you baby," John said as he ruffled her hair to the extent that he could over her beanie. He stopped just before Gale reached for the door, catching the back of his elbow.

"Hey," He started, teasing edge gone from lowered voice. "You okay?"

Gale paused, his gaze lingering on John’s face for a moment before looking down at Josie, still giggling at the sight of her own breath.

"Yeah, just," He started, wetting his lips and blinking against the snowflakes in his lashes. He glanced down at Josie and back up at John, lump forming in his throat that he couldn't press down. "Good, good to be together,"

John only faltered for a few seconds before he moved his arm up around his shoulders to tug him just a little closer, pressing a kiss to the edge of his forehead. He dropped his voice just enough for Gale to hear as he pulled back, gloved thumb rubbing where it had come to rest on his neck.

"'m glad I stayed too.”

“I’m co-ld,” Josie interrupted, tugging at the side of both their coats, bouncing on her heels.

Gale chuckled softly, as he shifted his focus to typing in the door code. “Yeah, yeah, I hear you, bug. We’re going,”

When he got the door open John brushed ahead of him to lift Josie up over the threshold first, not putting her down inside the house until he'd given her a good spin.

When he set her on her feet Gale took over helping her get her winter layers off, catching John's eyes as he pulled the undid the buttons on her coat. It was the same tenderness he always found when he caught him staring, but there was a flicker of something else there now.

Josie took off running the second she was down to just her dress and tights, Gale standing back up to hang her stuff on the hook, glancing behind himself to make sure she was out of earshot before he spoke.

“Are you okay?” He asked quietly and John hummed, as he shed his jacket, dropping it on the bench by the door and reaching out to hold Gale's face in one hand, pulling him in for a soft kiss.

“Mhm,” John replied. “Don't think I've ever been better,”

When John stepped back Gale caught himself thinking about how, not long ago he would've been making himself nauseous trying to work out whether he could believe his husband's own assurances or not.

But Josie’s voice came through from the living room, calling for them both, and the smile that reached his eyes said more than enough to quash that ghost.

Every good day is another day that what you left behind is in the past, his therapist had said a few weeks ago, and Gale had understood what she meant at the time- but her voice in his head had a way of suddenly reaching just a notch deeper.

“Hold your horses, Jos, we’re comin’!” John called out, his voice affectionate as he kicked off his shoes, and leaned in for another kiss before nudging Gale down the hallway toward the sound of their daughter.

Gale exhaled and smiled as he walked ahead of him, his cheeks flushed half from the lingering chill and half from the warmth spreading through him.

[eilissxx]

hello everyone, today I will tell you how I would develop Mileven's relationship if I were a scenarist and they were the main couple of the series 🥰🥰

(yes, including that Will is in love with Mike)

Ok, let's imagine that Mike is a really VERY good friend who decided to go looking for Will at night in the dark forest after will goes missing, where he finds El. Let's make Lucas and Dustin the antagonists of their love story - they will not trust El and literally force her to look for Will, while Mike will see that El is very exhausted and tired of using her powers. I would insert many other scenes with Mileven, for example where Mike would read to her or teach her how to play nintendo or dnd. They would talk a lot more and El would tell him about Papa and the lab. When the guys find Will's "corpse", Lucas and Dustin will be the ones yelling at El, and Mike will protect her and go home with her, where there will be a scene of them hugging each other calmingly. All the other actions in the series will remain almost the same, except that Mileven won't kiss.

in the second season, Mike would assure everyone that El is alive, although absolutely everyone else thinks that this is not so. He would continue to call her on the radio and starts looking for a lot of information and stories about the lab and Brenner, accidentally comes across information about Terry (like Hopper in the first season) and learns, for example, some rumor that a girl who can move objects was seen near Terry's house. Mike goes there, but arrives too late and goes to Pennsylvania, since Terry's sister said that El would be there. Mileven meet completely by chance after El escapes from 008, and they have a very emotional reunion. They go home together, where they meet the others. Afterwards, they go to the snow ball, but, again, do not kiss.

in the third season, Mike will be the one helping El learn new things in the world - he will run away from Hopper with her, drag her to shops and cinema. They will go through the school curriculum, and others will make fun of them like "you are so in love" (a cliche, but where would we be without it?), Mike will make El friends with Max. In this case, I wrote the scene of the Bylers' argument somewhere in the first episode - Will will simply be jealous, and then he will hear a Russian code with Dustin and go with Steve's team, Robin, etc. to the Russian base. Mileven would have a conversation in which Mike would explain to El what falling in love is, he would already understand that he loves El, but does not want to pressure her, because he knows what she has been through. Again, we insert a bunch of scenes with Mileven and some small quarrel (for example, Mike will forbid El to use her powers, since he will be very worried about her), and in the end they have a super cute reconciliation and hugs, before Byers-Hopper family leaves for California. Mike and Will are talking too and Will starts to let him go.

In the fourth Mike gets Vecha'd. Not right away. First Mike comes to California for vacation, they spend their day with Will and El well for everyone, and when El is humiliated by Angela, Mileven has a conversation, the main reason for which is that El did not tell Mike that she was bullied at school (she did not tell about it because she did not want to be uncool for him, and Mike was upset that El did not fully trust him). Then El is taken to the lab and the others go after her, but!!! we change Argyle to a nice kind good handsome guy Will's age, who came with a pizza delivery, let's call him Stan (because the WillArgyle couple sounds scary). Between the whole trip, we are shown a conversation between Mike and Will, where Will admits that he had feelings for him, and Mike does not reciprocate, but everything remains the same between them. There will also be a bunch of scenes of Will and Stan with heartfelt conversations and support. All this time, Mike will not notice the signs of Vecna's presence and will simply think that he is imagining things. The four of them get to Nina's project much earlier, Mike meets Brenner and Owens and argues with them because of El. Mileven make peace and talk a lot together, Mike supports her. Later, they learn that Max is in danger and El goes against all odds to fight Vecna, but everyone notices that "something is going wrong" - suddenly Vecna ​​takes Mike at gunpoint, El does not have time to save him and Mike ends up in a coma.

I can't really say anything about Mileven in season 5, it just hasn't come out yet, but I'm sure Mike would have been an incredibly important character and would have had a deep connection with El that would have helped them win. The whole slowburn thing would have ended with them kissing in season 5, and Will would have accepted himself, completely let go of Mike in season 4 and started dating Stan (yeah, no van scene).

In conclusion, i can only say that this is an insanely easy trope to write, which even the most inexperienced writers in the world can come up with. However, the scriptwriters went the other way, and don't even tell me that they simply didn't think of the option i suggested. The story of Mileven can be harmoniously watched ONLY in the format of a slow development of a relationship, which in this case has a deep emotional connection and understanding, which we never saw.

anyway, Byler is endgame.

[fallout-mountains]

Thoughts on Fallout 4 companions after playing the game for a bit and reading a whole lot of headcanons and fanfic and reactions:

- Hancock said he didn’t want to look at this face in the mirror and decides to do a drug instead of surgery. That’s some real self-hate there.

- There’s so much self-flagellation

- One the same note, ghouls can’t go under surgery?

- Someone mentioned that quests for the minuteman could have been handed out by the Freedom radio, instead of Preston, so that more backstory could be given to Preston.

- Nick and Deacon we’re probably thought to be too old and they didn’t want it to be creepy of hooking up with an older guy…(sigh)

- That it’s easy to write Sole to be compatible with everyone, since the game allows you to role play that character in many ways.

- MacCready’s backstory is both endearing and weird (because of him not going to see his son). I think the people who made the game didn’t want to bother with coding him leaving for a bit and then coming back, but… really? Should have changed the background story a bit to at least add that he needs to stay in case the medication didn’t work (or something like that)

- Deacon since he changes his face and has seemingly traveled could be in another Fallout game, any of them…

- Since Deacon changes his appearance, you get more attached to his voice. (He also has some very interesting things to say.)

- That when Deacon changes his face, Dezdemona is there the whole to verify it’s still him.

- Nick rolls with the punches, and has a very good emotional IQ, moreso than any of the other companions. He’s so even keel emotionally, that the Far harbor expansion hits a bit harder, because that’s where you see more of His emotion.

