#speckled sheep

[uk3d]

Original Speckled sheep sketch | Limited edition fine art print from an original drawing. My sketches start life as hand-drawn graphite images made on cartridge paper. I often work on these with charcoal, oil pastel or Caran d'Ache to create the look I'm after. The artwork is then scanned and finessed digitally ready for fine art printing. This process often referred to as Giclée printing uses the highest standard of printing methods to give gallery quality results that maintain all the details of the original sketch. The graphite pencils I use are Faber-Castel, the oil pastels are Sennelier and the china-graph is Caran d’Ache. The inks are pigment based archive quality (100years+). The heavyweight specialist papers I use are of the best professional quality having a wonderful surface designed specifically for fine art drawings and illustrations. Very limited editions with only ten per size printed. All artwork is signed and includes a certificate of authenticity. The A5 are 5.8" x 8.25" (14.8cm x 21cm) The A4 are 8.25" x 11.7" (21cm x 29.8cm) The A3 are 11.7" x 16.5" (29.8 cm x 42cm) The A2 are 16.5" x 23.4" (42 cm x 59.4cm) Originals are A3 11.7" x 16.5" (29.8 cm x 42cm) Frames not included in price. Free shipping on artwork to all destinations. https://www.seanbriggs.co.uk/product/speckled-sheep-2/?feed_id=3696&_unique_id=663c6e2ece785

[maounteighn]

Overanalising Moral Orel: Clay, Bloberta and the Colour Theory

p.2 Bloberta

p.1

In p.1 we have already established that Bloberta's colour is red and it remained red throughout her whole journey. Her sense of Self was untouched neither by marriage nor by parenthood. When we are taking about relativity of her identity, she doesn't base it around or against anyone in her current family.

Her style barely changes, always containing red and white. However, she gradually loses white in her garments the more she decides to walk on her own. Her younger self up to that wedding in Help wears the most white – visually it softens the boldness of her red skirt. At the reception party she wears mostly red, white is only her belt and headband – red is also more saturated. The same red remains in her post-wedding daily wear. While white is not only in her collar, but also her apron, it is a completely different piece of clothing. Underneath the apron there's still her red dress. White apron dilutes red too, making it look less assertive, but it's only for the time she wears it. It's like a mask of a housewife and a mother, that she willing puts on for a meantime. Underneath it it's still her real, very persistent Self, that she is not particularly trying to hide. She also water down her true Self to appear less threatening to the society – she is a woman who has desires, attitudes and strength she shouldn't demonstrate. So not to apper a deviant, she has to adopt a socially acceptable Persona for herself.

Despite common beliefs that woman's true identity is of a wife and a mother, Bloberta is never changed by acquiring these statuses. Quite opposite, it's Clay who shapes his identity in relation to her (against her). It a simple visual storytelling, he is nothing significant to her, he is an instrument to her goals and desires, a tool. And a useless tool, too.

What has actually influenced Bloberta's sense of Self had done it way before she and Clay met. Take a look at her family.

Her mother Regina wears a mix of brown, red and very dark-green. Everyone else wears a variation of her colours. Modella – red and yellow-green, Lunchbox – green, Raymond – brown. Together they look very homogeneous too. They don't stick out, they don't clash, they don't take attention away from Regina. In comparison, their wardrobes are also similar and very simple, mostly plain l, while hers is quite busy and speckled, ornated. She is the center of attention. Raymond blends with the background, Modella and Lunchbox are like an extension of her perfect aesthetic. And all together they look classy, a very much dark academia family. That to be said, literally no one on the picture is allowed to diverge from the selected route (even their interior is in gren/brown/red) – they HAVE to be inside the borders of The Family Aesthetic or else...

In other words, they are constantly putting up a show, a collective Persona. The are not a perfect family by any standards, but Regina tightly manages their public image. Even at the reception the are like this.

But Who we have across the table? Bloberta. Her bright red skirt and white patterned blouse. She doesn't fit in the family approved hue of red, she wears too much white – she reflects too much light, her red looks even brighter again it. She is just that bright. Her reception dress is also bright red. If she was ever allowed to stand closer to them, they would look dull. So she never is. She is a family outcast. It's also reflective of a talent that she possess so naturally but is never able to utilise bc no one is interested. Despite her constant search of love and acceptance, she adopts this identity of a black – or rather red – sheep of the family that functionally casts her aside. She doesn't change to appeal to her mother's taste, probably bc it's senseless. Regina is not interested in Bloberta or her success, so it wouldn't matter anyways.

See, also, if her father was truly affiliated with her, he would have won a bit of her red maybe. It would've been a nice touch. But we know that he was too reluctant to defend his daughter even if he felt sorry for her. Her siblings are not on her side either. Lunchbox is actually her antipode – completely in green, a contrasting, complementary colour to red from the opposite side of the colour wheel – a son, a youngest child, a talent her mother actually wants. He is everything Bloberta is not. Modella, despite being closer to Bloberta in colour theme, in tone is closer to their mother. She may be not so aggressively opposite, but she is too reluctant to align with her. She has softer colour, she might be on good terms with her personally, but wouldn't risk standing up for her to Regina. Thus, Bloberta is completely alienated from her family.

Also, Bloberta's clashing style can be interpreted as her subconscious attempt to separate herself from her siblings in a desperate attempt to get attention too. Bloberta is a middle child, moreover she is a middle daughter inbetween an older sister and a younger brother. It's socially acceptable to deem her invisible – you already have an excellent daughter and a son™, this one is spare. Red is a very noticeable colour, it attracts attention. In Bloberta's case, it can also be so that she is noticed even if looked at passively. This way, her bright red is imprinted on someone's retina, even if they barely acknowledge her presence. This way, her mother, despite looking past her every day, never forgets that she is there. Thus, red is her only chance to be noticed by somebody, anybody. It's a survival tactics for her. Her depressed, meek attitude at home, and everywhere where she is with her family, doesn't allow her to come to her own character. To avoid being an afterthought, she wears bright red and contrasts it will white.

Now, let's take a look at her friend group. They all seem to have a similar style of colour combination. Pastel tones, dark-light, no more than two colours etc. But you see, no one is so on the nose like Bloberta. Even that one girl, that wears red too – it's not the same. Her red is darker, closer to brown and contrasted with light green, that is also with red plaid. The all are colourful, of course, but tame. It's just Bloberta who is standing out, and not only bc she's the only single friend now.

Also, there's another character, who stands out just like Bloberta, but in an opposite technique. Censodoll and her in this instance actually (and in general) share some similar characters despite such a dramatic difference in colour identity. They are both single, their Self shaped by actions of their mothers, the Self so strong, that they keep it throughout the whole life. However Censodoll approaches her existence with black – colour that absorbs light. She is not susceptible to the influence of her environment, but she is acutely aware of it – subsequently she can exploit it for her own gain. (Censodoll deserves her own separate paragraph).

White is a very reflective colour, it reflects light from its surrounding. Pre-Help Bloberta is very much receptive of what her surrounding thinks and expects of her and she reflects back exactly that. The slow decline of white elements in her clothes can signify gradual maturing, jadedness. Young Bloberta is still sensitive, naïve and youthfully innocent. She's of course already lost most of her expectations, learned to accept that little consideration she's given and not object or ask for more. At the reception she wears mostly red because the earlier encounter with her friend group gave her a motivation – to get engaged asap to be included again. The tone is more saturated, the white belt or headband does very little to counteract it – she drops the act she does without her family around, she is confident in her actions too. Subsequently, this becomes a colour of her victory and her downfall.

I have to say, the only time Bloberta ever abandoned her significant red was during her affair with Stopframe. It's a sportswear, so it's usually white. But on a storytelling side, it tell us about her (and his) motives a lot.

She wears all white with a tiny bit of blue. You see, we already established how white is a reflective colour. Story wise she is trying to be someone different too, just this once. It doesn't necessarily mean that it's unauthentic for her, just that it diverges greatly from her original and by that time setted colour identity. Its probable, that she is also putting a very strong and exaggerated act – she's desperate after all. It's been at least 4 years of her marriage to Clay, that was a horrible mistake from day 1, she knew it instantly, too. So this act here is targeted to secure her a better relationship (or so she thinks). It's actually the same approach she used on Clay in Help + longevity. The one thing she definitely has learnt was that she shouldn't immediately jump to a conclusion. So here, she is expanding her act in time and also putting more effort in her reflection. A tiny bit of blue is her way of associating with Stopframe, blue is one of his signature colours, especially to her. (Notably, he also has a tiny bit of red – he is also putting up an act here, they are quite the same in their tactics. He wears white, just like Bloberta, for the effect of reflection – he is whatever she wants him to be, an affinity to her. But notably, he keep an element of his own colour, while she drops it completely. He is not that dedicated to the initial act, not as much as she is.)

So, Bloberta holds her identity in a death grip and wears red as a trophy. However, she became a product of her own environment first, and locked it on herself second. Red is what she needed to survive among her family and friends, not necessarily what she truly was. Now, of course, it's what she it, the Self she accepted and built up.

Her red is very different from Clay's red too. She has a potential to be whatever she wants actually, she has much more agency than Clay in terms of independent existence. She is versatile and resilient, she is flexible and capable of big achievements if she puts her mind to it. In her case, red = strength, power she actually has, and, in extension, the power of Self that Clay actually desires but lacks.

They are different in their approaches and attitudes, routes the took etc., but in the end they arrived to the same result. They are two parts of the same disaster, one whole broken system.

Orel is next.

[joelscurls]

fallen into place

an epilogue to my feel it in your bones series (part i | part ii)

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

words: 2.3k

summary: It's the one year anniversary of the day you & Joel met. Your plans to celebrate are soured by poor weather - but Joel doesn't let that ruin your day.

warnings: 18+, minors dni, no outbreak, age gap (reader is in her late 20s, Joel is in his late 40s), fluff, smut (allusions to piv sex, but nothing explicit)

a/n: thank you a million times over to everyone who left nice comments on the first two parts of this series; every single one has made me smile like an idiot :') and ty as always to my beta & muse @caffeinated-validation <3 enjoy this lil epilogue!

The windows of the old farmhouse groan, rain pelting the glass and an angry wind jostling the frames. A draft slips in through a gap in the wood, the one Joel’s been meaning to fix, and you reflexively pull the blanket that’s wrapped around your body tighter, snugger. 

Through fogged panes, you can barely make out the sheep in the pasture where they’re huddled together, their bodies distorted by bulbous raindrops. You watch as a couple break off from the herd, blurs of white floating toward the fence line like grounded clouds.

The kettle on the stovetop squeals, quiet at first, then louder, and you pad out of the dining room, into the kitchen to make yourself a cup of tea. The percolator on the nearby counter gurgles away, still working on Joel’s coffee.

The day has been all but thrown away, thanks to the weather.

You and Joel had planned to celebrate your anniversary: one year since meeting under the fluorescent white lights of the lecture hall, all fidgety hands and warm cheeks.