- Piper would be the best to adapt to our world

- Majority of the ways people can become your companions is weird why they even offer. (Like why would Hancock travel with Sole and not another person who wasn’t part of quest to raid their warehouse? Doesn’t Piper have other stories to investigate? Doesn’t Deacon have missions to do? Why isn’t Strong following Rex Goodman around? Nick has plenty of other cases to just run around randomly)

- Paladin Danse says that he wasn’t sure about Sole but also highly recommends you join the Brotherhood. So which is it? Also, I only did like one big quest for them and I am given a power armor.

- Is the reason they complain about picking up stuff is that eventually they have to carry some of it?

- Ada is a good companion, but doesn’t offer a perk, hence the reason probably not talked about a lot because no reason to travel with her

- I don’t know why the institute is doing what they are doing

- I really wish they could mark the clothes that can go under a person’s armor.

- Why are people wearing scarves? Is it cold there because it never seems to snow.

- I find it interesting that the companions all generally know each other or at least the have swapping dialogs that make it seem that way. (Curie has literally been locked away for 200 years.)

- They have veritbirds but no land vehicles. There’s supposedly caravans, but no wagons? Would it be too dangerous to have that?

I probably have more, but that’s for now

[theterrorreversebang]

Presenting, for your viewing and reading pleasure: the final collection of this year's Terror Reverse Bang, a feast of gorgeous artwork, beautiful fic, friendship, laughter, tears, …some horny. OK, a lot of horny.

You can find the AO3 collection for the event here. Summaries and links to the artwork below the cut.   

Thank you all for going on this fantastic journey with us.

Eat well and enjoy.

- ❤️, Charlie and Vio 

amateur operator (T, hickey/irving tozer/irving, 10.5k)

artwork and concept by entangled_system

fic by pointyshades

At an isolated research station at the top of a warming world, in the most inhospitable place on Earth for communications, John Irving studies signal propagation - and studiously avoids the obvious metaphor. John’s had a lot of practice at ignoring the obvious, but when an improbable random contact with an amateur radio operator calling himself "EC" leads to even more improbable regular contact with the same operator, not even John can ignore the ridiculous reality: a growing relationship with someone he knows only by their call sign; a relationship conducted half in Morse code.

John's real-life connections aren't going half so well, and neither is his research: his radio equipment keeps suffering accidents, and he can't stop getting into arguments with Sergeant Tozer, the man assigned to help him fix it. Frustrated, he turns even further toward his relationship with EC - and finds himself being urged down a path of paranoia as to who is actually damaging his equipment.

an arcane kind of murder (M, fitzier, 7.5k)

artwork and concept by pretendingday

fic by shakespeares_girl

At the Baronet Franklin's annual tourney, a series of murders begins. Francis is pressed into investigating, with the help of James Fitzjames. But Lord Franklin won't cancel the tournament, and the murders are getting more and more violent.

as per my last email (E, joplittle, 67.2k)

artwork and concept by mitarashi8

fic by manicpixiedreamjop

Edward Little has lived his life the way he thought he was supposed to. He went to a good university, got a good job as the head of PR at Erebus men’s magazine, and bought a home. He blames the fact that he hans’t dated since university on the fact that he doesn’t have time and not the fact that it terrifies him, and spends what little free time he has trying to pretend he isn’t miserable.

His neighbour Thomas Jopson has lived his life the only way he knows how. He fought his way from a childhood in foster care into a degree and a career that he loves, spending his days doing social work and his evenings volunteering with a local nonprofit supporting queer youth in the foster system. He plans his days down to the second, hardly allowing himself time for anything outside of work and sleep, but he is, at least mostly, satisfied.

When Edward’s boss is quoted saying something homophobic, it’s Edward’s job to clean up the mess, which leads him to the nonprofit that Thomas volunteers with. This new connection has the potential to turn both Edward and Thomas’ lives upside down. If only the two of them actually liked each other.

barghest. (T, joplittle, 10.3k)

artwork and concept by oughtnots

fic by derry_rain

Edward Little is a humble accountant in the late 1920s, but he has lately become haunted by visions of death: his own death, in the form of a great black dog not unlike one that bit him as a child. When his endless visions of ice and snow and the black dog won't end, he finds himself turning to a paranormal private eye: Thomas Jopson.

be that my cue to crave you (E, little/le vesconte, 9.6k)

artwork and concept by bilgewater01

fic by orchis

“If I could eat anything right now—”

“Henry.”

“Anything at all, from all the dishes and delicacies I've ever stuffed my face with—”

“Henry.”

“I think I'd go for an apple,” he finishes. “How awfully pedestrian of me. Nothing fancy, just an apple, and I don't even have the strong teeth for it anymore.”

“Henry.”

He huffs. “I hear you,” he says, and Edward can imagine him frowning, lips pursed. He wishes he could see him in the dark. “Tell me what you'd have, then, and I'll shut up about it.”

As the dark winters of the Arctic stretch before him, Edward yearns and craves and waits.

dear john (T, hodgson/irving/little, 16.6k)

artwork and concept by turnofthesentry

fic by mxjopsonfan

When John receives an anonymous love letter he resolves immediately to find the culprit. Little does he know that he is about to go on a voyage of self-discovery, realisations of deep affection, and three of her Majesty's naval Lieutenants showing how incapable they are of being Normal About Feelings.

ice wine (M, fitzier, 19.9k)

artwork and concept by o-rchidae

fic by melismata

Sir John, English wine pioneer, has survived every crisis since the 70s. Surely three bad harvests and a global pandemic aren't such a big deal? Fortunately, everyone else at Parable Wines agrees the business urgently needs saving. Unfortunately, no-one agrees how.

iceblink luck (M, fitzier, 30.4k)

artwork and concept by marella-moon - x

fic by perenial

October, 1987. With the Thatcher government entering its third term, Defence minister Sir John Franklin looks to offload two of his dockside London properties: one, a successful dance school directed by celebrated principal danseur James Fitzjames, and the other, a century-old boxing gym helmed by former middleweight Olympic hopeful turned disgraced misanthrope Francis Crozier.

In a show of generosity, Franklin offers Crozier the chance to buy out the gym he's poured over a decade of work into. It should be the opportunity he's been waiting for – except Crozier's barely keeping the gym afloat as it is, and Franklin's asking price far exceeds his means. With only one month to cough up the funds or forfeit the gym, Crozier finds himself backed into a corner, fighting for a piece of history he refuses to let go and against a past that's just waiting for him to give in.

matching such unlikes (G, fitzier, 7.5k)

artwork and concept by asparklethatisblue

fic by acephalous

In which Sir John tries his hand at matchmaking: after all who could be a more perfect match for his dear niece than James Fitzjames?

our flag means mutiny (T, hickey/gibson, 8.5k)

artwork and concept by o-rchidae

fic by borderparasol

Cornelius Hickey, William Gibson, and Solomon Tozer have successfully pulled off a grand mutiny, stealing HMS Terror to sail on the open seas and live their life free from the shackles of the Empire, plundering and making their living as pirates!

So...now what? And does anybody know how to fish?

provenance (M, jopzier fitzier silna/goodsir, 7.7k)

artwork and concept by kaupaint

fic by hangingfire

Three relics of the lost Franklin Expedition.

“Don't you get it yet? It must act like a recording, fixed in the floor and the walls. Right in the substance of them, a trace of what happened in there. And we pick it up. We act as detectors, decoders, amplifiers … It would have to be in the stone.”

—The Stone Tape, Nigel Kneale, 1972

reform your behaviour (E, irving/jopson, 9.4k)

artwork and concept by royaielfroot

fic by somelikeitred (ringofboubt)

After finding Hickey and Gibson in a compromising position, Lieutenant Irving intends to inform the Captain immediately. But when he finds Jopson first the Captain's steward persuades him to be lenient.

“Is it necessary to condemn the men -," Jopson considered his words, searching for the phrasing least likely to spook the lieutenant, "-over a desire for companionship? Is it so unforgivable for a man to be lonely?”

John studied him carefully; unable to formulate any response. Surely, Jopson could not be arguing that such vices were acceptable.

sent to the sea (E, annfitzrossier, 10.4k)

artwork and concept by brainyraccoons

fic by swanfloatieknight

After James Ross rescued them, Francis and James return to London in 1848. Francis lives with the Rosses in married bliss.

If only he could stop thinking about James Fitzjames, the bond they shared in the Arctic, and the last letter he sent that Fitzjames never replied to.

sweet to tongue, sound to eye (T, hodgson/irving/little, 10.1k)

artwork and concept by brimstone-cowboy

fic by unnecessary

After an Admiralty party bidding them farewell, the lieutenants get lost in Hampstead Heath. But not all is as it seems...

those wretched beings (M, multiple characters, 7.8k)

artwork and concept by melisusthewee

fic by notinmylab

A very literal take on the idea that colonialism is an infectious disease and that English ships are the carriers. Or, a zombie AU where Something Else is on the ice with them.

unerring devotion (T, jopzier, 7.5k)

artwork and concept by awhbeans

fic by yellow

Everyone else called Francis Frank, but in the quiet of their tent Thomas called him Francis.

Francis wore his two identities awkwardly, like an ill-fitting suit he couldn’t take off. He slipped into old fashioned speech and complained that people thought it affected. But Thomas liked it, just like he liked that Francis still let him call him Francis, and didn’t insist they were different people now. Quite the opposite.

If anything, Thomas was the one who had taken his two lives and separated them neatly, folded them and put them away. With Francis he could take out Thomas and put it on, like crawling into another skin. It was worn and battered but Francis seemed to like it best, and Thomas was glad of it.

---

Thomas Jopson and Francis Crozier are reincarnated. They find each other, and then they set out to find their missing men.

unknown by name or rank (E, joplittle, 17.1k)

artwork and concept by mitarashi8

fic by hypallepse

Years after the Great War, in a tiny illegal pub in the British countryside, Thomas met an awkward veteran and Edward a mysterious war nurse. They almost crashed in their desire to get to know each other, they shared an evening like no other, before having their night cut short by a police raid. How to find the other back with no memory of each other’s name or address? Why even try?

Both of them will stumble in the dark, battling the remnants of the war, unaware of the secret they will unearth in their effort to get that new chance at life.

[camcorderstatic]

hey, do you have any clue what these mean?

Snow Lieutenant 12 21 Light Livht LiVht Fl0w Bloxy Bloxade Hot sauce Nocturne Piece no.6 Xiety 6:7-21 Daisy, radio Realm. Ocean ####### LIGHT

5

Therap

These came to me from seamajor/ senior sea and I think lieutenant snow? I’ve been wondering about this since December and I think you’re my best hope

Oh Jesus, what the hell is this, a code from the zodiac killer? …

… Well, Daisy and Radio definitely have a connection, I can tell you that. The Hot Sauce may be of significance too? Light is a clear indicator of something, and uh … I know all too well about the #######.

I don’t really know how to help you though. All I can really say is keep your eyes wide open, and look for details otherwise overseen.

[breakerwhiskey]

261 - TWO HUNDRED SIXTY ONE

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit atypicalartists.co/support.

If you'd like to send Whiskey a message, click here.

Transcript under the cut. For more episodes, click here.

Breaker, breaker, this is whiskey calling out to one and all.

[click, static]

Hi, everybody. I know it's been a minute. I’m—I'm weirdly nervous talking to you now. Now that I know that people are listening. Now that I know that people across infinite timelines are listening, it's a lot of pressure. I feel like I have a little inkling of what Jean Shepard would have felt getting on the radio every night, except I actually think I probably have more listeners than Jean, which yeah, I actually can't think about that very much or I will get even more nervous.

[static]

As an update because some of you have seemed curious— we’re doing good, I think. Not too much has changed since my last transmission. We're still where we were, although I think we're going to have to head down the mountain soon. The weather is changing and I don't think we want to be here when the snow comes. Well, when the snow really comes, there is already snow because we're that high up. But we can't survive a winter here, not with how thin these walls are. As for where we go next, I don't know. I know I probably won't be telling you. Not because I don't want you guys to know, but because. Well, you know, people may be listening and I don't want to invite any more trouble than I already am inclined to do, just living my life.

[static]

Harry and I are good for the most part. I mean, we've had a few blow up, knock down, drag out fights. Well, you know, a dozen, maybe. Nothing— nothing earth shattering, just the usual. Although now we have a a different mode of conflict resolution, by which I mean we actually make attempts at conflict resolution now and in a way that I think is very productive. Maybe not talking things out as much as we should, but I don't think either of us can complain. So. Yeah, we're. We're okay.

Not much else to report. Not much has changed. Haven't heard from Birdie or from Fox since that last big transmission, but I have been hearing from a lot of you. We spend most of our days sifting through all the different messages we get. Some of them are like this, and a lot of them are Morse code, which I don't think either of us were expecting necessarily. But it's nice to have somebody else with me to translate the Morse code.

One of you…one of you sent a morse code message asking if this was real. You said it was a cool project and that that threw me because does that mean that somehow you, whoever you were that send that message, you're back in the normal world and this was coming through on your normal radio and you thought, hey, maybe there's another Orson Welles joint or something of that kind. Does this sound like a story to you? Like I'm just an actor pretending to be somebody stuck somewhere. I—I’m glad that you thought it was cool. In any case, I don't know that I would categorize it that way because it's my life, but yeah.

Yeah, it’s real.

[static]

[senka-mesecine]

This is gonna be an insane sentence and do only what you’re comfortable doing but possible cockwarming and/or authoritative play with Sergeant Barnes? 👀

Hole.

Robert Barnes x Reader.

---

Weirder things have happened.

You've seen the blind eye turned to more blatant madness, that's for sure.

You just never figured things would escalate so far as for you to be embroidered right in the middle of it all and how casual it all seemed in the moment, the men of the barracks drinking quietly, indulging in a poker game, someone stumbling out inebriated judging by the thumping of footsteps and the nearby radio playing a muted tune mingled with the odd murmur, leaving you supposing they all knew in spite of business seeming as usual, because how could they not --- it was blatantly obvious that you were separated just by a blackout hanging above the mattress --- a courtesy for you, you understood and not for Bob --- he didn't need this shit. He would've done this exact same thing in front of everyone and not blink an eye. This was for you; a lowered tent's wing standing between you and the rest of the casern as you lay sprawled out on his bunk. They all saw you walk in here at dusk because Barnes ordered you out here, sending O'Neill to get you to him like room service. Never saw you walking out, was the problem. Seemed like a collectively agreed upon code by now --- Barnes's things were Barnes's problem. What Barnes does with them ain't nobody's business either unless they wanted to be in a world of shit. The fable about the kettle and the frog comes to mind as you feel him nestled behind you, your legs spread around his clothed thigh to best accommodate him. The water never appears boiling in the beginning. Only once it's too late. He had his cock pushed inside of you, with only his zipper undone and belt still very much fastened into place and you shared his bed with at least fifty other men very well present on the premises, on the other side of the makeshift curtain and everyone treated it like it was a casual Monday at base.

How does a thing like this happen?

-"You alright there, Bob?"-

O'Neill's nervous voice from the other side of the fabric shielding you from views reaches your ears and you stiffen around Barnes, your breath hitching in your throat. Seriously? Was this guy really gonna make small talk while you were balls deep impaled around another man's dick? The curtain moves slight and your heart's beating accelerates, slowing down only once you realized O'Neill wasn't daring to lift the bit of green fabric and take a peek, rather, that he pushed a can of beer underneath its hem partially faded of color. -"Saved'ya a cold one, Sarge."- He explains, voice all fidgety. Something about this felt like a fever dream. -"Yeah, thanks, Red."- Barnes murmurs matter-of-factly and with all the casualness in the world, like nothing about this was at all unusual, arm reaching off the edge of the bunk bed and grabbing the Budweiser can, his legs moving along with him, the shaft of his cock moving with him ever so slightly, pressing and pushing along your ways. You suppress a grunt along with the need to gyrate your hips around him. What was next? Was someone's arm gonna reach through the curtain with a zippo to light his cigar too? Are they going to tune the radio outside to a song of Bob's preference if they merely gaged Hank Snow wasn't something he momentarily liked?

It was easy to imagine it.

-"They're serving you like you're a king."-

You remark, maybe a bit amused, in the most subdued of ways.

But mainly very befuddled.

Sometimes, you had to wonder just what he did to these guys and his general conduct out on the field before you were stationed here if they had this much fearful reverence of him and the red star buckle of his trophy belt still fastened in place around his waist where his cock was bared and lodged inside of you through a lowered zipper was an indicator --- sure, you've heard the stories --- witnessed some firsthand --- but to see the general need of everyone to please him was something. King indeed.

-"Eyup. 'Cos I am."-

Cockily slants his head to the side like he wasn't even gonna deny the nomination.