He’d wanted to take you out, back to the lounge you’d gone to that first night, to sip whiskeys again and reminisce.

You’d wanted to cuddle up together on one of the large, leather armchairs and kiss him the way you had then, just with a bit more purpose, this time.

But a tree had fallen at the entrance of Joel’s dead-end road early this morning, the fractured trunk stretching from one shoulder to another. 

The loud thud of it had jolted you from a sound sleep, causing you to seek refuge in Joel’s strong, impregnable arms as he’d continued snoring away.

It was only when he’d stirred a few hours later that he’d called the town and learned they wouldn’t be able to remove it until later today, at the earliest.

And so, you’re stuck at his house — at least for the time being. 

When the percolator seizes, you pour the contents into Joel’s favorite mug, the one Sarah had gotten him as a housewarming gift. The speckling on the dark green ceramic makes it look as if it’s been handmade and fired in a kiln. The front is appropriately adorned with the Vermont state seal. 

You leave the coffee black — his preference — and bring it, along with your tea, into the living room where Joel is splayed across the couch, reading some book about the history of homesteading. 

You’re quiet when you enter. It gives you the opportunity to marvel at his concentrated face, his brows furrowed and his bottom lip tucked between his teeth as he scans the pages. He traces under the words with his thumb, so as not to inadvertently lose his place.

He finally notices you when you sink into the cushion by his feet and place his mug down on the coffee table in front of him. He swings his legs around and sits upright to make more room for you. 

“Thanks, baby,” he says, dog-earing the page he’s on and setting the book down on the arm of the couch. 

He buries a gracious kiss in your hair and reaches for the coffee, not bothering to let it cool before he takes his first sip. He hisses. Curses under his breath. 

You shake your head in amusement as you settle into plush upholstery, your cup still steaming away on the table. 

Joel grunts. He puts the mug back down in defeat and resumes reading

You decide to sift through your emails. You grab your laptop from your nearby work bag and settle back into the couch with it propped atop your knees. 

You open your inbox. A new message from your well-intentioned, but neurotic colleague sits at the very top, received 20 minutes ago. She’s requesting any final advice for facilitating a fun and informative Open House, since you aren’t volunteering at Homecoming this year. 

You don’t have any fresh insight to provide, so you just copy and paste the last email you sent to her, which she’d never responded to, and add a see below to the top of the message.

Most of the remaining unread emails are from students, a few begging for an extension on their midterm that’s due Monday, another asking how to access their assigned reading for the nth time.

You check to make sure the link to said reading in the syllabus is still working. It is.

A garbled, frustrated sort of noise forms at the bottom of your throat. Joel looks up from his book. Cocks a brow at you in silent question: you okay?

You groan. “Sorry, I’m fine. Just stressed. Annoyed. I can’t believe I’m checking emails right now when we’re supposed to be celebrating.” 

He leans forward. Presses the laptop shut before you can protest. “Then stop,” he offers. 

Joel is a perceptive person, more so than most people give him credit for. His usual persona, the one everyone else sees, characterized by indifferent grumbles and petulant grimaces, is a facade. Because in truth, he’s observant. Caring. He can read you better than the book in his lap with just a scan of his eyes.

He knows just what you need at all times. And right now, he can tell you need to relax.

“Darlin’,” he starts. Waits until you look at him. Until your muscles slacken and he knows you’re listening. 

“I know this isn't ideal. But we’re gonna make the best of it, okay?” 

You nod. 

“Here’s what we’re gonna do.” You watch him think for a moment, gaze fixed absently on the far corner of the room. “You’re gonna go upstairs and take a bath. Put on one ‘a those cucumber things-” 

“A face mask?”

“Yeah, that. And you’re gonna stay upstairs until I tell you to come down. Alright?” 

You want to crack some wise remark about feeling like Rapunzel. But a bath sounds good right now. Great, actually. So you nod again. Say, “okay”. 

“Okay,” he repeats. “Go relax, babygirl.”

You bring your untouched cup of tea with you. It rests on the windowsill next to the clawfoot tub as you wait for the basin to fill with water. You undress, apply a few squeezes of the facemask you keep stashed at the back of Joel’s medicine cabinet just in case. Then you get into the bath, sighing immediately at the feel of warm water lapping at your skin. 

You sink into it, let your head rest against porcelain as your eyes fall shut. 

You stay there until your fingers prune and sweat begins to bead on your forehead. When you stand, the water draining at your feet, you glance out the window and notice that the rain has let up, at least enough that you can actually see the pasture below. 

Joel is there, you realize, his stocky figure leaning against the fence, observing the sheep as they graze. He remains there for a few minutes, and you watch, entranced by him even from a distance.  Water drip-drip-drips off of your body and circles the drain.

When he retreats back toward the house, you step out of the bath. The floor below you vibrates as you towel yourself off, the way it does whenever the front door shuts. You hear the clomp of Joel’s boots against the hardwood as he makes his way inside.

He doesn’t come up. Which means you can’t come down yet, according to his instructions. So you wash your facemask off before wrapping yourself up in Joel’s bathrobe, the bottom hem grazing the floor as you saunter into his room and flop down onto the bed. 

You spend the next hour scrolling mindlessly on your phone, bookmarking recipes that look appetizing slash easy, and cute cat videos to show Joel. You figure if you show him enough, he’ll break and get himself one. 

You need a barncat, you’d told him. You can’t have a barn without a barncat. 

He’d questioned your logic. But he hadn’t said no, not explicitly, anyway.

You refresh your feed for what must be the tenth time this afternoon. Another video of a cat. This one tries to jump onto the top of the fridge from its place on the floor and misses by a longshot. Your laughter fizzles quickly. You’re getting bored. 

You lug yourself off the bed with an exaggerated huff and tiptoe out of Joel’s room to the top of the stairs. He’s playing music, the faint notes of a Johnny Cash song filtering up the balustrade. The smell of garlic follows on its heels, wafting directly into your nostrils and your stomach growls. He’s cooking. 

Joel isn’t a chef by any means. But ever since moving to Vermont, he’s really embraced farm life, sourcing eggs from a neighbor and milk from another. You’d even gotten him a book full of farm-to-table recipes for his birthday, and he’s cracked into it more than once already.

The thought of him referencing it right now to prepare an anniversary dinner for you makes you swoon. Suddenly, you’re very impatient. 

“Can I come down yet?,” you call out. 

You’re not sure if Joel will hear you over the music. But he appears at the bottom of the stairs less than ten seconds later, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. It’s marked with an orange, splotchy stain.

“Nice robe,” he smirks. Leans against the railing. “Two minutes, okay?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, your heart rate quickening at the sight of him looking so domestic. “I’ll go get changed and come down.” 

“Or you could just keep that on,” he drawls. “Look good in my clothes.”

Warmth blooms at the base of your neck. 

“Wait,” you say. “Stay there.”

You feel his eyes on you as you turn and slink down the hall, back to his room. 

You change out of the robe, into one of his flannels and a pair of sleep shorts that you’d stuffed at the bottom of your overnight bag. Then you return to the top of the stairs. 

Joel groans when he sees you. “Get down here,” he growls. You feign innocence, toying with the buttons on his shirt. 

He tracks you like a wolf as you descend, his love for you in his clothes visible by the growing bulge in his pants. You move to grope him when you reach the bottom step and he stops you with a large hand wrapped loosely around your wrist. 

“Dinner,” he reminds you. His voice comes out pained, like if he hadn’t been slaving away in the kitchen for the past hour, he wouldn’t be so adamant. 

“Wait here for a sec,” he says. He adjusts himself and disappears into the kitchen. There’s a series of worrying clangs on the other side of the wall. You hear one of the burners on the stove click off. 

You stand patiently, soundtracked by the sounds of footsteps and clattering dishware. 

And then Joel reappears, outstretching a hand. You take it. Follow him.

It’s dark in the house, the sun having set by now. You try your best not to trip over your own feet and wonder why Joel hasn’t turned any lights on. 

Your question is answered sooner than you can voice it, when you round the corner to the dining room and see what he’s done.

He’s gone all out, two small candles lit at the center of the table next to a bouquet of wildflowers from the edge of his property, arranged in a clear glass vase. On either placemat are steaming plates of pasta, garnished with tomato sauce and fresh basil. You’re practically drooling as you sit down opposite him.

And then there’s the bottle of wine, red, label turned away from you. You twist it around. The name is illegible in the dim candlelight. 

Joel clears his throat. Takes your hand in his on the tabletop. 

“It’s uh – it’s the same one I brought to your apartment that time. The first time.” 

You blink hard. Your brain works to catch up with what he’s just said.

And then you’re all but leaping across the table, catching him in an earnest kiss. 

“Joel,” you say, gesturing to the plates, the wine, the candles. “This is amazing.”

You swear you catch him blush. It’s difficult to tell in the dark.

“‘Ts nothin’,” he retorts. “Less than you deserve. I know you were lookin’ forward to celebratin’ properly.” 

“Hey,” you squeeze his hand. “This is perfect. Better than perfect.” 

Now you know he’s blushing. He attempts to cover it up by bringing the bottle in front of his face, pouring you both a glass.

Joel’s pasta is delicious. You devour it, have to stop yourself from licking the plate clean when you’re done. After dinner, you retreat to the living room where Joel throws a few fresh logs on the hearth and lights it.

He tires quickly of his flannel cloaking your body, and plucks the buttons open one by one until you’re on display for him. Then he lays you down by the roaring fire and makes love to you, heat from the flames licking at your exposed chest as he takes you apart.

You’ve never felt so loved. 

It dawns on you in the afterglow, heart rabbiting in your chest and thighs soaked with arousal — Joel is everything —  your past year, your present, your forever. An immense contentedness settles in you, deep in your being. Unshakable; impenetrable.

As Joel lays next to you, stroking calloused fingers lazily along the length of your arm, forehead shiny with sweat, you sigh. 

“What is it, darlin?,” he asks. 

“Nothing,” you say. “Just feel really lucky.” 

“Nah,” he whispers. He caresses the curve of your jaw gently, like he thinks you’ll break if he’s any less tender. Like he’s forgetting the way his body just ravaged yours. “I’m the lucky one.”

You let him have this one — at least on the outside. Inside, you’re making a list of all the ways Joel has sweetened your life: his kind soul, his expert touch, his deep, unwavering love for you. You add to it until the slowing of his heart and his loosened grip on your face distract you.

And then you lose count.

end notes: ty for reading! please consider reblogging and/or leaving a comment if you liked it <3 til next time!

series tag list:  @anoverwhelmingdin, @joelalorian, @lol-im-done, @bensonispunk, @sereindreams, @survivingandenduring, @stevie75, @vee-bees-blog, @brittmb115, @cassiopeia, @bbyanarchist, @janaispunk, @barbellpedro

[wildemaven]

fall apart, again : chapter one | joel miller

Pairing: Post Outbreak! Joel Miller x OFC!Genevieve

WC: 5k

Warnings: 18+ Blog; Heavy on the Angst, post-outbreak world, no specific age mentioned but reader is close in age to Joel, minor character death, Ellie and her smart mouth, leaving the rest to read at your own risk to not spoil things, reader has a name but there are zero references to her appearance/she’s a blank slate character, 2nd POV, this is way AU so can be read as Game Joel or TV Joel

A/N: I’ve been so excited and nervous for this series. I don’t have a timeline for posting with this one, just going to take my time with it. Big thank you to @gnpwdrnwhiskey for listening to me wrack my brain over this series and for being my second set of eyes!! Please go check out her new Dieter Series!!!