Adjusting himself once the beer was in his hand.

Flipping the metal opener undone.

His cock lodges itself deeper into you, right where it was before.

You suppress a moan at the contact, praying not to be heard.

Placing your own hand over your mouth to muffle yourself.

Too late to play coy now, your subconsciousness chides.

They all know you ain't reading poetry back here. They were aware.

-"We can't keep doing this, you know. It isn't normal."-

You manage once your gut settles, trying to be the voice of reason irregardless of how much you enjoyed this, watching him nonchalantly prepped up on one elbow behind you, chugging down the cold beverage in greedy gulps, a droplet of it dripping down his neck mingled with sweat, bare chest peppered with the moisture of accumulated humidity. He gives you a stare while his mouth was still attached to the rotten business of draining the Budweiser can in one sip like you've forgotten something crucial. -"It ain't normal, sir."- You correct yourself quietly, adding the necessary titles in there. He crushes the empty can in the vice grip of his fingers, letting it drop to the floor carelessly. You semi-expected O'Neill's hand to reach through the curtain like he was someone just standing there on guard duty and pick it up. -"You an expert on normal now or sumn'?"- He teases, with an admittedly downright mocking edge. It drives an infernal heat into your cheeks. He taps the side of your head for emphasis with a meaty, calloused finger. -"Dick cleared up them passageways and let some air up in there? You done?"- Cruelly taunting and just as easily as that, without any warning, you're flipped over from your side to your back, the mattress underneath you squeaking and bouncing with approximately forty pounds of added weight pressing into you once he's on top of you, his cock slipping out, leaving you distressingly empty and cold, the contrast nearly unbearably jarring compared to the heat of his torso against yours. -"Robert, please."- You meekly plead with a voice only barely a whisper. -"That's Staff Sergeant Barnes."- He corrects a second time, this time not with a glance, but with his words instead, looming large over you. You gulp. -"Staff Sergeant Barnes, please ---"- You beg, stammering. You weren't even certain what you were begging for. For him to quit summoning you like this? To stuff his cock back inside of you? For you to stop answering his calls even though you couldn't refuse a direct order? For you to quit being under his control and liking it as much as you did? What? You never even see when he pulls out a push knife out of his suspenders, holding it above you face like a warning and a reminder. You momentarily forget to blink. The tip of the blade appears as sharp as his gaze.

-"You ain' nothin' but my hole. And those cocksuckers out there know that."-

He nearly growls under breath and somehow, unwittingly, your invasive thoughts imagine all of them, the whole fucking platoon, gathered around this very bed, staring down at you from over Barnes's bare, broad, sweat-drenched shoulders, all muscle and scars. Somehow, you feel dirty just pondering that everyone knew even though you understood nobody was likely to say a thing. At least not to your face.

-"I could leave a stack full'a greenbacks out there on that poker table, take a walk round' perimeters, come back and still find that fucker right where I've put it in the mornin'."-

Your space fully invaded, Bob lowers his head until his nose is practically touching the edge of your cheek as he spoke and you believed him. You fully did. You believed his men wouldn't throw away the butt of his half smoked cigar in an ashtray if it meant avoiding angering him. -"'Cos my shit don't ever get touched."- You feel your legs part further and there was something primal, degrading and lulling about being referred to as his thing while he parted the sloppy, wet folds of your cunt to nestle himself back inside with one skillful hand. His breath all malt and smoke, you feel your lips part; takes a true feat of willpower not to start bucking into him and stay perfectly still. Not to make a peep, his blade still in your peripheral vision; instead of hovering over you, it's right there in the hollow of your windpipe, cold and ever present. The radio was still quietly playing outside, but at this point, your mind tunes the sound of it out on its own. -"Y'oughta be thankful you're mine."- Barnes drawls almost softly, looking down at you, his thighs sinking into your parted legs, meeting you in the middle, connected there. You know he expected to verbalize it. That bit. Just how grateful you were. Outright. With words. He anticipated it, ever the disciplinarian. You realized you were going to sleep here tonight. Like his own personal toy to chew on --- something to warm him in the night simply because he could get away with it. That he'd get up in the morning like nothing unusual happened, that he'd affix his uniform, buckle his belt and walk out of here with a straight face. That you'd do the same and that everyone would avert their gaze from you out of fear of staring at Barnes's thing too long for comfort. Your mouth opens to speak and you let out a silent gasp, being filled back with him to the brim, in spite of everything, feeling as right as a blade finding its sheath.

-"And I am. Thank you, sir."-

You manage, all mutters, holding unto his wet, hard shoulders for dear life.

Yeah, stranger things might've happened to you; you just didn't remember when.

[kylieswift31]

The director

The same but different.

The Truman show

The underlying tension in the Truman show is caused by the director influencing Truman’s behaviour in subtle ways. The movie is split into two segments to highlight the contrast between Truman’s dreams and the director’s plans for him to create an heir for the show.

Everything from his family, coworkers, neighbours, TV shows, radio and even the weather was being controlled by the director. The only genuine interactions Truman had was with his best friend through code words and subtle hints.

According to the director he had good intentions, but he wasn’t just making decisions on Truman’s behalf. He had his own goals and millions of viewers to keep entertained.

“They see right through me. Do you see right through me?”

"You've never had a camera in my head!"

The hunger games

In contrast, the hunger games emulates this concept by depicting the severity of this imbalance of power being replicated and what happens when it’s allowed to continue. When Katniss became a tribute she had already spent years having many aspects of her life restricted.

Each of the twelve districts are heavily monitored and controlled year round, to the point where they are living in poverty. These limitations equate to them being more compliant and too defeated to fight back.

And then this creates a stark contrast to the lavish lives of the people living within the Capitol. They see the hunger games as an annual festivity to celebrate, while living in luxury. If the system changed they would lose the perks of living this kind of lifestyle.

When Katniss becomes a tribute for the second time, president Snow uses his power to influence her behaviour too. Every move she makes is being monitored. At times she’s being told what to do directly and other times she is reacting with a threat looming in the back of her mind.

All of this pressure is placed on Katniss to discourage her from being rebellious, to prevent her from fighting back. President Snow understands that if Katniss starts attacking the Capitol, the rest of the districts will follow her lead.

The turning point for Katniss comes when she realises that the hunger games doesn’t end. When she wins and goes home again she will still be a part of the system that benefits from the districts struggling. Fighting back against that was the only way she would truly be free.

Katniss may be living a completely different life with different circumstances to Truman, but the underlying tension is being created by a similar person in power. Their stories unfold as we become more aware of the consequences this imbalance of power is creating in their lives.

“When you aim at the devil make sure you don’t miss”

“Remember who the real enemy is”

Taylor Swift

When we add Taylor to the equation she falls somewhere between Katniss and Truman’s story. She is following in Truman’s footsteps with slowly unveiling her inner truth with the public, but her end goal is more like Katniss’ with changing the way things are done to benefit others.

This role of director is more akin to the influence of a parent, not a movie director. It's important to acknowledge that Taylor has autonomy and free will considering that she's not a fictional character. And for the most part she is her own director.

The director in Taylor’s life isn’t one person in particular, but made up of the collective voices of her management, family, old/new record label and the media. Their power, bias and intentions have indirectly influenced Taylor’s decisions, beliefs and plans over the years.

We've seen this with the way the industry has treated Taylor over the years. For a long time they only saw her as a child and doubted her capabilities until she proved them wrong. Luckily Liz Rose saw her talent for what it was when they worked together on the debut album.

Taylor was lauded for being the good girl, congratulated for fitting their expectations of the well behaved role model for their children. This outside pressure encouraged Taylor to conform to their standards or risk being exiled and become a disgrace in their eyes.

By the time red was released they finally saw her as a woman but their expectations changed and they were ready for Taylor to settle down and get married. This pressure to do the right thing contributed to Taylor pretending to fit into the 1950's lifestyle they demanded of her.

Meanwhile Taylor was trying to stand up for herself while being criticised for being unwilling to discuss the details of her relationships during interviews. Each time she tried to be the good girl they raised the bar and demanded more.

This created a cycle where each new version of Taylor was celebrated at first, the sparkle would begin to dim, they began to tolerate her, and finally began demanding more yet again. And just like opening a set of nesting dolls, eventually the layers run out.