Series Masterlist / Playlist / Inspo Board

Next

Spring was slowly transitioning into the next season. 

Bright fragrant blooms wilting away into the dry soil from where they were born— a poetic reminder of the time. 

21 Summers. 

21 years of surviving. 

Enduring. 

Remembering—  the normal life before the outbreak that you mourn daily. 

A giant Bur Oak lends itself to you, branches providing ample shade as you sit resting against its sturdy trunk, the ground cool beneath where you sit. 

The harsh sunlight filters through the tree’s canopy, a warm dapple light speckled all around you. 

There’s a gentle flicker to your left that catches your attention, a single light-ray hits the small diamond on your dainty gold band where it sits heavy on your ring finger. You hold your hand up, remembering back to when you both had found it, he had immediately dropped to his knee— it wasn’t much, but it was perfect. 

“I give you this ring as a reminder that we face this world together. We’re an unbreakable team.”

Even after all these years and the circumstances of the world around you, it’s a vow you stand by. 

Branches above rustle and crack as a breeze sweeps through, the edges of the paper that is resting on a book in your lap fold over with each small gust, drawing your attention back to the words you’ve written. 

…We passed what looked like it was a small farm at one point. It made me yearn for normalcy. Where we could settle into the small farmhouse, drink our morning coffee on the wraparound porch while we watch the sun rise. Have all the animals that would give a homestead atmosphere. A coup of chickens where we would gather eggs daily, a flock of sheep and goats for milk, and a small herd of cows— because what’s a farm without some cows I can give silly names to. 

We’d raise a family in that farmhouse— lots of babies running around to wrangle. Breakfast of pancakes and fresh eggs, all of us together around our table, then tucking them all in at night after we’ve read them several stories. 

We’d lay in each other’s arms as the crickets sing their chirping songs. A breeze washing over us through the open windows, the evening air lighter and crisp as the night fades and our worn bodies succumb to sleep. 

There wouldn’t be heartache or sadness. No fighting or stressing over jobs. We’d be happy. We’d be together… 

“Eve! Let’s get goin’— we only got a few more hours of light left. Should be at the cabin before sundown.” The thick Texas twang breaks through your thoughts. 

Steve standing off in the distance, his blonde hair disheveled and wind blown as he looks back to where you’re tucked under the tree. 

He’s handsome in his own right, not someone you would have ever found yourself with in different circumstances, but now you wouldn’t know how to function without him. 

A chance meeting the day of the outbreak had brought the two of you together. 

You were working as a traveling nurse at a hospital 4 hours from where you lived, instantly going into crisis mode as lead of the trauma response team, the ER quickly overwhelmed with patients seeking treatment for bites or flu-like symptoms— it was unlike anything you had ever seen before in all your years as a nurse. 

Steve, a retired detective, was on vacation with his wife visiting a friend before the initial outbreak happened. The morning of, he’d gone on a duck hunting trip, while his wife went to breakfast with some girlfriends at a local Waffle House. He had brought her into your ER when he noticed she was acting strangely, similar to the symptoms the news was reporting as a widespread epidemic. Her outcome was not hopeful as you did your best to administer vials of antibiotics and fluids, the infection moving through her was beyond anything you could treat. 

It was Steve who made the call to abandon his wife and the hospital and the realization hit fairly quickly that there was less you could actually do to help others. 

Fleeing the area, seeking solace in one another as you both navigated through quarantine zones— searching for familiarity in your former hometown, only to be met with decimation and nothingness. 

Steve’s way around a gun helped keep you safe when evading FEDRA, the nursing kit you put together came in handy when stitching him up between shootouts and fighting off the infected— this was now your new normal. 

As the years progressed, you both found contentment with each other. Security gave way to a sense of comfort and revival, falling into a deeper connection beyond two people surviving a post outbreak apocalypse— if you were going to be in each other’s lives, you might as well be fully committed. 

“Eve! Pack your shit up— let’s go!” He spits out a little harsher, no real malice behind his tone— he likes to stick to his schedule. 

You don't respond, folding your letter carefully then tucking all of  your items into your canvas pack.  Standing to your full height, you give your legs a minute to let the blood reacquaint fully, your hands brushing the bits of dust and weeds from your pants. 

You hear Steve continue his huffing, as you make your way closer to where he���s standing. 

“I thought I told you to knock it off with those pointless letters!” He gruffs, hands secure at his hips and his head cocked to the side, hoping to catch your gaze. 

Your letters. They had become a loose journal, your stream of thoughts you needed to get out so you were not plagued by the pain and anxiety that came with them whirling around your brain. 

Letters to your past, letters to a new life that awaits you and sometimes to no one at all— you wrote about your travels, things you missed or longed for now, hope for the future. 

They were too much to keep, pages and pages filled with your words and stories, some containing memories too painful to read or share, a weight you didn’t want to carry, so you scattered them throughout your travels. In the last 21 years, you’ve written hundreds of them, dropping them in abandoned mailboxes, or tucked away in the abandoned spaces you’d settled into in passing, as if to send them to whomever you were writing to— leaving a trail of your life across cities and states. 

“And I thought I told you to stop calling me Eve— guess we don’t always get what we want?” You had asked him multiple times over the years to not call you Eve, that was your former life and you hated the reminder, but you know he doesn’t do it out of spite. 

The gravel crunches under your boots as you walk past, not looking to argue with him in the heat of the sun. 

Steve’s hand reaches out clasping around yours, halting your movements, his eyes fixed on you, furrowed brows as if he wants to say something. 

“Hey— Ya know I love you, right?” He sighs, his fingers toying with the gold band on your ring finger. 

You look to where your hands are joined, the twisting of the gold band a small gesture of his when things get tough or tense, you smile when you meet his gaze again. 

“I know.” You do know, and you feel it too. “Come on, we’ve only got a few hours of light left.” He shakes his head, but gives you a smile at the way you throw his comment back at him. 

*

It had been close to 2 hours of walking, nearly dark, by the time you both made it to the cabin, nestled among dozens of other abandoned cabins on the hillside of an old ski resort. 

You imagine it was a popular spot in its prime, filled with families taking their kids on their first snow trips, friends racing each other down the slopes, non-skiers enjoying warm beverages in the lodge while everyone else enjoyed the snowy weather. 

Now desolate and forgotten, a stop for raiders on the hunt for supplies and hostages or survivors seeking refuge in search of a town just north of here, Jackson. 

Steve had managed to trade for a hand-held CB radio early on, he kept tabs on chatter that happened among FEDRA, staying one step ahead of their whereabouts. At some point he had stumbled upon private channels used by other survivors, he didn’t talk much about what they discussed with you, it was his realm of expertise and a small thing that was just his, so you didn’t push him to share more than what he was willing to. 

It was a year ago he had connected with someone and heard about Jackson. There was an offer for a place for a fresh start, a community of other survivors, somewhere to feel safe and comfortable without fear of being attacked, placed in solitary confinement, killed— or infected. Steve decided it was where you both were meant to be, hashing out a plan and specific route on his tattered map, making sure to stay in constant contact with this person in Jackson as you both traveled. 

Venturing further into the resort, you both settled on the lesser marred of the dilapidated cabins.

“I’m gonna check the perimeter, you go on inside— check each room first, I’ll be right in. But remember, if I’m not back in ten minutes, you don’t come looking for me— you wait until morning and you head over that mountain, under no circumstances do you leave that cabin before sunrise.” Steve instructed, his hands on your shoulders reassuring the doubt he can see written all over your face. 

“Steve— W-what if, there’s something inside—“ Your voice is barely a whisper, nervousness creeping in as your hands grip onto Steve’s wrists that have moved to cup your face, his thumbs smoothing across the apples of your cheeks. 

“We’ve done this a million times before, I know you can do it— I wouldn’t send you in there if I didn’t think you were capable, you’ll be fine. Just think, this is the last time we have to do this. Then it’s you and me, in Jackson, together and safe— ‘kay?” His direct eye contact really drives home the message— together and safe.

“Okay.”

“I love you, go be brave.” Romantic and encouraging as he presses a kiss to your forehead. 

“I love you— be safe, please.” 

“Always.” He shoots a wink with his mustached smile, a few slow steps backwards then turning to make his way up the backside of the cabin, pulling the butt of his rifle close to his chest, hunched and scanning every inch of the surrounding area. 

The cabin would seem warm and inviting if the possibility of a Clicker behind the door wasn’t a high probability. 

Armed with the knife Steve insisted you keep on you at all times, your refusal at his request for you to carry a gun, you make your way up the front steps. 

Each move was slow and calculated, the wood beneath your boots wobbled and creaked the closer you got to the front door. The handle is cold to the touch as you twist it open, pushing the door with a little extra effort to unstick it from the doorframe. 

It’s dark and musty, uninhabited by the living and anything beyond that at first glance. Dust and cobwebs cover every surface, pictures still mounted on the walls slightly hanging uneven. A floral couch with two side chairs still arranged in an inviting way, waiting to be enjoyed during a long conversation. The kitchen was small but large enough that it still would have been possible to whip up a hearty meal over the stove, then gather at the tiny table to enjoy the meal and dessert. 

You’re grateful the floor plan is an open space, no immediate threat to you upon entering. 

There’s only two doors, which you assume hide a bathroom and a bedroom. 

The first door reveals nothing but a sink, toilet and shower-tub combo— you’re looking forward to a hot shower when you get to Jackson. 

You stare at the closed remaining door, the handle of the knife twisting in your hand as you prepare yourself, not really feeling like you have it in you to take out anything that might be waiting for you on the other side. 

A deep breath in, reaching for the the handle you give it a quick jiggle announcing your presence, twist and a quick swing open— a queen size bed draped in outdated sheets, bedside tables with lamps covered in a layer of dust, a dresser opposite the bed with a giant mirror hanging above it. 

Empty. 

Relief washing away the dread. 

Stepping into the room, you toss your pack and knife onto the dresser before finding a seat at the end of the bed, the mattress shifting under you, the springs groan as you settle into a comfortable spot. 

You’re not sure how much time has passed since you entered the house, noting it’s been a while since you had heard or seen anything from Steve, but knowing he likes to be thorough, you’re hoping he makes his way through the front door soon. 

The moon has crept into the night sky, shining through the small bedroom window, illuminating the reflection staring back at you. 

Sometimes you forget how long it’s been since you’ve seen what you really look like. While it’s you that you’re staring at in the mirror, you feel slightly unrecognizable to yourself— aged by 21 years in every sense, tired and worn down by the state of the world and lack of sleep. 

Your fingers lightly trace over your skin, taking in every detail, rediscovering every angle of your appearance— the old characteristics blending into the new ones. 

A yawn escapes you, remembering what Steve had said about not leaving, you decide to get yourself comfortable in bed and wait for him. 

Kicking your boots off, you crawl up the length of the bed, plopping your head down onto the stack of lumpy pillows, your mind wandering as you run through all the scenarios as to why Steve hasn’t returned yet, debating whether you should go take a look outside or listen and wait for morning— scared of what you might find waiting for you. 

Your eyelids begin a heavy blink, struggling to remain open and alert, your breathing evening out as your body relaxes into the mattress, sleep consuming your mind. 

Warmth surrounds you, the bed dipping and creaking pulls you from your sleep, immediate panic bursts in your chest as your eyes shoot open, your vision blurred as you seek out the movement of a shadowy figure behind you. 

“Hey, hey it’s okay— it’s just me.” 

“Steve?!” Turning your body to lay facing him, your hands fisting his shirt, scanning his face for any sign of distress or discomfort. “What took you so long?”

“I’m fine.” Placing a hand over one of yours that’s settled on his chest. “Decided to wait a bit, just to be sure nothin’ was out there— I’m sorry.” His hand moves to the base of your neck, his forehead resting against yours.

“S’okay.”

“No— I’m sorry for callin’ your letters pointless earlier. I know how much they mean to you.  I just—“ He releases a heavy sigh, voice quivering as he avoids eye contact with you. 

“What— what’s the matter?” You sense there’s something Steve’s not telling you. 

“Nothin’s the matter. I just worry about what’s goin’ on in that pretty little head of yours— you shut down on me and I just wish you’d let me help you carry the burden.” His gaze moves back to yours. “Promise me, when we get to Jackson, you don’t let your thoughts weigh you down any longer— promise me you’ll let yourself be happy there.”

“I p-promise.” You say, brushing the blonde strands of hair off of his forehead. “I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier.”

“Nah, I was pushin’ your buttons— I deserved it.” You both laugh at his response. 

Steve leans into your space, his lips slotting over yours, it’s angled and slow, his grip on your neck still steady as the kiss begins to deepen. Throwing your leg over his hip, canting against the sturdiness of his thigh, seeking out some sort of friction to relieve the building ache between your legs. 

But before things are about progress, Steve’s pulling away from your mouth, slowing the roll of your hips with his hand. 

“We should get some sleep— we’ve got close to a 3, maybe 4 hour walk tomorrow, we need to get all the rest we can get.”

“Y-yeah, of course.” Your response is breathy, a slight pang in your chest at his soft rejection, questioning whether you had been too harsh towards him earlier in the day— but your body could use the rest. 

Adjusting yourself, you turn away from Steve, his large arm wrapping around and pulling you closer to him. Your back now against his firm chest, each one of your tense muscles slowly relaxing into him and his warmth. 

Thoughts of a new start in Jackson flood your mind as you drift off into a deep sleep. A chance at a better life, where Steve and you can settle into normalcy together. Retire from the constant fear and panic of daily survival out in the open. The taste of prosperity and the sense of peace, an almost tangible reality for the two of you. 

Steve senses sleep has set in for you, the ease of your regulated breathing paired with your gentle snores. He nestles himself into the crook of your neck, his fingers instinctively migrate to your ring smoothing over the cool metal, his thick whiskers tickle lightly at your skin as he whispers reserved confessions into the balmy. A gentle kiss to your shoulder before allowing himself to fully breathe easy, deciding to keep a watchful eye throughout the night. 

“You’ll be happier Genevieve, I promise.”

*

The sun is in its full glory once you both set out on the last stretch of your journey over the mountain.

Steve had been rather short with you all morning, you chalked it up to his tossing and turning all night, his eyes bloodshot, evident in lacking sleep— he had promised everything was fine, so you believed him. 

“How much longer do you think we have?” Not really knowing what to talk about with the uneasiness that’s been going on all morning. 

“I don’t know, Eve— they guy said it was about a 3 hour walk from the resort. We’ve been walking close to 2 and a half, so we’re probably close.”

“Please don’t call me—“

“Jesus Christ Genevieve! I’m fucking sorry! But you don’t make it easy for me sometimes— I feel like I’m always at a fucking arms length away from you even after 21 fucking years.” Anger shoots from his mouth like bullets, you’re not sure you’ve ever seen him like this, at least never towards you. “It’s a goddamn name! Gen, Eve, Genevieve— they’re all the fucking same!” 

“I-I’m sorry.” Tears prick at your eyes, you try your best to not let them fall— you’ll save them for when you’re alone in the safety of your new home. 

“Fuck! No, I’m sorry— shit! C’mere.”

Steve pulls you into him, his face hot against your cheek as he holds you close, the button down he’s wearing is drenched in sweat, there’s a slight tremble to the grip he has on you. 

“Are you okay?” You pull back to get a better look at him, beads of sweat glisten across his forehead, his cheeks flushed a bright red. 

“Yeah, just really fucking tired.” 

*CLICK*

“Hands where we can see them! Slowly, no fast movements!” A woman’s voice echoes through the air. 

Steve releases you from his arms, both of you slowly turning, arms raised up as you were told. 

There’s 5 of them, all on horses with their guns drawn in your direction. The woman seems to be in charge of the group, her horse placed a few feet in front of the others.

“We don’t mean no harm, we’re just trying to get to the settlement just over this mountain. You must be Maria? I was told you might greet us before we got there.” Steve says, keeping his tone even as explains himself. 

“Am I supposed to know who you are?” She asks, her expression still unreadable as she waits for Steve to respond. 

“No— you don’t, but I was told you would bring us the rest of the way in.” 

Maria takes a minute to decide whether she wants to believe Steve or not. 

“Scan them.” Looking back at one of the men behind her, nodding to where Steve and you are still standing with your arms raised. “I don’t care who you talked to, you get scanned before you come in.” 

The man grabs a device from his saddle pack, then makes his way towards you, the other 3 men’s guns still aimed, fingers hovering over their triggers. 

“Lady’s first.” The man states, placing the device on your neck, there’s a small zap to your skin when the scan is administered. 

“Green!” He shouts, holding the device up to show the green screen in Maria’s direction. 

You breathe a sigh of relief, even though you knew you were fine. 

Turning towards Steve, the man places the scanner on Steve’s neck, Steve’s eyes locking with yours as the man presses the designated button to conduct the virus scan. 

The man steps back quickly, a flash of red catches your attention. 

“RED!” He holds the device up. 

The other men direct their aim to Steve, his head hanging low and no sign of resistance to finding out he’s infected. 

“Steve! No— Tell them you’re not infected!” Insisting he speak up. “He’s not infected! Scan him again! Please!” You scream at the group, your voice straining as you plead with them to scan Steve again, convinced it was a bad read. 

“Please!! Scan him—“

“Genevieve— it’s not wrong.” Steve says. 

You turn to him, chest heaving and your throat burning from yelling, confused by what he’s saying.

“What? What do you mean it’s not wrong? You’re not infected Steve— you’re just tired, they need to scan you again!”

“I was bit.” 

You can feel the blood drain from your face as the words leave his mouth. Your brain takes a moment to register what he had said. 

Bit. 

Infected. 

“No— no! No, no no!”

“Genevieve—“

“W-when?”

“Last night, there was a runner that came out of one of the other cabins—“

Steve’s confession hits you like a ton of bricks in slow motion. You hate it and don’t want to believe a single thing he’s saying, because the reality is that this is where it ends for him— for you. 

The tears burn as they begin to stream down your face. 

“You didn’t say anything though—“

“I needed to get you here— I needed you to be safe.”

Your chest heaves as you try to catch your breath, throwing yourself at him, anchoring your arms around his neck. 

“No! I can’t do this without you— I can’t lose you too!” 

“Yes, you can. You’re the bravest person I’ve known in a long time. You’re going to get there and you’re going to meet new people and you will be able to help out because that’s what you love— you love helping people and I love that about you. This is your chance to start over, to be happy— do that for me?” His hands cup your face so he can look at you, his eyes filled with tears as well. “Do me a favor, write me one of your letters— I want to know everything.”

You nod, unable to speak, the lump in your throat growing as your remaining time together dwindles away. 

“I love you, Genevieve.” His words muffled against your skin, leaving one last kiss on your forehead. 

“I love you, too.” You breathe out, your eyes closed savoring his soft touch one last time. 

“How long?” Maria asks Steve.

“Probably ‘nother hour left, give or take.”

“Alright Genevieve— you’re riding with me, hand your pack to one of my men. Andrew, you hang back with Steve— you know what to do.” Maria orders everyone. 

Wiping your tears before placing a kiss to Steve’s cheek, then turning to where Maria is waiting for you, handing your pack to one of her men. Maria leans down to grab onto your arm, as you hoist yourself up onto the backside of the horse. 

“Let’s head back.” Maria says, pulling the reins up and to one side to signal the horse to turn around, a click of her tongue has the horse moving forward in the direction of the settlement. 

You can’t bear to look back in Steve’s direction, not trusting yourself to not run back to him. 

Leaving him and knowing his fate is like reliving the same pain you endured 21 years ago. The outbreak takes everything from you for a second time. 

Your world shatters, crumbling as the horse carries you further and further from him. 

*BANG*

The sound ricochets out over the valley, your heart sinks as a new wave of tears silently fall. 

*

You don’t remember the entire ride to the settlement or how you ended up on the porch of a two story house. 

Maria had mentioned putting you up in her brother-in-law's converted garage, a small studio bedroom where those new to the settlement would stay while their permanent residence were being cleaned and prepped. She said it wasn’t anything special and you’d have to use the main houses kitchen and bathroom, but you’d have your own space in a few days— so interacting with a few strangers was the least you could do for the hospitality. 

You honestly didn’t care where she put you for the time being, the stables would have been enough, you just wanted to be alone. 

Glancing over your shoulder you see others moving about freely, children running about in the open, a stark contrast between what you had been so used to. 

There’s rows and rows of homes, a small town-like area, a community garden— this place was everything that Steve had described to you, he would have loved it. 

The opening of the front door pulls you back to the front porch where you’re standing with Maria. 

“We’ve got a newcomer, she’s going to stay here until we get a room ready down the street.” Maria explained to the young girl who is glaring at you. 

“Why do you keep bringing them here? This isn’t a shelter— can’t she stay somewhere else?”

“No, she can’t. This is Ellie, her bark is worse than her bite— she’ll grow on you. Ellie, this is Genevieve let’s let her get comfortable and situated— she just lost whom I’m assuming was her husband, so please make her feel welcomed.” Maria coerses Ellie into letting you stay, but you don’t miss the eye rolling throw your way. 

The home is spacious and inviting, you decide it’s far more comfortable than the stables would have been. 