Another way of looking at this concept is like peeling off layers of an onion or playing a game of pass the parcel. Each old layer becomes discarded and a new one takes it's place. From the director's point of view, they've succeeded in moulding Taylor into a palatable version, but in Taylor's experience it's like losing a piece of herself. And the closer the director gets to the innermost layer, the more that is at stake.

"Did all the extra credit, then got graded on a curve"

The same but different

I could provide endless examples to corroborate this pattern of cycles that has lead to creating and discarding the many eras of Taylor, but the point is to understand the role the director has played in perpetuating this cycle.

Truman experienced a similar pattern where he would talk about leaving town and then faced challenges designed to make him too scared to leave. But in the process he discovered how predictable this pattern is, allowing him to plan around it and eventually escape.

The challenges Katniss faced in her second round of the hunger games followed a similar pattern of predictability and as a team they eventually escaped the system that benefitted from their suffering.

Right up until the end Katniss was encouraged to remember who her real enemy was. Her final act of rebellion wasn't directed at president Snow, but towards the one who wanted to continue the system of oppression by punishing the children of the Capitol.

Truman, Katniss and Taylor have all experienced pressure to become who others wanted them to be. Truman's story ends with leaving behind the only life he had known to regain his freedom. In contrast, Katniss escaped and then had to work through dismantling the system in search of freedom.

In the end Taylor has ended up somewhere in the middle with fighting for herself and others, while at the same time forging her own path forward.

"Taking my time 'cause you took everything from me"

"I have a lot of rules placed on my life, and I just choose not to apply rules to love." -The Johnathan Ross interview

A tortured poet,

Kylie x

[finkinthisfrew]

New Years Eve (Pt.1)

New Years Eve

Part 1 - Last Year

Sitting in the car with the radio playing, you listen to the soft folk music coming from the stereo alone, accompanied only by your slow deep breaths in and out, and the occasional heavy gust of wind that whipped the falling snow against your windshield. You sit with your eyes closed, absentmindedly flipping your phone over and over in your lap as you try to prepare yourself for the evening ahead. 

You’re parked outside of the restaurant, and the absolute last thing you want to do is go inside. The last time you checked the bookings for tonight, you wanted to find the nearest toilet and throw up, and knowing how busy the place normally gets, and considering it's New Years Eve, you know that it’s only going to be worse tonight. You wanted to take the night off to avoid the shit-storm that was inevitably about to happen and instead spend your first New Years Eve as a couple together with Matty on the couch watching old movies and cuddling while hiding away from the snowstorm. You definitely could have had the night off if you’d asked- you’d worked as a server and bartender at the restaurant for years now and the owners adored you. You could pretty much request whatever days off you wanted, but you were trying to save up money for an anniversary gift for Matty, and you were still short by quite a bit. 

The tips… focus on the tips…

You meditated to yourself over and over.

The last time you worked New Year's Eve at the restaurant, you walked home with more than a week's worth of tips in your purse. You also remembered breaking down and crying multiple times during that shift, so the tips weren’t exactly enough to distract you from the nightmare of tonight's shift. Not to mention, that was all before the big article listing it as the best restaurant in the city was published, making it more popular this year than it's ever been.

The feeling of your phone vibrating in your lap shakes you out of your trance and you quickly pick it up to read the text.

Matty❤️Baby: Good luck tonight petal- I love you❤️

Your stomach flips and you sigh with happiness at his words as you begin to reminisce about how you met...

You and Matty started dating almost a year ago- you’d met at a New Year's Eve party that you almost hadn’t attended. Your very rich entrepreneur socialite influencer friend, Mia, who you’d known since high school, was throwing a big, fancy invitation-only party at her penthouse downtown. The dress code was formal, and though you thought you looked quite nice in your outfit- a simple champagne-coloured silk dress- you couldn’t help but feel underdressed when you and your friend walked into a giant living room full of suits and borderline gowns.

“Oh god, this was a bad idea…” you said to Bri, clutching her arm anxiously as you scanned the room. 

“Don’t start with me,” she scolded you. "You promised we'd stay until midnight!" She reminded you, so you shut your mouth and let her pull you further into the massive apartment. You walked down the steps hand in hand and into the sunken living room the size of what felt like it could be an airplane hangar.

“This place is insane, I can’t believe you know someone this rich. Jesus Mary and Joseph, look at the size of that couch!" she said as she finally tore her eyes from the view, dragging you towards the centre of the room where an enormous couch the size of your entire apartment sat against the backdrop of a giant wall of windows that looked out on the city lights. You couldn't help but laugh as Bri bent over to feel the plushness of the rug with her hands. "We need to hang out with this girl more often,” she said in awe as she studied the luxurious apartment.

“Maybe we should go…” You began again, realizing how few people you recognized at the party.

“Oh, we can’t go-” she said a matter of factly, her tone catching you off guard. “That guy across the room has been eye-fucking you since we left the elevator.”

And she was right. He hadn’t take his eyes off of you though from the moment you entered the room. You looked over at him, but immediately looked away. You were instantly intimidated by him- he was too handsome in his suit- the most charming bowtie tied round his neck, his hair slicked back casually and a single silver hoop hanging from his ear, all accompanied by the most heart-wrenchingly beautiful tentative smile directed solely at you.

Luckily, right at that moment, Mia swooped in, thrilled you made it and immediately began gabbing your ear off about the attendees.

Much to your shaken heart’s detriment, the person she was most eager to gab about was none other than Mr. Eye-Fucker himself.

Mia gushed to you for a solid half-hour about how hot and talented he was- apparently he was in a pretty accomplished band. He was a rockstar too? As if you had a real shot with him... This stuff only happened in movies- it was too good to be true. Naturally, you spent the evening avoiding his frequent glances and convincing yourself he wasn’t looking at you. 

Several rounds of tequila shots later, Mia eagerly rounded everyone up for a game.

“Everyone, come, come! Sit down in a circle- yes, you too George, don't be such a baby!” She pointed accusingly at the tall handsome man sitting on the couch rolling his eyes. As you looked over at George, you could see, from the corner of your eye, his face pointed directly at you. His stare felt like fire on your skin, and you burned with curiosity.

Finally, you let yourself look. You regretted looking immediately- the bright red that adorned your face once you finally saw his warm brown eyes pouring into your soul was mortifying- though you found out only a few weeks later that your blushing face was what properly pushed him from being interested to completely falling for you.

Everyone sat down in a large circle under the guiding eye of Mia. Some people were focused on trying to look casual instead of incredibly awkward due to their restrictive formal attire keeping them from sitting comfortably, but almost everyone looked intrigued and curious about what was going to happen next. Mia disappeared, running into the kitchen before skipping giddily back into the room with a wide grin on her face, hiding something behind her back.

“So,” she began smugly, “As we all know, it’s New Years Eve, and you all received personal invitations to this party. What you don’t know…” she paused dramatically, “Is that everyone in this room… is single!”

The room fell silent.

This was so typical of Mia. There’s nothing that girl loved more than romance and gossip, and what better way to experience both than to invite a bunch of singles to snog at her house? You couldn’t help but laugh to yourself.

Everyone’s faces turned to look at you, and suddenly you realized you hadn’t laughed in your head- you had laughed out loud. But the only face you noticed was the one that hadn’t turned- because he had already been looking at you.

A couple people joined in with nervous laughter, and you were grateful for them, but he continued to watch you.

“I thought,” Mia continued, grabbing everyone's attention again, “That it might be fun to make sure that everyone has a midnight kiss. So, I propose,” she said as she pulled a bottle of Champagne out from behind her back, “that we play a game of spin the bottle to help us choose our partners!” Mia scanned the circle with excitement, but all she got in return was nervous silence. When her eyes met yours, begging you to join in on her enthusiasm, a voice across from you broke the silence.

“That sounds fun”

It was your turn to stare at him. He said it so earnestly, so softly, offering Mia a kind smile- one that you think you would have fainted from if you’d been on the receiving end. He was so unfathomably handsome.

“Exactly, Matty. Thank you!” Mia replied approvingly, sending him back an overly flirtatious smile, but he’d already looked away, reaching for a glass of wine he’d rested on the end table beside him.

Matty. What a cute name.

You thought to yourself.

As people began to tentatively voice their willingness to participate, you watched as Matty sipped his wine. Suddenly flickering up from the glass, his eyes caught yours. You could feel him take hold of your gut, yanking it towards him where he sat across from you, holding you close to him- tightly. It was visceral. 