“Ellie, can you grab Genevieve a glass of water please.” It’s more of a demand than an ask. “Here Genevieve, have a seat here at the table. I’m sure Ellie can make you something to eat if you’re hungry too.”

“So now we’re a shelter and we have room service? Her legs don’t seem broken to me—.” 

“Ellie, glass of water!”

The girl grunts something under her breath as she follows through with getting you water, you settle into a chair and try to not let the unwelcome feeling that’s been looming over you since you set foot in the house add to the pain that is still radiating through you. 

You wipe a few tears you hadn’t realized had fallen, a new wave of emotions hitting you, another moment of realization of Steve not being here with you like you had both talked about. 

“Is there anything else I can get you Genevieve?” Maria cautiously places a hand on your shoulder, you take it as her way of apologizing for your loss. 

“Umm, just my bag would be great and a shower would be nice.” You sniffle, ready to lock yourself away for the day, not wanting to be forced to have unwanted conversations with a teenager who already hates your new presence. 

“I’ll go grab your bag from the stables, then you can start getting settled.” She gives your shoulder a light squeeze before turning for the front door. “Ellie, be nice.”

A glass of water is placed in front of you, a few cubes of ice float around the clear liquid. You don’t even remember the last time you had enjoyed an ice cold drink. 

Ellie situates herself in the chair across from you, looking as if she wants to say something. 

“So— your husband is dead?” 14 years old and a great conversationalist. 

“No— y-yes.” Your chest aches at the mention of ‘your husband.’

“Well, that’s not confusing. So, did you watch him die?”

“Hmm?” 

“Your husband, did you watch your husband die?” She asks again. 

“N-no.”

“I’m all out of questions then.” She slinks back into her chair. 

You stare at the ice, almost half the size it was when it was placed in front of you. Wishing you could slowly melt away, become the nothingness you feel like. 

The front door swings open and closes with a gentle click, the clunking sound of boots makes the presence of whoever stepped into the house known. 

“Hey kid, sorry I’m late. Tommy wanted to get drinks after our patrol.” 

A deep husky voice permeates the room, its thick syrupy tone seeps into every little crevice of your memory, its familiarity prompting the goosebumps to form across your body. 

“I didn’t know we were having guests— this a new friend of yours?” He asks, his foot step getting closer to where you're still seated at the table, your back turned to him. 

“Fuck no! It’s one of Maria’s strays. Said she has to stay here until her room is available— which is bullshit if you ask me!” She spouts off, her annoyance very apparent. 

“Ellie, manners!” He grits out. 

You lift yourself from the chair, steadying your weak state on the table and chair as you turn in his direction. 

Your heart nearly stops the moment your eyes land on him— a ruggedness to him, his soft brown eyes filled with a darkness that comes with loss and sorrow, his dark locks and beard sprinkled with tuffs of gray, an overall hardness about him that hides his true self. 

“Joel?” Your eyes wide and filled with more tears, the name is barely a whisper as it falls into the air. 

“Eve?” A name he never thought he would say again. 

[greater-than-the-sword]

Re Jacob wrestling the angel: not very theologically researched, but I thought it was the culmination of Jacob's main "thing" where he sins by trying to get God's blessing even though God already gave it to him, but God blesses him nonetheless.

Before Jacob is born, God tells Rebekah that the younger son would be the stronger (not the firstborn, as cultural custom), but Jacob is born clutching at Esau's heel trying to grab the firstborn position. Jacob tries to manipulate Esau out of the birthright with the whole stew trade, then Rebekah and Jacob deceive Isaac into blessing Jacob as the firstborn. Yet God forgives that sin, and still blesses him at the dream at the Bethel.

(I suspect the Rachel and Leah story and the speckled sheep story are also about him conniving his way to get blessing, but can't really articulate it as clearly given they're clearly about other things too)

Then as Jacob returns to meet Esau, he acknowledges God's blessing in his prayer, but then personally sets up a lot of protection like sending gifts and splitting up his camp. The passage is very ambiguous about how God comes and how it starts, but the way it ends is Jacob tries to literally wrestle the blessing out of God by his own strength. God could beat Jacob, but God just wants Jacob to trust in his generosity rather than work, fight, and deceive to get the blessing.

Jacob's fight has some consequences because God strikes Jacob's hip socket, but God (barely) spares Jacob's groin for him to have the children from the blessing. Jacob is humbled by that, God gives him the blessing and a new name nonetheless.

TLDR - Jacob keeps sinning by trying to take an already-promised blessing, even up to fighting God, but God as always forgives and blesses nonetheless

That makes a lot of sense, actually. Thank you. Hmmm....

[chibsandchill]

A good man

Pairing: Daemon T. x GN!reader

Warnings: None, some profanity (if you squint)

In Daemon needs some reassurance.

Masterlist

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

His hair fell through your parted fingers like water, each strand softer than silk and as pale as the stars. They smelled of the lavender you placed under his pillows and between his tunics, while his skin smelt of the roses you plucked from the gardens. Smoke lingered in the red-speckled riding leathers he donned like armor. Each night he would sit on his balcony with the stars as his only witness as he tended to them with the devotion of a silent sister, tracing the worn edges and the fading crimson threads of his family emblem.

“Am I a good man?” He whispered. 

The family curse weighed heavy on his mind. He heard the whispers of the court, the not-so-silent speculations and declarations of his evil nature. A second Maegor, they liked to call him, for surely the sour prince is destined to be as cruel as he. 

“I don’t know.” You answered. 

Daemon’s coin had yet to fall. Would he be a good man? A bad one? A brilliant one, or a cruel one? A good man who did bad things, or a bad man who did good ones? Perhaps he wouldn’t be a man at all, perhaps he was destined to be the black sheep of a family of ravenous dragons, destined to burn and burn in the name of family and heritage until all that remained of the once prideful boy were memories tainted by centuries-old bitterness. 

“Am I a bad man?” 

The embers in the hearth crackled, sparks of fire licking at the slips of paper thrown on the threadbare carpet in front of it. Letters sent from his brother no doubt, the majority unopened and discarded, but some carried the bent edges of a letter well-read. You wondered if he read them under the stars as well, if his melancholy stare as he conditioned his leather were accompanied by his longing for family; for belonging. 

You let his words linger in the silence. 

“I don’t know.” You answered again. 

He could be kind, so kind that your heart skipped a beat when he presented you with luxurious gifts from his travels to faraway lands, but he could also be cruel as he scoffed and sneered at the vulnerability you showed him. He thrived in chaos and fire and blood, cursed to be as restless as his Blood Wyrm by even crueler Gods. Often he would stagger into his quarters beaming, lilac eyes as light as you had ever seen them, whilst covered in the blood of his once enemies. His hair wasn’t the color of stars then.

He hummed. 

“Would you like me to braid your hair now, my Prince?” 

Daemon nodded. 

With nimble fingers you parted his hair, making sure to scratch his scalp in the spots you knew he liked. Often when he returned in a foul mood you would offer to braid his hair and he would throw a snarky remark or otherwise barbed jab that you would ignore, before he fell into the armchair and allowed himself to be cared for in a way so unfamiliar that it scared him. He melted under your touch, heavy lids fluttering shut, freeing you from the intensity of his gaze. 

Was he a good man? No, the indifference with which he treated the ones around him spoke against it and his often uncaring words and actions towards those he deemed lesser than him, but he loved his family in a different way. A hidden way, one where their inevitable rejection couldn’t hurt him, their distrustful gazes and honey-coated lies never reaching the shriveled heart hiding behind stone walls. 

He could cut a man from cock to head without even a thought of hesitation, but he would burn the Seven kingdoms to protect his loved ones. His loyalty was highly sought after, each simpering maiden of King’s landing lusting after him even after he used and discarded them after they lost their appeal, though they knew not that his loyalty was as fickle as a candle’s flame, the ways and means with which he cared was unconventional at best and monstrous at worst. 

Daemon Targaryen was not a good man, or a bad one. He was something in between, something forged in the flames of sin and carnage, emerging screaming and angry from a cursed womb. A man of darkness shaped by a loving hand. 

You could braid his hair in your sleep. He never wanted anything more grand than the singular one that kept his hair out of his face. Still, you kept your hands in his hair, hiding your affection under the touch of a dutiful servant. 

“Are you a good man?” You asked him. 

The reply was instant.

 “No.”

“I think you could be.” Your fingers brush against his face. 

He glances at the letters. His eyes lingered on the letter at the top of the pile, one with Aemma’s unbroken seal. He confided in you once that he dared not open them for the sorrow with which his good-sister wrote to him with was enough to break his heart. “Perhaps once, if things had been different and the gods kinder I could have been. "

Emboldened by the way he allowed your touch to linger on his cheek, you say, “I thought Targaryens were above the gods.”

The reward for your bravery was the ghost of a smile. “You’re growing bold. But it matters not. Every story needs a villain, and who am I to deny the gods entertainment. I will play the part I was given.”

“Are you a bad man then, Daemon Targaryen?”

His eyes searched yours, and in an act even bolder than your words, he placed his hand over yours, long and narrow fingers slotting between yours like he was always meant to hold them. 

“Would you leave if I was?”

You shook your head. “No.”

His smile grew strained as if pained. “Then I hope I do not live long enough to see myself become one” 

Daemon pressed a kiss that lingered on the top of your hand before pulling it down to rest over his heart, allowing you to, for the first time, feel how his heart beat for you. 

[five-thousand-loaves-of-bread]

🧶do you have any current fiber art projects?

try only have one open project per craft so right now is:

sweater with self drafted pattern( eye let yoke and cropped lace bottom) with speckle hand dyed rainbow merino/ nylon sock yarn, hoping for sweater for decora style

raw fleece to sweater with leicester longwool lamb fleece from sheep named elka ( right now at make rolag / spin stage)

[mousetoe-wc]

I Got bored one time awhile ago and made a list of every prefix plus some into organised sections so I thought I might as well share.

All the ones that aren’t cannon to warriors, yet at lest are bold

Describing names

Colours: red, russet, copper, golden, amber, yellow, green, blue, violet, pink, white, gray, black, ebony, dark, pale, silver, brown, tawny, fallow

Pattern, Texture + Size: spot/ted, dapple, speckle, freckle, brindle, patch, mottle, ragged, tangle, kink, bristle, fuzzy, curl/y, wooly, soft, sleek, little, tiny, small, slight, short, tall, long, big, heavy, crooked, broken, half, stumpy, shred, torn, jagged

Actions + Character: flip, pounce, bounce, jump, hop, crouch, down, low, drift, flail, strike, running, fidget, mumble, whistle, snap, sneeze, shiver/ing, shining, flutter, fallen, lost, rush, fleet, quick, shy, sweet, brave, loud, quiet, wild, hope, wish,

Other: claw, whisker, dead, odd, one, spike, fringe, echo, song, hallow, haven

Elements

Time + Weather: day, night, dusk, dawn, morning, sky, sun/ny, moon, storm, lightning, thunder, cloud/y, mist/y, fog, snow, blizzard, ice, frost, dew, drizzle, rain, clear, wind, breeze, gale, shadow, shade, bright, light,

Earth/Water/Fire names: stone, rock, boulder, slate, flint, pebble, gravel, sand/y, dust, mud/dy, meadow, hill, rubble, river, ripple, whorl, float, rapid, shimmer, lake, swamp, marsh, wave, wet, bubbling, splash, puddle, pool, creek, fire, flame, flicker, flash, blaze, scorch, ember, spark, ash, soot, cinder, smoke

Plants

Trees: alder, aspen, birch, beech, cedar, cypress, pine, elm, willow, oak, larch, maple, bay, rowan, timber, bark, log, wood, twig, acorn, cone, seed, spire

Berry/Nut/Fruit/Herb: juniper, elder, sloe, holly, yew, mistle, bramble, hickory, hazel, chestnut, nut, apple, cherry, cranberry, olive, pear, plum, peach, chive, mint, fennel, sage, basil, mallow, parsley

Flowers: aster, poppy, primrose, rose, bluebell, marigold, tansy, pansy, briar, cherry, daisy, dandelion, daffodil, tulip, violet, lily, myrtle, thrift, yarrow, heather, lavender, blossom, bloom, flower, petal

Other: leaf, frond, fern, bracken, sorrel, hay, rye, oat, wheat, cotton, reed, pod, cinnamon, milkweed, grass, clover, weed, stem, sedge, gorse, furze, flax, nettle, thistle, ivy, moss, lichen, bush, vine, root, thorn, prickle, nectar

Animals

Mammals: mouse, rat, mole, vole, shrew, squirrel, hedgehog, bat, rabbit, hare, ferret, weasel, stoat, mink, marten, otter, hog, wolf, hound, fox, vixen, badger, deer, doe, stag, fawn, sheep, cow, pig, lion, tiger, leopard, lynx, milk

Birds: robin, jay, cardinal, thrush, sparrow, swallow, shrike, starling, rook, swift, dove, pigeon, crow, raven, duck, goose, heron, wren, finch, swan, stork, quail, gull, lark, owl, eagle, hawk, kestrel, buzzard, kite, hoot, feather, bird, egg, talon

Fish, Reptiles + Amphibians: pike, perch, pollack, trout, tench, cod, carp, bass, bream, eel, minnow, fin, snake, adder, lizard, turtle, frog, toad, newt

Bug type Names: bug, lady or ladybug, moth, spider, ant, snail, slug, beetle, bee, wasp, dragon or dragonfly, bumble, worm, maggot, cricket, fly, midge, web, honey

Skyclan + Warriorclan: Bella, Billy, Big, Harry, Harvey, Snook, Ebony, Monkey

[julesofnature]

My work is loving the world. Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird— equal seekers of sweetness. Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums. Here the clam deep in the speckled sand. Are my boots old? Is my coat torn? Am I no longer young, and still half-perfect? Let me keep my mind on what matters, which is my work, which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished. The phoebe, the delphinium. The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture. Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here, which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart and these body-clothes, a mouth with which to give shouts of joy to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam, telling them all, over and over, how it is that we live forever.

‘Messenger’, by Mary Oliver, from Thirst

[bearsbeetsbeskar]

Restoring the Roots (Joel Miller x Therapist! reader)

Chapter 2: Contemplation

Chapter 1 | Chapter 3

Pairing: Joel Miller x therapist! reader, post outbreak

Rating: none, will be changed to explicit in future chapters (slow burn, eventual smut, age gap), swearing in this chapter

Summary: Life after moving to Jackson looks drastically different for Joel. Survival mode is over and now he and Ellie can finally put down new roots. Ellie adapts easily but Joel finds himself struggling to settle into this new life, in more ways than some. At Ellie and Tommy’s insistence, Joel begrudgingly finds himself in therapy to try and work through his struggles but what he encounters is more than just painful memories and deeply rooted trauma.

A/N: Thank you for the feedback on chapter 1! I am so excited that everyone is excited to see Joel and reader finally interact! Our poor sweet grumpy old man, he just needs some loving and healing!

Joel squinted slightly as he glanced up at the broad, slightly faded letters that read ‘Restorative Reins,’ as he stood in front of the office. He had been standing in front of the building for a good couple minutes, chewing on the inside of his cheek as people strolled past him while he contemplated his fate.

Therapy. 

Even as he mulled over the word in his mind his spine stiffened and he clenched his jaw, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Therapy was only for folks with legitimate mental problems, that’s the way he saw it. You spoke to a shrink for your problems, cried into a box of tissues while laying on a couch, and were given some highfalutin advice along with a prescription slip. Either that or you ended up in the cookie bin.

Joel never thought long and hard enough about his mental health. Back in the day, before the outbreak, he could lose himself in a six pack of Lone Star, hit up a few of his buddies for a poker game, or rub one out in the shower to get rid of the tension, if all else failed. If he really wanted to, he could talk to Sarah about certain things on his mind. Needing to speak to someone who was a professional, to open up about your vulnerabilities, let alone seek advice, was a bewildering thought to Joel. Why talk to someone when he is usually able to deal with things on his own?

He hears Tommy’s pleas in his head, his desperation. And Ellie’s words too. The conviction with which they spoke about him getting help and actually taking care of himself. You never know unless you try it.

“Nothin’ to lose,” he mutters to himself. 

Steeling himself, he took a deep breath and walked up to the door, stepping into the small office. It was pretty cozy, almost too cozy, as if he stepped into someone’s living room. There’s a worn leather couch up against the front window and a loveseat against the wall adjacent to it, with a few blankets and cushions arranged on top, a small coffee table in between them. The walls are a soft sky blue and potted plants cover almost every surface imaginable. Surprisingly there aren’t any motivational posters on the walls, feigning false positivity and encouragement, somewhat reminding him of the ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ signs that Sarah used to have in her bedroom. 

One thing Joel does appreciate is the photos speckled across the office walls in various frames and sizes, most of them of animals such horses, dogs, sheep, and landscapes of different scenery. What looks to be an empty receptionist desk is tucked away in the back corner, besides a closed door that presumably leads to other rooms.

He steps further into the office, moving closer to a particular picture of a striking chestnut horse with a white blaze that runs from his forelock down to his nose. Huh. He looks familiar. Taking a step back and appraising all the other shots, Joel realizes these are all animals within the settlement. The horse he recognizes is Callum, one of the horses Joel has actually ridden while out on patrol. The realization softens his gaze, and he relaxes his body a bit, warming up to the fact that this therapist is an animal lover. Maybe not a totally crazy shrink after all, he concludes. 

He nearly jumps out of his skin when he hears the knob to the back door of the office turning, as it swings open and a young woman strides through into the office. 

“Hi there! Sorry to keep you waiting, are you here for a session?” The woman asks with a warm smile.

Any sense of false confidence he thought he had built up, dissipates immediately from Joel’s system as he takes you in.

You’re young. Much younger than what he expected.

Weren’t shrinks older? Middle aged? Like doctors? You couldn’t be more than thirty-five. You also did not look like a professional therapist, what with your flannel button up, jeans that hugged your curves, and combat boots, your hair pulled into a braid. It shouldn’t matter really, business casual was dead and gone, but Joel would be lying if he said he wasn’t very appreciative that you leaned towards the casual side. Either way you definitely didn’t look like a shrink, as his gaze swept up and down your body.  

His brain might as well be covered in molasses as he barely recalls the question you asked him.

“Uh, a session?” he repeats, drawing his eyebrows together.

“Yes, a therapy session?” You look at him expectantly, tilting your head slightly at his confusion. 

Joel felt his heart stutter as he met your bright eyes. What did you say?

Shit. Right. He cursed himself internally as he shook his head, attempting to clear his throat. 

“Uhm, I- no sorry. I uh, I’m not a client. I was told to come by to see uh, what kind of services you offered and get a consultation of sorts. My brother referred me to your office… he thinks I need some uhm, some kinda help.” Joel stammers, as he digs his nails into his palms and looks at the ground.

Fuck, this is stupid. Damn Tommy. He should just apologize, turn around and walk out the door, everything in his body telling him to run.

You raised your eyebrows as a look of recognition spreads across your face and you flash a huge smile at him, introducing yourself.

“Oh yes! You must be Joel right? I spoke to your brother Tommy yesterday. He mentioned that you might be looking for some support?” 

Joel was shook. He expected you to give him a disapproving or hesitant look of recognition. Despite only being in Jackson for about a month, news had traveled fast through the commune. Joel knew that many of the residents already knew about him, they had heard the stories. Tommy Miller’s ruthless, cold big brother, who had trekked across the country, while killing more people with his bare hands than he could count. Infected or not infected. He had a reputation. Another one of the reasons he saw no point in sharing his concerns with a total stranger, regardless of whether or not you were a professional. But you still had this warm, attentive expression on your face.

“Yeah. I’m not sure how much he told you, or what exactly he said, my brother likes to put his nose in other peoples’ business sometimes,” he rambled on, running a hand through his hair, “but I guess I wanted to know how it all works. How the therapy works, y’know.” He makes a dismissive gesture with his hand.

“No problem at all.” You gestured to the couch for him to sit and you sat in the loveseat to the side.

“I suppose I should lay down while I’m pouring my heart out to you huh?” he asked as he hesitantly sunk down into the beat up leather, eyes darting to you nervously.

“Well, if you prefer to, then you certainly can, but it’s not necessary,’ you chuckled. "Sessions look a bit different here at the practice”.

You lean back in the seat and cross your legs, resting your hands in your lap, while appraising his tense figure. After a minute you break the silence, “can I ask, what do you know about therapy?”

Joel exhaled shakily, his heart pounding in his ears. Maybe this was a bad idea. He didn’t want to insult you by sharing what he really thought about therapy (that it was baloney), but he also didn’t want to be judged for having an abysmal perspective of mental health. He sat hunched over on the couch and bounced his right leg, anxiety consuming him.

Seeing him start to mentally backtrack you reassured him. “There’s absolutely no true right or wrong answer by the way. Just tell me what you think of when you picture therapy.” You gave him a soft smile and leaned to the side, resting on the arm of the chair. 

“Well uh,” he clears his throat.

Fuck, he just needed to get it out. Joel sighed deeply, running his hand over his face in an attempt to wipe away his embarrassment.  

“Honestly, I don’t know much about it, save for what I’ve seen on TV where you lay down on a couch, cry your eyes out to a shrink about your problems and then they hand you a prescription for pills. I’ve known a few people in the past who saw a therapist and they said it helped them ... but I just thought it was a bunch of bullshit truthfully.”

His eyes widen, and he looks at you immediately after realizing what he just admitted.

“Shit - I mean, I didn’t mean it like that, I just meant that it seems a bit pretentious. That sounds bad too.” He groans. “Shit. I’m sorry, I’m just not good at this,” he says, gesturing haphazardly between you both. 

Lord, can the ground open up and swallow him whole already? This is excruciating enough as it is. 