“Alright,” Mia said loudly, shaking you from the tense exchange and causing you to look away. You could still feel his eyes on you as she spoke, “I’ve gone ahead and put everyone’s names in a hat- when I draw your name, spin the bottle. Whoever it lands on, introduce yourself, get to know each other, and they’ll be your kiss when the clock strikes midnight!”

You were terrified of the thought of being paired up with Matty, yet every time Mia pulled out a new name from the hat, you caught yourself hoping it would be his, and every time someone else spun the bottle, you found yourself praying it didn’t land on you.

As new couples paired up, one after the other eagerly slinking away to find a quiet corner to introduce themselves, the numbers around the circle dwindled. Suddenly there were only four of you left. Mia finally pulled her name from the hat, excitedly spinning the bottle and sneaking glances up at Matty as it spun. You held your breath and watched in slow motion as it slowed to a stop. It pointed at the boy sat next to Matty- a plainly handsome blonde with bright blue eyes. You watched Mia shrug to herself and smile as she skipped over to the boy (who looked a bit scared, to be quite honest), introducing herself boldly as they walked off.

You realized then as you watched the train of Mia’s long sparkling gown finally disappear around the corner that you were alone with him.

His energy filled the entire room, snapping around you with electricity. The silence screamed at you, magnifying the intensity of his gaze which you felt nuzzling against the cheek of your turned face. You couldn’t avoid the pull of his eyes any longer. You let yours travel over to him slowly, easing into his stare like wading into the shallow end of the pool. Of course, you fell right in any way, your heart immediately drowning in his warmth, his smile pulling you in like a warm hug.

“Hello, love,” he said warmly.

“Hi,” you managed to squeak out. You cursed yourself internally for sounding so timid and weak, but you were too overwhelmed to act any other way.

“I guess Mia didn’t account for the awkwardness when pairing up strangers with the expectation to kiss,” Matty said with a bashful chuckle as he scratched the back of his head.

“No, she definitely didn’t,”  you laughed as you rolled your eyes in agreeance. “She’s not one to really care, though. She’s always been fearless like that,” you continued thoughtfully.

“How do you know Mia?” Matty asked curiously, crossing his arms over his knee as he looked at you attentively from across the now invisible circle.

“Well we met back in - Oh fuck it, this distance is absurd…” You grumbled, gesturing to the good 20 or so feet between the two of you, causing Matty to laugh. You sighed as you stood up, and were happy to see Matty’s face of pleasant surprise when you came over to sit next to him. “We went to high school together. We’ve drifted in and out of friendship since then, but she always invites me to all her parties. She’s really great like that- getting me out of the house,” you explained as you sat down.

“So you’re a bit of a homebody then?” He probed further, leaning towards you subconsciously as he listened.

You chatted for a bit about your lives, and you learned from him he was in a band that toured often, but that he also was a homebody just like you.

“…but if it’s up to me, I prefer spending my free time at home… I’m always traveling, so any chance I get to be home, I take it. I actually wanted to stay home tonight originally but my friend George dragged me here instead- I can’t remember how he knows Mia. I think they met at some event? Or another party? He was telling me this yesterday but I was too busy trying to come up with an excuse not to come… Anyways… doesn’t matter…” he trailed off in a frown, seemingly catching himself in his rambling and scolding himself inwardly.

“Oh, I’m the same way! I’d much rather be at home than at this party,” you said in enthusiastic agreement. You watched in horror as his face fell, his smile faltering as your words stung him. You felt his heart break- its crack reverberating through yours as if it were your own. You quickly corrected yourself. “Or- I did. I did feel that way about tonight- until we started talking,” you stumbled through your words, correcting yourself desperately. “I’m having a nice time now... A really nice time,” you finished, cutting yourself off quickly before you could say anything else too cheesy. The only thing that scared you more than talking to him right now was the thought of the conversation ending. You didn’t have to worry though- Matty wasn’t going anywhere. He'd stay as you as long as you let him- he was entirely captivated by you. 

You were rewarded generously for your words, Matty’s face beaming at you with adoration. The arms you leaned back on nearly buckled as his smile took your breath away, his eyes crinkling sweetly at you.

“I’m having a nice time too. I’m really glad I came,” he said earnestly, glancing you up and down, making your skin tingle with flattery.

You sat in silence together smiling bashfully at each other for a bit. Somehow the silence wasn’t awkward or uncomfortable.

“Sorry you got stuck with me,” you finally mumbled, almost to yourself.

“What?” Matty asked with a frown.

“You didn’t even get to spin the bottle,” you explained. “You technically didn’t even choose me- that’s a bit gutting, don’t you think? That you kind of got stuck with me,” you finished with a shrug. Matty only shook his head, a small smile dancing on his lips.

“That’s not true at all. You could argue that being the only ones to not have our names drawn or the bottle landed on is an even better way of being chosen. We didn’t get a bottle- we got fate,” he offered sweetly with a charming grin. You swooned internally, but fought to keep your head screwed on right, unwilling to let yourself believe he was being anything other than kind. Especially not romantic. Being romantic would mean he was actually interested in you, and that couldn’t possibly be the case… could it?

“You don’t have to kiss me, by the way,” he said lightly, breaking the silence that had resurfaced after you didn’t respond to his comment about fate.

There we go. This makes much more sense. 

You thought to yourself confidently, realizing he didn’t want to kiss you. The pang of sadness that hit you was excruciating, and you couldn’t fathom coming up with a reasonable response, so you instead stared at the carpet under his feet.

“Just to be clear,” he began slowly, speaking evenly, treading lightly around your shattered heart, “I’d love to kiss you. I just don’t want you to feel like you have to because of a game,” he clarified.

And suddenly, your heart was whole again. In fact, it felt even better than before. Actually, better than it ever had. You didn’t know what to say. You were too shocked by… everything. By his kindness, by how gentlemanly he was, by how sweet he was, by how handsome he looked, but above all, by those five words.

I’d love to kiss you.

You would’ve kissed him then and there- if you had any balls whatsoever. But you didn’t, so instead you sat there looking dumbstruck as you frantically tried to come up with a response that wouldn’t give away the complete meltdown you were suffering from internally.

“Same goes for you…” you manage to say. It took everything in you to keep yourself from smacking your hand to your forehead in embarrassment as Matty cocked an eyebrow up at you in intrigued confusion.

He opened his mouth to say something, then stopped himself when multiple voices entered the room.

The evening continued as the various partners reentered the living room, once again mingling with each other, some even starting a dance floor as the music was slowly turned up throughout the night. But you and Matty stayed there at the foot of the couch chatting. You chatted effortlessly for hours, yet it felt like no time passed. The more you spoke, the more natural it felt- though the knot of desire inside your chest never lessened. It only grew as you got to know him, his kind and giving nature so clear as he asked you thoughtful questions, answering your own questions just as thoughtfully. He was funny, charming, interesting, and incredibly sweet. You never wanted it to end.

You were in the midst of listening to Matty explain the new song he’d been writing when Bri shocked you back into the real world.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you, you slag!” she said drunkenly, crashing you back to reality as she took both of your hands and pulled you up. You looked back at Matty apologetically, but he only smiled and offered a little understanding wave goodbye as Bri dragged you off to tell you all about her new midnight kiss partner, Robbie.

As you lit your second cigarette, Bri finally came up for air from her story about Robbie, stubbing out her own cigarette butt on the terrace of the giant patio that overlooked the city lights. It was just the two of you out there, the faint thud of the bass drifting over to the loveseat you’d snuggled up on.

“So,” your best friend began as she plucked your lighter from your hand, lighting up her own second cigarette of the evening before throwing her arm back around your shoulders. “You got paired up with that musician guy who was looking at you. What was his name again?”

“Matty,” you said softly, your eyes glazing over as you remembered his face. Well, that was a lie. You didn’t need to remember his face because it had been etched into your heart from the moment he’d spoken to you. It was all you could think about while Bri had been telling you about her new boy.

“Yeah, Matty, thanks,” Bri said as she took another puff from her cigarette. “Sooo,” she nudged you playfully, “what do you think of him?” 

“He’s really nice. He asked a lot of thoughtful questions. He seems like a nice person…” you said, a little too swept away in it all to expand just yet.

“Aaaaaand…?”  Bri prodded, wiggling her eyebrows at you knowingly. You knew she wouldn’t stop until you told her what she wanted to hear.

“Well, he’s quite handsome…” you admitted.

“Well that’s very kind of you to say,” you heard him say behind you.

You froze, locking your eyes on a skyscraper ahead of you as Bri whipped her head round to see who had spoken, but you already knew. You didn’t need to look. 

“Hi there, I’m Matty,” he offered his hand kindly, stepping closer to where you sat. You couldn’t look at him- you were too mortified.

“I’m Brianna,” Bri responded, trying to stifle her laugh as she shook his hand. She failed pretty miserably. You shoved her, momentarily satisfied by her yelp of protest, but were soon dissatisfied when Matty caught your eye. He was too far from you. You knew then that any distance between you two, no matter how small, would leave you wholly dissatisfied- forever.

“There’s only a few minutes left until midnight- Mia’s been gathering everyone in the living room for the big moment…” he said bashfully, gesturing behind him at the party with his thumb, then ran his fingers through his hair. You remembered how he did it earlier and how the flip-flop in your stomach was only stronger the second time. Pitiful, how obsessed you were with this stranger you barely knew.

“A few minutes?!” Bri exclaimed, hopping up in shock. “I need to go find Robbie!”

You both watched as Bri trotted off the patio and back into the depths of the party to find Robbie.

Once again you were enveloped in silence, the presence of Matty turning the air around you electric.

“Can I join you?” Matty asked, pointing at the now empty seat beside you, “-unless you’d rather go back to the party?”

“No, no,” you said, shuffling yourself to the side to make room for him where you’d sat up against Bri previously. “Sit,” you offered.

Matty sat down next to you, your legs almost touching, and you could tell by the look on his face he was mulling something over.

“I’m sorry for interrupting you and Brianna,” he said, his eyes sincere with apology.

“Oh, it’s totally fine,” you said as you offered him your cigarette. He accepted it gladly, and you tried not to let his hollowing cheeks and furrowing brow distract you too much as you spoke, “Bri would have killed me if she missed this midnight kiss thing. She seems a bit obsessed with her partner.”

“And you?” Matty asked suddenly, his lips parting softly, their pinkness framed gloriously by the smoke that trailed out of his perfect mouth. You froze, hoping dearly that it was dark enough for your now blushing cheeks to go unnoticed. 

“I’m… happy,” you managed to say, internally relieved you didn’t say what you actually wanted to say which was that obsessed wasn’t a strong enough word for the infatuation you felt towards him from the moment you met.

“Happy? Oof, well I’m definitely convinced now…” he said teasingly with a chuckle as he handed you back the cigarette.

“No, no! I’m very happy, genuinely! I’m sorry, I can be so thick sometimes…” you said as you shook your head, taking another drag of your cigarette.

“It’s okay, I’m happy too,” he said with a breathtaking smile, leaning closer to you. You were surprised you had anything in your lungs to exhale. “I’m… I came out here to confess something to you actually,” he said timidly.

“And what was that?” You gulped, offering him the cigarette again. He reached to take it from you, but as he took the cigarette with one hand, his other cupped yours, his fingers closing around your palm.

“I was hoping it would land on you,” he said, his eyes looking down at your hands. “The bottle, I mean. I wanted it to be you,” he said as his eyes finally flicked up to meet yours.

Your head spun, but you knew it wasn’t a head rush. It was love. And how stupid could you be, thinking that what you felt with this handsome rockstar who'd spent the entire evening being devoured by everyone's hungry eyes, who couldn't possibly be as besotted as you, was love?

But, to hell with it. It was New Year's Eve and you hadn’t kissed anyone in ages and this boy was here by choice, saying kind things to you. Who were you to say no to a little holiday romance, even if it meant you were certain to be left with a broken heart.

You leaned into him, just slightly, but that was all he needed. He smiled as he put his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his chest.

“15… 14…” you heard people chanting from the living room, the numbers growing in volume as midnight came closer and closer.

“Matty,” you said quietly. His eyes turned to meet yours as he nodded, squeezing your hand with attentiveness.

“I’m glad we got stuck with each other,” you whispered, leaning deeper into him.

He utterly beamed at your words, slowly lowering his face towards yours.

“I’m glad we didn’t get chosen,” he said, his breath lapping delicately at your lips, less than an inch away now as they hovered close to your skin. His lips brushed against yours, and he whispered, “I much prefer fate.”

“Happy New Year!” Everyone yelled in chorus as midnight struck, but neither of you heard them. You’d been swept away to another dimension, the moon, sun and stars all swirling around you as you kissed, your lips like long-lost lovers from a past life, pressing confession after confession into each other. Your arms wrapped around one another, the feeling of relief sweeping through your body. 

Finally. 

You could feel your body sigh. It felt like you were meant to do this all along. And somehow, weeks before Matty would confirm this himself, you could tell that he felt the same way as you.

Now, almost exactly one year later, you sat in Matty’s car you'd driven over alone to your works parking lot, reminiscing about last year as you were about to walk into what was bound to be a nightmare.

The tips… The tips…

You remind yourself as you ask yourself for the billionth time why oh why you’re opting to miss your first New Years Eve together with Matty as a couple.

You inhale deeply, then exhale, watching your breath dissipate in the cold air as you grab your bag and walk out into the snow covered parking lot.

This better be worth it…

You grumble to yourself internally. 

[zackprincebooks]

Silent Night

Happy Holidays, @adhdprincess! I'm your Secret Santa. I don't know a lot about The Last of Us, but I tried to have some found family fluff for you!

During a stop on their way to Wyoming, Joel, Tess, and Ellie find a gem on Christmas Eve.

Read here on Ao3!

Clouds hover dangerously over the highway, threatening travelers with heavy snowfall. Joel keeps his foot on the gas as they pass rusty road signs and burnt-out cars. He’s already driving late at night; he doesn’t want to drive late at night, during a snowstorm.

In the backseat, Ellie snores.

“Let me drive.”

Joel’s hands tighten on the wheel, not bothering to look over at Tess. “No.”

He can hear the frown in her voice, “you’ve been driving for six hours and it’s about to start snowing. Let me drive.”

“It’s only a few miles to the next shelter; I can handle it.” He’s lying; it’s at least another twenty before they get anywhere near relative safety. Occasionally, the radio in the cupholder crackles to life when they get within range of a transmission:

“Shit, we’re already seeing flurries over here.”

“I give it half an hour before everything’s covered.”

“Looks like we’ll have a white Christmas!”

“Is it Christmas Eve already? Damn, I hope I was good this year.”

Their laughter fades into the static as Joel, Tess, and Ellie pass out of their range. Ellie grunts and rolls over, attempting to lay down on the seat while restrained by her seatbelt.

“Let me drive,” Tess repeats, “at least long enough to let you sleep.”

“I’m not tired. I once stayed up for three nights straight. I can handle it,” Joel repeats. He’s almost grateful, in a way; Tess’s badgering forces his exhaustion to the back of his mind. “You can take the first watch when we get to the shelter, and you can drive tomorrow.”

The silence between them is tense. Joel can hear the gears in Tess’s head turning as she considers the deal. Her fingers clench and unclench around her sleeve from where her arms are folded over her chest.

“Fine. Fine. As long as you help me dig out the car tomorrow morning.”

Ellie keeps snoring as the white flakes start falling. ---------------------------------------------------------------

“Are you sure this is it?” Tess looks between Joel and the “shelter” they were assigned.

Joel checks the coordinates he was given with the coordinates on the ancient GPS. “According to the coordinates, this is the place.”

Rustling from the backseat indicates the awakening of Ellie. She finally managed to squeeze herself against the window, and a large swathe of the window is clear from where Ellie rested her cheek. “What happened?” Ellie rubs her eyes and yawns. When she spots the shelter, her eyes blink widely. “Oh.”

Calling it a “shelter” is demeaning. The mansion looms large in front of them; all brick with white columns and black shutters. It possesses a two-car garage that matches the black shutters. If the house was decorated with lights, it would look like it came out of a Christmas card. There’s even a fir tree in the middle of the yard, covered with snow.

They sit in disbelieved silence, staring at the house. The gears in Joel’s mind are whirring. There might be a snow blower in the garage so they can dig out the car tomorrow morning. Hell, if Joel and Tess can get the garage door open, they can park the car and they won’t need to dig it out at all.