Joel looks at you pensively, waiting to see your reaction, waiting to see the shock or disappointment spread across your face at his words. But it doesn’t happen. Your gaze is fixed on him intently, as you watch his facial features, and nod along sympathetically. It’s surprising, and also off putting. He’s never had someone listen to him so attentively and maintain eye contact for so long, without showing any judgment. 

After a moment you shake your head and laugh softly.

“It’s okay Joel, everyone has their own definition of what therapy looks like, and what reaching out for support looks like. Like I said, there’s no right or wrong answer. Many people claim to not be good at this,” you respond, while mimicking his gesture between you two, “but if you can believe it, therapy is less about the talking, and more about doing. More about processing and taking the steps to heal.”

He nods as you explain more, sitting deeper and relaxing into the couch as the tension slowly leaves his body. 

“In a nutshell, I do provide talk therapy where I sit down with clients like this, and we discuss what they’re dealing with, talk through their concerns, and we come up with strategies together to help them navigate their situations. The sessions are an hour long. Some sessions are to vent and process emotions, others are to follow up on homework or strategies we devised, and others are to simply talk about whatever is on your mind.” 

You smirk as he raises his eyebrows when you mention homework, and you raise your hand in defense. “Again it looks different for everyone, there are no concrete rules or methods to follow.”

“The other type of therapy I do is equine assisted therapy,” you explain to him. “It’s an experiential type of therapy, which basically means the client experiences the effects of therapy by physically participating in activities with horses. You learn by doing and observing, not just talking,” you wink at him, reassuring his previous claims. 

“The horse acts as a therapy partner, and you complete different exercises with them, and we process the interactions that occur between you and the horse during the session,” you continue explaining.

Joel tilts his head slightly and considers it. “Huh, that sounds pretty cool actually.” 

He’s always loved animals, including horses. There’s just something innately calming about them. When you look them in the eyes, it makes you feel like they can see into your soul. He thought about it, realizing he actually did look forward to going out on patrol on his assigned nights and getting the horses tacked up. Nothing really compared to riding out onto the stretch of green plains, bordered by the massive mountains that painted Jackson's landscape, with the calming lull of their hoofbeats against the dirt. It was probably the only thing he really enjoyed about Jackson, as it gave his mind a break from the turmoil that consumed it most days. Other than scouting for infected or other threats, he could just ramble to his four legged partner about anything and everything, without needing a response.  

“It really is!” You grin emphatically at him, as you feel the passion buzzing through your body.

You sit up in your seat and lean forward, resting your elbows on your knees. “Horses are herd animals, and by nature they are very intuitive creatures, they act and live in the moment, not the past or the future. Consequently, they are very attuned to nonverbal communication, body language, and they can sense your emotions before you even realize it. They make great therapy partners, not just because of their gentle nature, but they also act as a mirror to our behaviors, and above all, they never judge you,” you babble excitedly, your eyes lit up.

Joel looks at you with wonderment, a fuzzy sort of warmth spreading through his body, as he sees your excitement and passion shine through. Normally it would be off putting to see someone so excited and energetic like this, but it was clear that you loved this job, and you cared deeply about supporting others. It made him fucking melt. 

“You make it sound pretty damn good, it doesn’t even sound like therapy,” he chuckled and you nodded in response. 

“It really doesn’t honestly. I’ve worked with individuals who have seen so many horrors and experienced unimaginable trauma, and in just a few sessions of working with the horses, they find healing, they find hope, and they look forward to coming in. They say it just feels like having fun with the horses,” you say fondly.

“I didn’t know it could be that impactful, but that’s pretty incredible,” he says in awe. He pauses for a moment as he looks away, then back at you, as he fiddles with his hands, picking at the skin around his nails.

Fuck. Is he really gonna do this? It almost sounded too good to be true.

“So, what would the next step be in the process?” he queries. “Do I need to sign any forms or anything?” He asks, his nerves ramping up as he feels his palms get sweaty.

You give him another dazzling smile that lights up your whole face and Joel swears that he turns to mush on the spot.

“No forms needed for now. Why don’t you come out to the stables and we’ll start with meeting the herd. Does Thursday morning work for you?”

“Yeah that sounds good.” He smiled back.

“How are you feeling after everything we talked about?” You asked, looking at him with those wide bright eyes.

Again with that attentive focus on him. Fuck.

He didn’t know if he would ever get used to that, as he squirmed under your gaze. He paused again for a moment, as he reflected internally. He actually felt pretty fucking good, for once. Surprisingly relaxed. He appreciated your lack of judgment and professional demeanour, your warmth and calm nature putting him at ease. It didn’t help that you were damn gorgeous and compassionate, he really didn’t need that much convincing from you. And he was actually excited at the idea of equine therapy, which didn’t actually seem like therapy. 

Damn Tommy and Ellie for being fucking right.

“I actually feel pretty good,” he remarked in disbelief, as a small smile tugged at his lips. “What do I owe ya for this consultation then?”

You beamed at his response. “Consider it a meet and greet Joel,” you said. “Consultations are only usually about 20 to 30 minutes, but seeing as it is your first time seeking therapy, I don’t charge anything.”

He glanced at the clock on the back wall of the office, noticing that you had been talking for damn near an hour.

Shit. Was it really that long? 

He opened his mouth to protest but you quickly cut him off. “I’m serious Joel, I won’t let you pay,” with a stern look that slowly morphed into a smirk. “I’ll see you Thursday at the stables, let's say 10 am. Okay?”

“Alright,” he lamented with a boyish grin. You both got up as you walked him towards the door and he turned back to face you.

He looked down at you, taking a deep inhale as he bit his lip. “It was real nice meeting you, and thank you… for the meet and greet,” he smiled, his dimple peeking through his right cheek. “I’ll see you on Thursday.” 

Taglist:

@beskarandblasters, @pr0ximamidnight, @theewokingdead, @atinylittlepain, @prolix-yuy, @swiftispunk, @harriedandharassed, @amywritesthings, @atinylittlepain, @missgurrl, @silkiers, @jasminedragoon, @mayasopinions, @pedgeitopascal, @elegantduckturtle, @sarahhxx03, @Snow30285, @gracie7209, @stevieboyharrington, @kirsteng42, @pedrit0-pascalit0, @loquaciousferret, @axshadows, @a-sh-lyn, @dotcie, @tightjeansjavi, @dreamingofdaddydin, @pedritosdarling, @lhymer1995, @nerdreader, @suzmagine, @like-a-dirty-french-novel, @delicious-collection

[uk3d]

Speckled sheep sketch | Limited edition fine art print from an original drawing. My sketches start life as hand-drawn graphite images made on cartridge paper. I often work on these with charcoal, oil pastel or Caran d'Ache to create the look I'm after. The artwork is then scanned and finessed digitally ready for fine art printing. This process often referred to as Giclée printing uses the highest standard of printing methods to give gallery quality results that maintain all the details of the original sketch. The graphite pencils I use are Faber-Castel, the oil pastels are Sennelier and the china-graph is Caran d’Ache. The inks are pigment based archive quality (100years+). The heavyweight specialist papers I use are of the best professional quality having a wonderful surface designed specifically for fine art drawings and illustrations. Very limited editions with only ten per size printed. All artwork is signed and includes a certificate of authenticity. The A5 are 5.8" x 8.25" (14.8cm x 21cm) The A4 are 8.25" x 11.7" (21cm x 29.8cm) The A3 are 11.7" x 16.5" (29.8 cm x 42cm) The A2 are 16.5" x 23.4" (42 cm x 59.4cm) Originals are A3 11.7" x 16.5" (29.8 cm x 42cm) Frames not included in price. Free shipping on artwork to all destinations.

[nerdygaymormon]

The Book of Genesis teaches wealth is destructive

In the Book of Genesis, the stories of the great patriarchs of the Israeli people shows that wealth resulted in families being split up. It happened again and again and again.

Let's start with Abraham. He doesn't have any children of his own, however his nephew lives with him and presumably Lot (the nephew) would be heir to Abraham. Each of them grow so wealthy that the land of Canaan couldn't support both of them. They separate and never see each other again (Genesis 13:6-9). Because of their wealth, Abraham loses his heir and someone he is close to.

—————————

Losing Lot creates a problem for Abraham, he needs a son to inherit his fortune. Sarah, his wife, has not been able to get pregnant, and her solution is for Abraham to have a child with Sarah's female slave named Hagar. A son is born and is named Ishmael. Sarah later becomes pregnant and has a son named Isaac. Sarah wants her son Isaac to inherit everything and so Hagar & Ishmael are abandoned in the wilderness knowing this will likely result in their death. Wealth causes this unjust action.

—————————

Isaac inherits his father's wealth. He has two sons named Esau and Jacob. They are fraternal twins, but because Esau was birthed first he is the beneficiary of the primogeniture system which rewards the first-born son with a larger inheritance. Jacob & his mom each connive to take Esau's birthright away and give it to Jacob. Esau is furious and vows to murder Jacob, causing Jacob to flee. The fight over an inheritance leads to the splitting up of this family.

—————————

Jacob flees to his uncle's home where he falls in love with his cousin Rachel and agrees to work for his uncle for 7 years in exchange for getting to marry her. I'm guessing since Jacob fled his home without much, this 7 years of labor is in lieu of a dowry, which was a sum of money offered to the father of his bride by the groom in order to receive the daughter as his bride. After 7 years, during which the uncle's flocks and fortunes increased under Jacob's skilled care, Jacob gets married but he is tricked, he didn't marry Rachel but Leah, who is Rachel's older sister Leah. Jacob is angry, but he and his uncle agree that Jacob can also marry Rachel now in exchange for another 7 years of labor. That was a shady way to keep Jacob working to the uncle's benefit.

—————————

Once the second 7-year agreement is completed, Jacob wants to take his family & possessions and head back to Canaan, but he comes to an agreement with the uncle to stay and work in exchange for payment, which is that Jacob could have all of the spotted, speckled, and brown goats and sheep of Laban's flock. Jacob employs tactics to increase the number of animals which would be born with these markings. After 6 years he leaves and his cousins claim he robbed his uncle of his wealth because he took most of the animals with him. The uncle gathers a team and pursues Jacob for 7 days. Jacob and his uncle meet and agree to setup a pillar, it would serve as a boundary, Jacob would go one way and the uncle the other way and they would never cross the pillar again as a way to ensure in the future neither would seek to harm the other. The uncle never again sees his daughters or grandchildren again.

—————————

Jacob is returning to Canaan with the great wealth he accumulated, but even 20 years after fleeing, Jacob is worried what his brother Esau may do to him. Fortunately, Jacob and Esau reconcile. Esau also has done well for himself. Unfortunately, just like Abraham and Lot, their combined wealth in the form of animals, possessions and servants is so great that the land can't support both of them. They have to split up. Their combined wealth causes them to be separated again. The descendants of Esau (the Edomites) become the enemies of the Israelites because they continue to tell their descendants the story of Esau being tricked out of his birthright. King Solomon enslaves the Edomites and forces them to build the temple. When Babylon attacks Israel, the Edomites celebrate rather than join with Israel to resist the Babylonian captivity. The prophet Obadiah writes about the violence done by Esau against Jacob, and how terrible the Edomites are for helping the Babylonians loot the city of Jerusalem and that they're cursed. This history of separation and hatred happened because of wealth.

—————————

Jacob has many children. Joseph, the 11th son of Jacob, is favored above all his other sons. Jacob had loved Leah and wanted to marry her, but was tricked into marrying her sister Rebekkah. He had children from 3 women before finally the baby Joseph was born by Leah, the love of his life, and he therefore favored Joseph. The implication is that Joseph is going to get the birthright as the oldest son of the wife Jacob loves. Joseph reinforces this idea by sharing dreams of him being powerful over his brothers and they bow down to him.

Joseph's half-brothers decide to kill him because he is a threat to their power and inheritance. They change their mind and rather than kill him, they sold Joseph into bondage and he was taken to Egypt. Interestingly, they sold Joseph to some Ishmaelites, who they may have known given they're probably 1st or 2nd cousins as the also were descended from Abraham.

Remarkably, Joseph survives and becomes free, but rather than go home to his family, he pursues power and wealth in Egypt. Eventually his brothers come to Egypt in search of food but Joseph tests them to see if he can trust them. They pass the test and Joseph moves the family to Egypt. While the reunion is joyous, it can't undo the many years of separation

—————————

Thus the book of Genesis gives us warning that being wealthy is destructive to the more important things like family relationships

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Jacob Flees from Laban

Now Jacob heard that Laban’s sons were saying, “Jacob has taken away all that belonged to our father and built all this wealth at our father’s expense.” And Jacob saw from the countenance of Laban that his attitude toward him had changed.

Then the LORD said to Jacob, “Go back to the land of your fathers and to your kindred, and I will be with you.”

So Jacob sent word and called Rachel and Leah to the field where his flocks were, and he told them, “I can see from your father’s countenance that his attitude toward me has changed; but the God of my father has been with me. You know that I have served your father with all my strength. And although he has cheated me and changed my wages ten times, God has not allowed him to harm me. If he said, ‘The speckled will be your wages,’ then the whole flock bore speckled offspring. If he said, ‘The streaked will be your wages,’ then the whole flock bore streaked offspring. Thus God has taken away your father’s livestock and given them to me.

When the flocks were breeding, I saw in a dream that the streaked, spotted, and speckled males were mating with the females. In that dream the angel of God said to me, ‘Jacob!’

And I replied, ‘Here I am.’

‘Look up,’ he said, ‘and see that all the males that are mating with the flock are streaked, spotted, or speckled; for I have seen all that Laban has done to you. I am the God of Bethel, where you anointed the pillar and made a solemn vow to Me. Now get up and leave this land at once, and return to your native land.’ ”

And Rachel and Leah replied, “Do we have any portion or inheritance left in our father’s house? Are we not regarded by him as outsiders? Not only has he sold us, but he has certainly squandered what was paid for us. Surely all the wealth that God has taken away from our father belongs to us and to our children. So do whatever God has told you.”

Then Jacob got up and put his children and his wives on camels, and he drove all his livestock before him, along with all the possessions he had acquired in Paddan-aram, to go to his father Isaac in the land in Canaan.

Now while Laban was out shearing his sheep, Rachel stole her father’s household idols. Moreover, Jacob deceived Laban the Aramean by not telling him that he was running away. So he fled with all his possessions, crossed the Euphrates, and headed for the hill country of Gilead.

On the third day Laban was informed that Jacob had fled. So he took his relatives with him, pursued Jacob for seven days, and overtook him in the hill country of Gilead. But that night God came to Laban the Aramean in a dream and warned him, “Be careful not to say anything to Jacob, either good or bad.”

Now Jacob had pitched his tent in the hill country of Gilead when Laban overtook him, and Laban and his relatives camped there as well. Then Laban said to Jacob, “What have you done? You have deceived me and carried off my daughters like captives of war! Why did you run away secretly and deceive me, without even telling me? I would have sent you away with joy and singing, with tambourines and harps. But you did not even let me kiss my grandchildren and my daughters goodbye. Now you have done a foolish thing.

I have power to do you great harm, but last night the God of your father said to me, ‘Be careful not to say anything to Jacob, either good or bad.’ Now you have gone off because you long for your father’s house. But why have you stolen my gods?”

“I was afraid,” Jacob answered, “for I thought you would take your daughters from me by force. If you find your gods with anyone here, he shall not live! In the presence of our relatives, see for yourself if anything is yours, and take it back.” For Jacob did not know that Rachel had stolen the idols.

So Laban went into Jacob’s tent, then Leah’s tent, and then the tents of the two maidservants, but he found nothing. Then he left Leah’s tent and entered Rachel’s tent. Now Rachel had taken Laban’s household idols, put them in the saddlebag of her camel, and was sitting on them. And Laban searched everything in the tent but found nothing.

Rachel said to her father, “Sir, do not be angry that I cannot stand up before you; for I am having my period.” So Laban searched, but could not find the household idols.

Then Jacob became incensed and challenged Laban. “What is my crime?” he said. “For what sin of mine have you so hotly pursued me? You have searched all my goods! Have you found anything that belongs to you? Put it here before my brothers and yours, that they may judge between the two of us.

I have been with you for twenty years now. Your sheep and goats have not miscarried, nor have I eaten the rams of your flock. I did not bring you anything torn by wild beasts; I bore the loss myself. And you demanded payment from me for what was stolen by day or night. As it was, the heat consumed me by day and the frost by night, and sleep fled from my eyes.

Thus for twenty years I have served in your household—fourteen years for your two daughters and six years for your flocks—and you have changed my wages ten times! If the God of my father, the God of Abraham and the Fear of Isaac, had not been with me, surely by now you would have sent me away empty-handed. But God has seen my affliction and the toil of my hands, and last night He rendered judgment.”

But Laban answered Jacob, “These daughters are my daughters, these sons are my sons, and these flocks are my flocks! Everything you see is mine! Yet what can I do today about these daughters of mine or the children they have borne? Come now, let us make a covenant, you and I, and let it serve as a witness between you and me.”

So Jacob picked out a stone and set it up as a pillar, and he said to his relatives, “Gather some stones.” So they took stones and made a mound, and there by the mound they ate. Laban called it Jegar-sahadutha, and Jacob called it Galeed.

Then Laban declared, “This mound is a witness between you and me this day.”

Therefore the place was called Galeed. It was also called Mizpah, because Laban said, “May the LORD keep watch between you and me when we are absent from each other. If you mistreat my daughters or take other wives, although no one is with us, remember that God is a witness between you and me.”

Laban also said to Jacob, “Here is the mound, and here is the pillar I have set up between you and me. This mound is a witness, and this pillar is a witness, that I will not go past this mound to harm you, and you will not go past this mound and pillar to harm me. May the God of Abraham and the God of Nahor, the God of their father, judge between us.”

So Jacob swore by the Fear of his father Isaac.

Then Jacob offered a sacrifice on the mountain and invited his relatives to eat a meal. And after they had eaten, they spent the night on the mountain. Early the next morning, Laban got up and kissed his grandchildren and daughters and blessed them. Then he left to return home. — Genesis 31 | The Reader’s Bible (BRB) The Reader’s Bible © 2020 by Bible Hub and Berean Bible. All rights Reserved. Cross References: Genesis 4:21; Genesis 15:1; Genesis 16:5; Genesis 20:3; Genesis 21:22; Genesis 21:27; Genesis 21:30; Genesis 24:50; Genesis 25:20; Genesis 26:3; Genesis 27:19; Genesis 27:44; Genesis 28:13; Genesis 28:18; Genesis 29:20; Genesis 29:23; Genesis 29:32; Genesis 30:29; Genesis 30:32; Genesis 30:39; Genesis 30:43; Genesis 35:2; Genesis 37:5; Genesis 37:25; Genesis 44:9; Exodus 3:7; Exodus 18:2; Leviticus 19:32; Numbers 20:3; Deuteronomy 8:15; Joshua 22:34; Judges 11:10; Judges 11:29; 2 Samuel 19:39; Hebrews 13:5

The Lord visits Laban

[mmmairon]

What kind of animals are on your farm?

cows, chickens, ducks, used to have a silly goose, barn kitties, and cattle doggy

we used to have goats but they escaped too often so my friend takes care of them now lol. and we had pigs when i was little. i miss those buggers but once one escaped when i was playing outside in the dark and i thought it was a monster 🗿 i screamed all the way to the house LMAO. also i was gonna buy a peacock a few months ago but then my mom found out about my secret plans and it didn’t happen lol

as for breeds, the herd is mainly hereford, but in the last few years we’ve also gotten black/red angus, speckle park, highland, and simmental (thank you neighbour’s bull).

i really want some sheep. i’ve always wanted black nose valais, but they’re sooo expensive and breeders are far away. maybe in the spring i’ll get some :] i’ve always wanted since i was a kid.

[blackberrysummerblog]

Hello hello 👋 Thanks so much for the tag, @nausikaaa! I have an actual six sentences this Sunday:

I think about the concept of infinite universes, infinite lives. Is there a world where I don’t love Snow? Perhaps one where we hadn’t met—might I have fallen in love with someone else? And then, what would happen if we encountered each other afterwards, would I just know? Is it possible for me in any life, any timeline, to not yearn hopelessly for this speckled fool? It’s ridiculous to think I was made for him, and yet…I’m so entirely his.

Tags under the cut!

No pressure! @aristocratic-otter @artsyunderstudy @mostlymaudlin @larkral @onepintobean @fatalfangirl @facewithoutheart @ebbpettier @letraspal @sillyunicorn @confused-bi-queer @aroace-genderfluid-sheep @bazzybelle @stitchyqueer @thehoneyedhufflepuff @hushed-chorus @thewholelemon @takenabackbytuesdays @aceumbrellaheroes @fucking-gay-frogs @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @martsonmars @ivelovedhimthroughworse @jasonfunderberkerthefrogexists @shutup-andletme-go @shrekgogurt @bookish-bogwitch @ileadacharmedlife @asocialpessimist @basiltonbutliketheherb @palimpsessed @cutestkilla @stardustasincocaine @whogaveyoupermission @orange-peony @prettygoododds @valeffelees @forabeatofadrum @prettygoododds

Have a great week, everyone!

[dk-thrive]

telling them all, over and over, how it is that we live forever.

My work is loving the world. Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird—         equal seekers of sweetness. Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums. Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn? Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me         keep my mind on what matters, which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be         astonished. The phoebe, the delphinium. The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture. Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart         and these body-clothes, a mouth with which to give shouts of joy         to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam, telling them all, over and over, how it is         that we live forever.

— Mary Oliver, “Messenger” in Thirst: Poems (Beacon Press, September 1, 2007) (via spiritphoto)