“If the fireplace is operable, we can actually have a hot dinner,” Tess muses. “We could make coffee. Real coffee.”

“It better be operable, or else we’ll freeze tonight,” Joel mutters as he opens the door. “C’mon, let’s see if we can open the garage door. I’d rather not have to deal with scraping off the snow tomorrow.”

Slipping and sliding on the thin layer of snow, Tess hits the code for the garage side-door they received. It takes a few hits from her shoulder for her to finally wrench it open. Joel waits outside with Ellie until he hears Tess call out, “clear!”

Holding their flashlights aloft, they enter the garage. There’s only one car parked, leaving enough room for them to park for the night. “A Maserati,” Joel mutters, wiping off some of the dust and the rust, “wonder if the husband was going through a mid-life crisis.”

The electric opener is a dud, but the manual controls still work. With an assist from Tess, she and Joel are able to lift the garage door. “This will make unloading the car a lot easier, too,” Tess muses.

Ellie frowns. “It feels…too good to be true. What if there’s an ambush?”

“If there was an ambush, we would see their tracks in the snow,” Joel says as he gets out of the car and opens the trunk. “I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Maybe it’s a Christmas miracle, or something.”

They close the garage and unload the trunk via flashlight; Joel holds his flashlight in his mouth as he passes a sleeping bag over to Ellie. He hears her go into the house proper and let out a loud “WHOA!”

Well, if they were going to be ambushed, now would be the time.

But no one pops out from inside cabinets or behind the fridge or down from the ceiling. Tess follows behind Ellie with a long, low whistle.

“Let me see what all the fuss—” Joel shoulders his way between them with a backpack slung over one arm. “All right, that’s pretty cool.”

An antique chandelier hangs in the foyer; as pretentious as it sounds, foyer was the right word for it. Two stairways with dark wood banisters curl their way down to the foyer, carpeted in red and gold. Their flashlights glance off of quartz countertops and stainless-steel appliances, all coated in a thick layer of dust. The food on the table is long desiccated into thick, gray mush that doesn’t come off even when Ellie holds the plate upside-down.

“Ewww,” she whines, putting the plate back down with a loud clatter. The sound echoes in the empty house.

Joel’s flashlight shines on a photo of the family that once lived here: a mother and a father, with a daughter wearing a hoodie from a college downstate and a teenage son in a soccer jersey from a local team. He grimaces and turns the flashlight away to focus on the marble fireplace in the living room, underneath the cracked flatscreen TV.

Tess is elated. “It’s big enough for us to make dinner on it, and we might be able to use any cookware they left behind. We could use our fuel cans, but a wood fire would be bigger for a fireplace of this size.”

Joel can read between the lines. “I can get some firewood chopped if you get dinner prepped.”

“You’re not going alone,” Tess counters, and Ellie raises her hand.

“Fine.” He points to Ellie. “You get the kindling, and I’ll get the logs.”

They step out into the snow, their collars turned up and wrapped with scarves. Joel finds an ax leaning up against the back of the garage with a pile of wood stacked in a metal rack. While there are a few logs already chopped, it won’t be enough to sustain them throughout the night.

The sound of an ax chunking into logs fills the cold winter air, interspersed with the sound of Ellie snapping sticks into manageable pieces. Every now and again, they each stop to lift their heads for the sound of something approaching; Ellie cocking her gun and Joel lifting the ax. He keeps eyeing the tall vinyl fence, imagining long fingers crawling over top as a clicker vaults the fence.

But nothing comes. For a moment the wind calms and they both stop, enjoying the stillness of the night. Ellie leans against the tree, her pile of kindling tied with one of her scarves. She’s not quite the same age as the boy from the photo; living a life she’ll never get to experience. Ellie won’t go to high school and play soccer, visit colleges with her parents, graduate with all her friends, and pack her ratty little car as much as it can hold before starting her life away from home.

The sound of the porch door opening startles them both as Tess pokes her head outside. “Hey, I’m almost done with dinner prep; how are we looking on wood?”

“We should have enough for tonight,” Joel says after counting, “but we might need to chop more tomorrow if we want a hot breakfast.”

“I want a hot breakfast,” Ellie and Tess say at the same time. Joel sighs, hefting the ax again. -----------------------------------------------------------------

By the time Joel and Ellie are done gathering wood, they’ve taken off their coats and slung them over the backs of chairs in the living room. Tess has thrown out the ossified plates to make room on the table to prepare dinner. If this was a real Christmas dinner, they would have roast turkey or ham, mashed potatoes, green beans, fresh rolls…

There’s canned beef stew with potatoes and carrots, canned tomatoes, and canned fruit cocktail. “I didn’t find anything in the cabinets that we could eat; everything in that pantry belongs in a museum,” Tess grumbles, “but at least there’s running water. It’s not hot water—” she clarifies when Ellie’s and Joel’s eyes light up, “—but it’s running water.”

Clean, running water. This house almost feels too good to be true. “And you cleared the rest of the house?”

“Yes; it looks like everyone left in a hurry. I found maps in an office upstairs with directions and instructions. The gun locker in the office and the safe in the bedroom are both empty. But they have some nice clothes upstairs that we can take as it gets colder. Speaking of which,” Tess starts opening the can of beef stew, “let’s get the fire started.”

Warmth and light roar to life, illuminating the living room for the first time in years. Joel and Ellie drag some of the fancy Turkish rugs over to the fireplace to use as extra padding for their sleeping bags on the marble floor, huddled around the fireplace for warmth.

Tess brings a Dutch oven with the beef stew and canned tomatoes inside; Joel stifles a laugh when he sees that she’s clutching it with Christmas oven mitts, decorated with elves and ornaments.

“Don’t you dare laugh,” she grumbles at both of them. From behind Tess, Joel sees Ellie hide a smile into her shoulder. “These were just the first that I could find.” Without a hook in the fireplace, she awkwardly puts the Dutch oven on top of the burning fire. Soon, the living room is filled with the smell of beef stew cooking, and Joel is starting to salivate.

As Joel starts pulling out their portable, metal dishware, Ellie stops him. “If they still have running water here, can’t we use their dishes? They probably have nicer dishes than we do.”

They pause as Tess and Joel look over at the display cabinet full of fine stoneware; blue with gold trim and leaf designs. “I guess there’s no harm in it,” Tess hedges, and Joel puts away their metal dishes. “Maybe it would make it feel a little more like Christmas,” she mutters as Ellie sprints to get them plates and bowls.

Sitting on their sleeping bags, hunched over bowls of stew, plates of fruit cocktail, and bottles of filtered water, Tess, Ellie, and Joel eat their Christmas dinner.

Joel has eaten this canned stew hundreds, maybe even thousands of times. It’s a standard-issue can of stew concocted to provide the maximum amount of calories required for an adult human in the apocalypse.

This is the best it has ever tasted. The beef is somehow tender and flavorful, the tomatoes burst in his mouth, and there’s something nostalgic about the carrots and potatoes. Even the protein powder dumped into the broth gives it a creamy texture. When it settles into Joel’s stomach, it warms him from within. Even Ellie and Tess are muttering their approval.

They stack their empty bowls together before moving onto the canned fruit cocktail. Tess tried to distribute the fruit and syrup equally, which meant they all wound up with a single miserable cherry on top of a pile of chopped apples, pears, and pineapple. But every bite is juicy and sweet, cut slightly by the tartness of the cherry. Joel resists the urge to lick the puddle of syrup left behind by his “dessert.”

He looks up at Ellie and Tess, who have also cleaned their plates. Ellie sadly looks at her plate, moving her fork around to catch leftover bits of apple. She passes it to Joel and he takes it to the kitchen with the rest of the dishes.

“Don’t forget about our deal,” Tess calls to Joel, “I’m taking the first watch tonight.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Joel grumbles as he washes the dishes in the sink. The ice-cold water makes him flinch, but running water is so foreign and forgotten that it’s a luxury no matter how hot or cold. Joel spends at least ten minutes washing dishes just to feel the water cascading over his hands. His fingers are numb by the time he returns to the fireplace with the dry dishes. Ellie is already curled up in her sleeping bag, watching as Tess adds another log to the fire.

When Joel crawls into his sleeping bag, it’s warm. “Merry Christmas, Tess. Merry Christmas, Ellie.”

“Merry Christmas, Joel.”

From the cocoon of her sleeping bag, he hears a muffled, “Merry Christmas.”